&&H&S&A 
 
 Or? CO 
 
 BOOK 823.7.G875C c. 1 
 GRIFFIN # COLLEGIANS 
 
 3 T1S3 OOlbbflEl 1 
 
( •. 
 
 Pfef* 
 
 m 
 
 
\ 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 
 
BSSSOga^^^^gQggfl 
 
 CDe IrisD novelists' £ibrarp 
 
 CDc 
 
 Collegians 
 
 H Cale of earrpowcn 
 
 By 
 
 6erald ariffln 
 
 Clcrp $ Co., £td 
 
 Dublin 
 
 £^^^3 
 
~mr 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 i. How Garryowen rose, and how it fell, • . i 
 
 ii. How Eily O'Connor puzzled all the inhabitants of Garry- 
 owen, ....... 3 
 
 in. How Mr. Daly, the middleman, sat down to breakfast, . n 
 
 IV. How Mr. Daly, the middleman, rose up from breakfast, . 20 
 
 V. How Kyrle Daly rode out to woo, and how Lowry Looby 
 
 told him some stories on the way, . . . 29 
 
 vi. How Kyrle Daly was more puzzled by a piece of paper 
 than the abolishers of the small-note currency them- 
 selves, . . . . . . . 38 
 
 Vii. How Kyrle Daly discovers that all the sorrow under the 
 
 sun does not rest upon his shoulders alone, . . 43 
 
 VIII. How the reader, contrary to the declared intention of the 
 
 historian, obtains a description of Castle Chute, . 50 
 
 IX. How Myles Murphy is heard on behalf of his ponies, . 57 
 
 x. How Kyrle Daly sped in his wooing, ... 63 
 
 XI. How Kyrle Daly has the good luck to see a staggeen 
 
 race, ....... 71 
 
 XII. How fortune brings two old friends together, . . 76 
 
 xiii. How the two friends hold a longer conversation together 
 
 than the reader may probably approve, ... 85 
 
 Xiv. How Lowry becomes philosophical, . . 93 
 
VI 
 
 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XV. How Hardress spent his time while Kyrle Daly was 
 
 asleep, ....... 99 
 
 xvi. How the friends parted, ..... 105 
 
 xvii. How Hardress learned a little secret from a dying hunts- 
 man, ....... 112 
 
 xviii. How the gentlemen spent the evening, which proved rather 
 
 warmer than Hardress expected, .... 118 
 
 xix. How Hardress met an old friend and made a new one, . 125 
 
 xx. How Hardress had a strange dream of Eily, . . 133 
 
 XXI. How Hardress met a strange trial, .... 139 
 
 xxii. How the temptation of Hardress proceeded, ... . 148 
 
 xxiii. How an unexpected visitor arrived in Eily's cottage, . 157 
 
 XXIV. How Eily undertakes a journey in the absence of her 
 
 husband, ....... 164 
 
 xxv. How Eily fared in her expedition, .... 170 
 
 xxvi. How Hardress consoled himself during his separation 
 
 from Eily, ...... 177 
 
 xxvii. How Hardress answered the letter of Eily, . . 185 
 
 xxviii. How the little lord put his master's wishes into action, . 193 
 
 XXIX. How Hardress lost an old acquaintance, . . . 199 
 
 XXX. How Hardress got his hair dressed in Listowel, and 
 
 heard a little news, ..... 206 
 
 xxxi. How Kyrle Daly hears of the handsome conduct of his 
 
 friend Hardress, . . .... 214 
 
 xxxii. How Kyrle Daly's warlike ardour was checked by an 
 
 untoward incident, ... . 220 
 
 xxxiil. How Hardress met a friend of Eily's at the wake, . 227 
 
 xxxiv. How the wake concluded, ..... 234 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 XXXV. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 How Hardress at length received some news of Eily, 
 
 How Hardress made a confidante, 
 
 Hardress finds that conscience is the sworn foe of valour, 
 
 How the situation of Hardress became more critical, 
 
 How the danger to the secret of Hardress was averted by 
 the ingenuity of Irish witnesses, 
 
 XL. How Hardress took a decisive step for his own security, 
 
 XLI. How the ill-temper of Hardress again brought back his 
 perils, ...... 
 
 XLII. 
 
 How Mr. Warner was fortunate enough to find a man 
 that could and would speak English, . 
 
 xliii. How the bride was startled by an unexpected guest, 
 
 xliv. How more guests appeared at the wedding than had been 
 invited, ...... 
 
 xlv. How the story ended, .... 
 
 PAGE 
 238 
 
 246 
 
 254 
 26l 
 
 268 
 
 275 
 
 28l 
 
 293 
 
 299 
 309 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN 
 
 To the general reader of the present day the name of 
 Gerald Griffin will probably suggest only the recollection that 
 its bearer was the author of a famous novel from which Dion 
 Boucicault derived a play that started upon a highly successful 
 career some thirty years ago, but is now rarely seen on any 
 stage. That play is The Colleen Bawn ; the novel from which 
 it is derived is The Collegians ; the finest work of its author, 
 indeed, but not the only one that ought to be rescued from 
 oblivion and given its rightful rank in the Irish literature of 
 fiction. 1 In The Collegians all the notes of Gerald Griffin's 
 intellect, character, and soul are sounded, all the qualities of 
 his moral nature are revealed, the heights and depths of his 
 sympathies are manifested, and he shines forth as the poet, 
 the romancist, the master of the dramatic in situation and 
 in utterance, and the finely skilful manipulator of the tragi- 
 comedy of life on a stage and among actors of his own 
 knowledge and selection. When he dealt with the peasantry 
 of his country he portrayed his types with exquisite skill ; but 
 this was not the especial, still less the exclusive, bent of his 
 refined and ideal literary capacity. He had not Carleton's 
 Titanic force, but Carleton might have been proud to have 
 drawn the hunchback murderer, Danny Mann. He had not the 
 great Ulsterman's intimate knowledge of the lives, the ways, 
 
 1 In his dramatic version of The Collegians Dion Boucicault worked up the 
 character of Myles-na-Coppaleen, so as to create for himself a role so typical 
 and humorous that it will always be remembered as his greatest success in 
 1 Irish ' parts. The difficulty of finding a ' Myles ' capable of giving an ade- 
 quate rendering of the part as Boucicault' s revised version of the story made 
 it, is probably the reason why a revival of The Colleen Bawn has so rarely 
 been attempted in London. A recent revival of it drew crowded audiences 
 to the Princess's Theatre, a fact which speaks many volumes for the vitality 
 of the play. 
 
 b 
 
x THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 the speech of the peasantry, but the scenes attendant on the 
 death and burial of Mrs. Daly in The Collegians are equally 
 characteristic and graphic in the Munsterman's romance of his 
 own order in the South, the rural middle class of the Ireland 
 of his day. Carleton — who was by no means fond of lavish- 
 ing praise upon writers of contemporary fiction — says it is 
 ' one of the greatest, if not the greatest, Irish novel that ever 
 was written.' Griffin is unquestionably the best of the Irish 
 romancists, and the work that gives him that rank is in its 
 finest qualities unsurpassed by those of any other country. 
 His own life, from his dreamy boyhood to the act of obedience 
 that withdrew him from the career of the poet, dramatist, and 
 romancist to the most prosaic of vocations, that of the Chris- 
 tian Brothers, and set him to teach poor children at Cork, his 
 story reveals; it was, as his brother tells it, 'an animated 
 poem, the beautiful unfolding of a nature that was as un- 
 sullied as it was self-forgetful.' 
 
 The author of The Collegians was born in King's Island, in 
 the city of Limerick, on the 12th December 1803. His father, 
 Patrick Griffin, had some years previously abandoned his farm 
 in a place called Woodfield, on the borders of County Clare, 
 and had come to reside in Limerick, partly with a view to the 
 education of his children. In Limerick Mr. Griffin undertook 
 the management of a brewery in Brunswick Street, but he 
 appears to have been little adapted for a commercial career, 
 for soon after the birth of his ninth son, Gerald, he gave up 
 the brewery and the dwelling-house which he had built for 
 himself near it, and went back to King's Island. Here Gerald, 
 the youngest, and his brother William, went to school, the 
 dominie being Richard M'Eligot, author of a treatise on the 
 grammatical structure, character, and literature of the Irish 
 language, published in 1806. M'Eligot was a 'character' — a 
 self-taught man, and one who was by no means reticent as to 
 his own undoubted capabilities. Dr. Griffin, in his biography 
 of his brother 1 (to which we are indebted for the chief facts con- 
 tained in this memoir), tells us that when Mrs. Griffin intro- 
 duced her two sons to M'Eligot, she asked the teacher to be 
 particularly careful about making them perfect in their pro- 
 nunciation and reading. M'Eligot, much to Mrs. Griffin's 
 astonishment, asked her to take her boys home — he could do 
 nothing with them. ' Perhaps, madam,' said he, ' you are not 
 
 1 The Life of Gerald Griffin. By his Brother. Dublin : James Duffy. 
 
INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 aware that there are only three people in Ireland who know 
 how to read : the Bishop of Killaloe, the Earl of Clare, and 
 myself. If you expect impossibilities/ he added, 'you had 
 better take your children home.' 
 
 However, the boys remained with M'Eligot: Gerald — a timid, 
 sensitive child, with a strong taste for drawing pictures in his 
 lesson books, and a hatred of being singled out for notice by 
 his teacher or companions — making good progress with his 
 juvenile studies. 
 
 Dr. Griffin tells a story of this period, which impresses one 
 with the peculiarly gentle and affectionate disposition of his 
 younger brother. The two boys and their sister Anna were 
 playing one Sunday while the rest of the family were at their 
 devotions, and unluckily William found a pistol, and, of course, 
 believing it to be unloaded, presented at his little sister. 
 After some ineffectual attempts to discharge the pistol, the 
 young fellow at last got the trigger to work, and in a moment 
 Anna fell Fortunately a surgeon was quickly at hand, and the 
 child was soon quite well again, but the author of the mischief, 
 who felt his position acutely, was in dire disgrace. Gerald 
 decided for himself that it was incumbent on him to take some 
 share of his brother's penance. ' He scarcely ever opened his 
 lips to me,' says Dr. Griffin, 'but from the moment of the 
 accident he seemed to feel it as I did, gave up all his little 
 amusements, observed my looks, brought me whatever I 
 wanted, and followed me wherever I went. ... It was more 
 like the silent ministering of some benevolent guardian spirit 
 than of any earthly being, even a brother/ 
 
 When Gerald was in his seventh year his father removed 
 from Limerick to a new residence on the Shannon, about 
 eight-and-twenty miles from Limerick. The new house was 
 christened Fairy Lawn, and the glorious prospect of wood and 
 water visible from Fairy Lawn had no doubt much to do with 
 the moulding of the mind of the impressionable youth whose 
 poems are everywhere full of the spirit of Nature at her best 
 and brightest. The Griffins led a quiet, happy life. The 
 head of the house was a careless, easy-going man, with a 
 never-failing fund of good humour. He was fond of reading, 
 full of a fine sympathy, and a true, if unostentatious, lover of 
 his native land. Gerald's mother, a sister of a distinguished 
 physician residing in Limerick, was a woman of much talent 
 and of a sweet disposition. 
 
xii THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 At Fairy Lawn the younger Griffins had a tutor, a great 
 lover of the poets, especially of Goldsmith who seems to have 
 been a prime favourite with the whole household. A copy of 
 The Deserted Village^ written out by Gerald's mother when the 
 lad was about ten years of age, was found amongst the papers 
 of the novelist after his death. Gerald was an omnivorous 
 reader, the Bible and Goldsmith's Animated Nature being 
 amongst his best-loved books. Fishing and shooting were his 
 favourite out-of-door amusements. Occasionally he manu- 
 factured his own powder and his own fish-hooks, but his 
 attempts at the slaughter of bird or fish were conducted on 
 principles so humane that his companions had often occasion 
 to poke fun at him. At eleven years of age he was sent to 
 school in Limerick, and here again he found himself under 
 the control of a lover of poetry. His master, Mr. T. M. 
 O'Brien, was, like the visiting tutor at Fairy Lawn, a devoted 
 admirer of the bards, native and foreign, and he imbued 
 Gerald with a love of Latin poetry — Virgil, Ovid, Horace, and 
 Lucan. Gerald was not long under O'Brien's charge when a 
 school was opened at Longhill, a village near Fairy Lawn, by 
 a Mr. O'Donovan, who hailed from the Kingdom of Kerry. 
 Gerald's parents seized the opportunity of having their son 
 with them again, and sent him to the Longhill school, which 
 was carried on in the parish chapel, a thatched building 
 situated in a picturesque and romantic glen, through which the 
 river Ovaan wound its way. This glen was a favourite haunt 
 of Gerald. Many years afterwards he refers to the spot in a 
 poem beginning : 
 
 ' Know ye not that lovely river ? 
 Know ye not that smiling river ? 
 
 Whose gentle flood, 
 
 By cliff and wood, 
 With wildering sound goes winding ever?' 
 
 A great change and a great sorrow came into the life of the 
 future author of The Collegians before he had reached his 
 seventeenth year. His father, mother, and others of the 
 family decided, at the suggestion of Gerald's eldest brother — 
 who had spent a considerable time with his regiment in 
 Canada, and who returned to Fairy Lawn in 1817 — to 
 emigrate. They fixed upon a place at Susquehanna in Penn- 
 sylvania, and started from Ireland in 1820, leaving two sisters 
 
INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 and Gerald under the care of their brother, Dr. Griffin, in 
 Limerick. 
 
 There was an intention of bringing Gerald up to the medical 
 profession, and he made some small progress in this direction 
 after settling down in Limerick, but his taste for literary pur- 
 suits now took such hold of him that his family decided it 
 would be best to let him have his own way. He contributed 
 to local papers, edited one — The Advertiser — for a short 
 time; wrote verses, and did not hesitate to attempt tragedies; 
 and busied himself a good deal with the conduct of private 
 theatricals. 
 
 At eighteen years of age he completed a tragedy called 
 Aguire, which afterwards won the high encomiums of John 
 Banim. It was at this period that Gerald made the acquaint- 
 ance of the author of The Tales of the O'Hara Family. John 
 Banim, then quite a young man, occasionally visited Limerick 
 in the capacity of a journalist, contributions of his appearing 
 at the time in the Limerick Evening Post under the signature 
 of 'A Traveller.' Banim criticised some performances given 
 by the theatrical society with which Griffin was associated, 
 and an acquaintanceship sprung up between the two young 
 men which afterwards ripened into warm friendship. 
 
 Dr. Griffin was an eager admirer of his youngest brother's 
 literary talents, but when Gerald suggested visiting London to 
 try his luck there as a playwright, the doctor hesitated. He 
 knew Gerald's susceptible nature and his timidity too well to 
 feel easy at allowing him to embark in his frail boat on such 
 turbulent waters, but at the same time he felt that it would 
 be cruel to put obstacles in the way of so ardent a 
 tiro, and finally gave a somewhat reluctant consent to 
 Gerald's departure from Ireland. The Griffins were now 
 living at Pallas Kenry, a village situated about twelve miles 
 from Limerick, Dr. Griffin having moved there in order to 
 better his position. 
 
 With a light heart and a light purse — for Gerald would not 
 allow his good-natured brother to be over-indulgent to him — 
 Griffin arrived in London in the autumn of 1823, in his 
 twentieth year. He had a great project — no less than to 
 revolutionise the dramatic taste of the age, a taste in his 
 opinion wholly vitiated. In a letter written to his parents 
 two years afterwards he refers humorously — and perhaps a 
 little pathetically — to this. ' When first I came to London/ 
 
jriv THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 he says, ' my own self-conceit, backed by the opinion of one 
 of the most original geniuses of the age, induced me to set 
 about revolutionising the dramatic taste of the time by writing 
 for the stage. Indeed the design was formed and the first 
 step taken (a couple of pieces written). I cannot, with my 
 present experience, conceive anything more comical than my 
 own views and measures at the time. A young gentleman, 
 totally unknown, even to a single family in London, coming 
 to town with a few pounds in one pocket and a brace of 
 tragedies in the other, supposing that the one will set him up 
 before the other is exhausted, is not a very novel, but it is a 
 very laughable, delusion.' 
 
 It must be borne in mind by readers of The Collegians 
 that at this time Griffin had no intention and no desire to 
 excel in the literary path on which he subsequently left his 
 footprints. He was to himself, first of all, a dramatist and a 
 poet. He had no delusions as to the measure of his poetic 
 gifts, and indeed did not rank them sufficiently highly. His 
 distaste for the plays of the period — one of the lowest in both 
 drama and fiction that has been lived through— sharpened his 
 ambition to add his own name to the long list which includes 
 Congreve, Steele, Farquhar, Goldsmith, and Sheridan, among 
 its Irish comic, and Maturin, Shiel, Banim, Sheridan Knowles, 
 and Sir Martin Archer Shee 1 among its Irish tragic dramatists. 
 
 One of the tragedies he refers to above was Gisifius, his best 
 drama, which eventually won one of the most decided triumphs 
 of its period — just two years after the author had closed his 
 account with time — in the hands of his distinguished country- 
 man, Mr. Macready. A sound critic has said of Gisipus : ' Its 
 touching story of a youth who surrenders his betrothed to a 
 friend on discovering their mutual passion, and who lives to be 
 deserted by that friend when in his need, is full of an heroic, 
 manly beauty, which only a true poet could feel and a great 
 actor could illustrate.' 
 
 Not quite the same are the attributes that distinguish 
 The Collegians. Manly indeed is its sentiment, and no 
 finer specimen of Irish manhood than Kyrle Daly can be 
 found or desired, but its tragedy and comedy are domestic, 
 
 1 It is amusing to remember that Shee's Alasco was refused a licence by the 
 Lord Chamberlain on account of its liberal sentiments. It was, nevertheless, 
 played despite of him at the Surrey Theatre, and received with the applause 
 that usually attends upon prohibition. 
 
INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 its setting is rural, its accessories are those of lives which 
 ought, it would seem, to be quiet and uneventful ; the heroic, 
 as generally understood, is not conditioned here, and yet there 
 is strife of feeling and passion, contrast of natures, stress of 
 circumstance, and, following those up, the slow-tracking tread 
 of Nemesis, in a serried sequence that might be that of any 
 classic-heroic drama. So natural, so spontaneous, so far from 
 suggesting cunning in the craft of fiction is this beautiful story 
 of which Griffin said to a friend, ' It writes itself,' that it is only 
 in a cool mood of analysis we recognise the intuition, the in- 
 sight, the philosophical appreciation of human nature, and the 
 extraordinary skill that have gone to the building-up of 
 Hardress Cregan's crime, and to the finding of a place and 
 a way for his repentance ; to the presentation of such a char- 
 acter as that of Mrs. Cregan — stately, lofty, and imposing, while 
 animated by mercenary motives half redeemed by her maternal 
 unwise love, and to the realisation of that unique figure in 
 fiction, Danny Mann. For the latter we can find no parallel, 
 nor do we think the fine contrast, so simply, so ingenuously 
 drawn between the holy innocence, the undoubting faith, the 
 gentle piety, the pure submissive love and native grace of 
 Eily — whom this true artist decks with no impossible exotic 
 charms — and the cruel, devoted, guilty, pitiable wretch who 
 is, like herself, the victim of Hardress, has been excelled. 
 The moral force, the sustained pressure of the inexorable, in- 
 evitable penalty of wrong-doing, and the awful but ever- 
 present mystery of the involvement of the innocent with the 
 guilty in the sure and certain punishment, the steady realisa- 
 tion of { God is not mocked : what a man soweth that shall he 
 reap,' lends to this romance of love and crime, with its buoyant 
 humour, its keen and polished wit, its intense pathos and 
 marvellous variety, its passages of rare poetry and lofty 
 philosophy, its refined and scholarly style, a tone and a value 
 which none of its readers can fail to recognise. 
 
 If Griffin had fallen upon other days and other treatment 
 the fame which he sought in coming to London might have 
 been his. It is curious also in this regard to notice — though it 
 has nothing to do with the story of Griffin's life — that his friend, 
 John Banim, reaped none of the reward of fame or pelf which 
 was bestowed upon the drama made out of his story, The 
 Peep o' Day, a drama which poured a fortune into the lap of 
 its adaptor, Edmund Falconer — a fortune in his case only too 
 
xvi THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 easily dissipated — while the playwright, Banim, reaped little 
 but a harvest of fame out of his Damon and Pythias^ and 
 could boast of but a mediocre success with his powerful story 
 of 'John Doe' (The Peep d Day). 
 
 Griffin lost no time in endeavouring to push his fortunes. 
 He was surprised and disappointed at the difficulty he ex- 
 perienced in finding the address of his friend Banim, and 
 he sustained a severe shock at discovering that the title of a 
 recently planned tragedy resembled a play by Banim, just 
 accepted for Drury Lane, the titles, too, being identical, The 
 Prodigal Son. Writing in November to his brother William 
 he complains of the ' terrible damp fogs ' which he fears have 
 given him a renewal of some chest trouble from which he had 
 formerly suffered. Though he does not mention his illness in 
 a spirit of complaint, or evince to his brother any uneasiness, 
 it is plain he was already fearful that the struggle for fame 
 and fortune, with a London lodging-house as a base of opera- 
 tions, would prove too much for his physical strength, even 
 if his spirit did not break down before his body failed him. 
 
 In December Griffin succeeded in obtaining Banim's address, 
 and his letters tell us of many a pleasant evening spent at his 
 friend's house. Banim had previously read Agm're— one of the 
 tragedies which Griffin had brought to London — and again the 
 two friends went over the manuscript, scene by scene, Banim 
 suggesting several ' cuts,' especially where the play ' dropped ' 
 too much into poetry. * They will not listen to poetry on the 
 stage here,' wrote Griffin. Banim did his best to get Aguire 
 accepted, but in January it was returned to the author, who, 
 nothing daunted, set to work at once on a new piece, the 
 plot concerning itself with Tancred and Sigismundi. He did 
 not then complete this drama, feeling it would be hopeless 
 for a new writer to try and enlist managerial sympathies with 
 a subject of the kind. Gisipus, too, found no haven, and we 
 have the young dramatist writing to his brother, ' I must have 
 heartily tired and sickened you before now, and I am sick 
 and tired myself. I had little idea before I left Ireland that 
 it was possible I could be nearly five months in London 
 without doing anything. ... I had a visit from Banim the 
 other day. What with the delays and disappointments I have 
 met since I came here it is only his encouragement and his 
 friendship that keeps hope alive.' 
 
 All through the early part of his brief London career there 
 
INTRODUCTION xvii 
 
 are constant references in Griffin's letters to John Banim. In 
 March he writes : * Banim's friendship I find every day grow- 
 ing more ardent, more cordial if possible.' 
 
 Banim was now endeavouring to get Gisipus put into such 
 shape as would be likely to render it acceptable to the Covent 
 Garden management, and he also induced Griffin to write a 
 short piece for the English Opera House. 'What would I 
 have done,' exclaims Gerald, ' if I had not found Banim ? I 
 
 should have instantly despaired on 's treatment of me. 
 
 I should never be tired of talking about and thinking of 
 Banim. Mark me ! he is a man — the only one I have met 
 since I have left Ireland, almost.' He speaks of walking 
 through Hyde Park with Banim on St. Patrick's Day, both 
 wearing shamrocks in their hats — • even under the eye of John 
 Bull.' 
 
 Griffin's circumstances did not presently improve. Writing 
 to his sister in May, he says : ' Of all the walks in litera- 
 ture, it (dramatic authorship) is certainly at present the most 
 heartrending, the most toilsome, and the most harassing 
 to a man who is possessed of a mind that may be at all 
 wrought upon by circumstances. The managers don't care 
 a curse for all the dramatists that ever lived. There is a 
 rage for fire and water and horses. . . . This sawdust and 
 water work will pass away like everything else, and then per- 
 chance the poor half-drowned muse of the buskin may be per- 
 mitted to lift his head above the flood once more.' 
 
 Again were Griffin's hopes — though indeed at this period 
 hope seemed to have nearly died within him — dashed to 
 the ground by the rejection of Gisipus. Not even Banim's 
 efforts — and his advocacy with the manager was of no mean 
 account — could get a hearing for the tragedy. 
 
 Griffin writes about this time to his sister a letter in which 
 the following passage occurs, and it is painfully interesting to 
 compare it with a somewhat similar passage in a letter written 
 by Robert Louis Stevenson last October. Griffin says, ' Do 
 you know, I cannot help thinking sometimes that we should 
 all have been better and happier if we had accompanied the 
 first emigrants of our family, and settled down with them in 
 Susquehanna. For my part, situated as I am at present, un- 
 certain of the ground I stand on, sickened by repeated delays 
 and disappointments, there is only one thing that makes one 
 imagine I should not be more at ease there, and that is, that I 
 
xviii THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 know I never could be so anywhere until I had tried London ; 
 and even yet nothing but the consideration of being amongst 
 my friends would induce me to make the exchange. I mean 
 to say being amongst them, and seeing them in health and 
 comfort. I look on success now 5 — this is written in his 
 twenty-first year — ' as a matter of mere business. As to fame, 
 if I could accomplish it in my way, I should scarcely try for 
 its sake alone. I believe it is the case with almost everybody 
 before they succeed, to wear away all relish for it in the exer- 
 tion. I have seen enough of literature and literary men to 
 know what the life is, and I feel convinced that at the best, 
 and with the highest reputation, a man might make himself 
 as happy in other walks of life. I observe that those who 
 have achieved fame are as indifferent about it as if totally 
 unknown, while at the same time they like to add to it. But 
 money — money — is the grand object — the all in all. I am 
 not avaricious, but I see that they are the happiest who are 
 making the most, and am so convinced of the reality of its 
 blessings that if I could make a fortune by splitting matches, 
 I think I would never put a word into print.' 
 
 Melancholy words these, from the mouth of a young man 
 of genius. 
 
 Griffin's fortunes had now reached a very low ebb. He was, 
 indeed, almost penniless, but he managed somehow to keep 
 his pitiable condition hidden from the eye of those he loved in 
 Ireland, who would have been only too ready to supply the 
 young author's necessity had they known of such necessities. 
 Griffin had grown a little morbid, his sensitiveness had reached 
 an acute stage. Even the kindly offices of Banim seemed like 
 patronage, and Griffin always detested and resented patronage. 
 He got an idea into his head that he had never met with the 
 smallest measure of success unless when he had written anony- 
 mously. He was at this time supplying occasional articles to 
 The Literary Gazette and Literary Chronicle^ and he was invited 
 to contribute to a new magazine, The European Review. 
 
 He now began to avoid Banim, and the latter naturally enough 
 was hurt, though he showed no anger. Griffin's pride would not 
 permit him to disclose to his friend how low his circumstances 
 really were. Banim made several fruitless calls at his lodgings, 
 but Mr. Griffin was always out. Discovering from Gerald's 
 landlady one day how badly off the young man was, Banim 
 immediately sent him a kind letter, offering him pecuniary 
 
INTRODUCTION xix 
 
 help. Griffin rejected the offer scornfully, and it was a long 
 time before the friends met again for reconciliation. 
 
 The only excuse for Griffin's conduct in this matter is that 
 the shy, sensitive young man had fallen into a condition of acute 
 morbidness, produced by the failure of his darling hopes, and by 
 the absolute privations he was daily enduring. In his intro- 
 duction to Suit Duv he refers to this gloomy time and to 
 the gloomy incident : 
 
 1 Judge not your friend by what he seemed when Fate 
 Had crossed him in his chosen, cherished aim, 
 When, spirit-broken, baffled, moved to hate 
 The very kindness that but made his shame 
 More self-induced — he rudely turned aside 
 In bitter, hopeless agony from all 
 Alike — of those who mocked or mourned his fall, 
 And fenced his injured heart in lonely pride, 
 Wayward and sullen as suspicion's soul ! 
 To his own mind he lived, a mystery — 
 But now the heavens have changed — the vapours roll 
 Far from his heart, and in his solitude, 
 While the fell nightmares of his spirit flee, 
 He wakes to weave for thee a tale of joy renewed.' 
 
 Another friend who had known Gerald in childhood, and 
 who had therefore a better chance of dictating terms to him, 
 visited his lodgings about this fell period, and found him at 
 his desk in a wretched room at the top of the building. After 
 some fencing with this friend, Griffin at last admitted that he 
 was absolutely penniless, and that he had been without food 
 for nearly three days ! 
 
 But these evil times were, happily, soon to be ended — soon 
 to become nothing more than a black and bitter memory. 
 Work — paying work — mostly journalistic, fell in his way. A 
 publisher engaged him at a salary of ^50 a year for his ser- 
 vices for a few hours a day in arranging and revising books 
 and periodicals, one of them being a fashionable journal to 
 which Griffin, characteristically, sent in anonymous contribu- 
 tions to its editor. These contributions were accepted and 
 paid for, the editor having no knowledge at the time that they 
 were supplied by a member of the office staff. Writing from 
 Paddington Street, Regent's Park, to his father and mother in 
 October 1825 — two years after his arrival in London — he is 
 able to say, c I once imagined I could do anything ; then I 
 
xx THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 thought I could do nothing. One supposition was just as 
 foolish as the other. ... I have within the past fortnight 
 cleared away the last of my debts. With the assistance of 
 heaven I hope my actual embarrassments (it is laughable to 
 apply the word to such little matters as they are) have passed 
 away for ever.' 
 
 Writing to his mother in the February of the following year 
 (1826) he announces that he is engaged as a Parliamentary 
 reporter in the House of Commons. He was now full of 
 work, turning his attention to fiction amongst other matters. 
 All he feared now was his health. The privations and 
 anxieties of the preceding two years no doubt were telling 
 upon him. His brother reminds us in his biography that 
 Gerald was by no means a delicate youth. He was tall and 
 well formed, and though slender, he possessed considerable 
 muscular strength. His countenance was naturally cheerful. 
 He was endowed with a quick temper, but he had under 
 ordinary circumstances perfect control of it. However, the life 
 he had led in London would have taxed the mind and the body 
 of a man of much stronger physique and of much tougher 
 mental fibre. The amazing thing is that he came so well out 
 of the ordeal. 
 
 It may seem that we have dwelt unduly on the painful portion 
 of Gerald Griffin's career, but it is the painful days of genius 
 which are of most interest, and which show most clearly of 
 what stuff the man is made. 
 
 From this time forward Griffin's letters to his relatives and 
 friends are nearly all of a cheerful and quiet kind. He tells of his 
 successes small and great with buoyancy. He seems to have 
 lost sight of the great project which first sent him into London 
 — * I am idle,' he says, ' as to dramatic affairs ' — though he 
 expresses a hope that when playgoers have ceased to be 
 1 spectacle mad, horse mad, and devil mad, and monkey mad,' 
 they may one day be 'G. G. mad.' The art of 'log rolling' 
 was by no means unknown at this period. Griffin says 
 1 Nothing ' — that is, no literary or dramatic work — ' is done, can 
 
 be done, without puffing. Here I see puffed by his own 
 
 family. A good writer puffing himself. Men of talent writing 
 in one periodical and replying to, criticising, and praising the 
 particular article in another. Dramatists who don't under- 
 stand common grammar and spelling.' 
 
 There is a curious reference in one of his letters of this 
 
INTRODUCTION xxi 
 
 period— the summer of 1825 — to a disputed point, namely, as 
 to the effect which the Quarterly notice had upon the author of 
 Endymion. Griffin, writing to his sister Lucy, says : * I think it 
 probable I may one day become acquainted with the young 
 sister of poor Keats, the poet, as she is coming to spend some 
 time with a friend of mine. My Spanish friend, Valentine 
 Llanos, was intimate with Keats, and spoke with him three 
 days before his death. Keats you must know was in love, and 
 the lady whom he was to have married, had he survived 
 Giffard's (the butcher) review, attended him to the last. She 
 is a beautiful young creature, but now wasted away to a 
 skeleton, and will follow him shortly I believe. She and her 
 sister say they have often found him, on suddenly entering the 
 room, with that review in his hand, reading as if he would 
 devour it — completely absorbed — drinking it in like mortal 
 poison.' He met the sister of Keats and Miss Brawne, and 
 the husband of the former, who was, he declares, an old friend, 
 and congratulates himself on having made the acquaintance 
 of two interesting women. 
 
 He had evidently made his peace ere this with John Banim. 
 In December (1825) he speaks of dining with him and discussing 
 Banim's novel, then just completed, The Boyne Water, and 
 they saw a good deal of each other in the ensuing year, 
 Banim arranging with Arnold of the English Opera House 
 for an operetta by Griffin. He was paid ^50 for this — The 
 Noyades — and he wrote it in a fortnight. There was a 
 demand for this class of work, and Griffin might have earned 
 a good deal by it, but he again felt that he was not being taken 
 on his merits — that he was in a manner being patronised — and 
 again arose a stupid misunderstanding between himself and 
 Banim, and a long period elapsed before a reconciliation — 
 this time a full and final one — took place. 
 
 In 1827 Griffin's first book, Holland Tide, a series of short 
 stories, appeared, the publishers being Messrs. Simpkin & 
 Marshall, who gave ^70 for the copyright. Early this year 
 he returned to Limerick. His favourite sister was in delicate 
 health and expressed a wish to see him. Gerald himself was 
 not in a very robust condition, his voice had grown feeble, and 
 his cheeks had lost their colour. His sister, to whom he was 
 ardently attached, died suddenly the day after he had arrived 
 in Limerick, and as he had remained in the city for the night 
 he never again saw her alive. This gave Griffin a great 
 
xxii THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 shock, and it was many months before he recovered from the 
 effects of it. When he felt himself fit for work again he 
 quickly put together another book of a similar character to 
 Holland Tide ; and Taks of the Munster Festivals, containing 
 'Card-Drawing,' 'The Half, Sir/ and 'Suil Duv, the Coiner,' 
 saw the light in London in the same year (1827). 
 
 He returned to London in the autumn of 1827, in order to 
 arrange for the publication of the Tales of the Munster Festivals, 
 and he writes to Pallas Kenry, ' If I can dispose of these tales 
 to advantage I never again, without some very urgent motive 
 indeed, will enter London. It is grown to me a place of most 
 dismal associations.' He got about ^"250 for the Tales, 
 and returned to Ireland in October in better health and 
 spirits than he had been for some time. He now decided to 
 settle down in Pallas Kenry, and here he led a happy, un- 
 eventful, busy life. October 1828 produced the 'very urgent 
 motive,' which carried him once more to London — namely, 
 the disposal of his chef-d'oeuvre, The Collegians, published late 
 in 1829. 
 
 Griffin now devoted much of his time to the study of ancient 
 Irish history and to the production of historical novels. The 
 Invasion (which was not published until 1832, The Rivals and 
 Tracers Ambition, and The Chistian Physiologist ; or, Tales 
 of the Five Senses, appearing in the interval) was followed by 
 The Duke of Monmouth. In 1835 appeared Tales of my 
 Neighbourhood, which included 'The Barber of Ban try,' an 
 extraordinary story in which the supernatural element is used 
 with wonderful effect. The only other works of note which 
 saw the light were The Tales of a Jury Room, and a volume 
 of poems. 
 
 At Pallas Kenry there was little to disturb the quiet tenor 
 of his life. He visited Tom Moore at Sloperton in the winter 
 of 1832, charged with a mission to the poet from the electors 
 of Limerick, who wished Moore to stand for the City of the 
 Violated Treaty. Moore was obliged to decline the proposal, 
 but, though Griffin failed in his mission, he was delighted with 
 his host, and with the cordial reception he received at his 
 hands. Four years later he made a sudden and mysterious 
 excursion into France — no one, not even his brother, knew 
 the nature or object of this sudden journey, but it was sur- 
 mised he had visited St. Omer's, with a view to taking up his 
 residence there, and prosecuting his studies for the priest 
 
INTRODUCTION xxiii 
 
 hood, a desire to enter into holy orders being now para- 
 mount. In 1838, he paid a visit to Scotland with his 
 brother, and on his return his relatives learned that he had 
 finally abandoned the idea of becoming a priest. In the 
 August of the same year he informed his brother of his inten- 
 tion of entering a religious order. Gerald had selected the 
 Society of the Christian Brothers, a body of recluses, ^ who 
 devote themselves to the teaching of the poor. Before joining 
 the religious community he destroyed all the manuscripts he 
 had in his possession, with the exception of the manuscript 
 of Gisipus, his first love. In September 1838 he entered the 
 convent. On Friday the 12th June 1840 he died of typhus 
 fever in the North Monastery, Cork ; and on the following 
 Monday he was buried in the little cemetery of the convent. 
 
 London, March 1896. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 A TALE OF GARRYOWEN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 HOW GARRYOWEN ROSE, AND HOW IT FELL 
 
 The little ruined outlet, which gives its name to one of the most 
 popular national songs of Erin, is situate on the acclivity of a 
 hill near the city of Limerick, commanding a not unpleasant 
 view of that fine old town, with the noble stream that washes 
 its battered towers, and a richly cultivated surrounding country. 
 Tradition has preserved the occasion of its celebrity, and the origin 
 of its name, which appears to be compounded of two Irish words 
 signifying ' Owen's garden/ A person so called was the owner, 
 about half a century since, of a cottage and plot of ground on this 
 spot, which, from its contiguity to the town, became a favourite 
 holiday resort with the young citizens of both sexes — a lounge 
 presenting accommodations somewhat similar to those which are 
 offered to the London mechanic by the Battersea tea-gardens. 
 Owen's garden was the general rendezvous for those who sought 
 for simple amusement or for dissipation. The old people drank 
 together under the shades of trees — the young played at ball, 
 goal, or other athletic exercises on the green ; while a few, linger- 
 ing by the hedgerows with their fair acquaintances, cheated the 
 time with sounds less boisterous, indeed, but yet possessing their 
 fascination also. 
 
 The festivities of our fathers, however, were frequently dis- 
 tinguished by so fierce a character of mirth, that, for any difference 
 in the result of their convivial meetings, they might as well have 
 been pitched encounters. Owen's garden was soon' as famous for 
 scenes of strife as it was for mirth and humour ; and broken heads 
 became a staple article of manufacture in the neighbourhood. 
 
 This new feature in the diversions of the place was encouraged 
 by a number of young persons of rank somewhat superior to that 
 of the usual frequenters of the garden. They were the sons of the 
 
 A 
 
2 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 more respectable citizens, the merchants and wholesale traders of 
 the city, just turned loose from school, with a greater supply of 
 animal spirit than they had wisdom to govern. These young 
 gentlemen, being fond of wit, amused themselves by forming 
 parties at night, to wring the heads off all the geese, and the 
 knockers off all the hall-doors in the neighbourhood. They some- 
 times suffered their genius to soar as high as the breaking a lamp, 
 and even the demolition of a watchman ; but perhaps this species of 
 joking was found a little too serious to be repeated over frequently, 
 for few achievements of so daring a violence are found amongst 
 their records. They were obliged to content themselves with the 
 less ambitious distinction of destroying the knockers and store- 
 locks, annoying the peaceable inmates of the neighbouring houses 
 with long-continued assaults on the front doors, terrifying the 
 quiet passengers with every species of insult and provocation, and 
 indulging their fratricidal propensities against all the geese in 
 Garryowen. 
 
 The fame of the ' Garryowen boys ' soon spread far and wide. 
 Their deeds were celebrated by some inglorious minstrel of the 
 day, in that air which has since resounded over every quarter of 
 the world, and even disputed the palm of national popularity with 
 * Patrick's day.' A string of jolly verses were appended to the 
 tune, which soon enjoyed a notoriety similar to that of the famous 
 ' Lilliburlero, bullum-a-la,' which sung King James out of his three 
 kingdoms. The name of Garryowen was as well known as that 
 of the Irish Numantium, Limerick, itself, and Owen's little garden 
 became almost a synonym for Ireland. 
 
 But that principle of existence which assigns to the life of man 
 its periods of youth, maturity, and decay, has its analogy in the 
 fate of villages, as in that of empires. Assyria fell, and so did Garry- 
 owen ! Rome had its decline, and Garryowen was not immortal ! 
 Both are now an idle sound, with nothing but the recollections of 
 old tradition to invest them with an interest. The still notorious 
 suburb is little better than a heap of rubbish, where a number of 
 smoked and mouldering walls, standing out from the masses of 
 stone and mortar, indicate the position of a once populous row 
 of dwelling-houses. A few roofs yet remain unshaken, under 
 which some impoverished families endeavour to work out a 
 wretched subsistence, by maintaining a species of huxter trade, by 
 cobbling old shoes, and manufacturing ropes. A small rookery 
 wearies the ears of the inhabitants at one end of the outlet, and 
 a rope -walk, which extends along the adjacent slope of Gallows 
 Green (so called for certain reasons), brings to the mind of the 
 conscious spectator associations that are not calculated to enliven 
 the prospect. Neither is he thrown into a more jocular frame of 
 mind, as he picks his steps over the insulated paving-stones that 
 appear amid the green slough with which the street is deluged, 
 and encounters, at the other end, an alley of coffinmakers' shops, 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 3 
 
 with a fever hospital on one side, and a churchyard on the other. 
 A person who was bent on a journey to the other world could 
 not desire a more expeditious outfit than Garryowen could now 
 afford him, nor a more commodious choice of conveyances, from 
 the machine on the slope above glanced at, to the pest-house at 
 the farther end. 
 
 But it is ill talking lightly on a serious subject. The days of 
 Garryowen are gone, like those of ancient Erin ; and the feats of 
 her once formidable heroes are nothing more than a winter's 
 evening tale. Owen is in his grave, and his garden looks dreary 
 as a ruined churchyard. The greater number of his merry cus- 
 tomers have followed him to a narrow playground, which, though 
 not less crowded, affords less room for fun, and less opportunity 
 for contention. The worm is there the reveller — the owl whoops 
 out his defiance without answer (save the echo's) — the best whisky 
 in Munster would not now 'drive the cold out of their hearts' — 
 and the withered old sexton is able to knock the bravest of them 
 over the pate with impunity. A few, perhaps, may still remain to 
 look back with a fond shame to the scene of their early follies, and 
 to smile on the page in which those follies are recorded. 
 
 Still, however, there is something to keep the memory alive of 
 those unruly days, and to preserve the name of Garryowen from 
 utter extinction. The annual fair which is held on the spot pre- 
 sents a spectacle of gaiety and uproar which might rival its most 
 boisterous days ; and strangers still inquire for the place with a 
 curiosity which its appearance seldom fails to disappoint. Our 
 national lyrist has immortalised the air by adapting to it one of 
 the liveliest of his melodies — the adventures of which it was once 
 the scene constitute a fund of standing joke and anecdote, which 
 are not neglected by the neighbouring storytellers — and a rough 
 voice may still occasionally be heard by the traveller who passes 
 near its ruined dwellings at evening, to chant a stanza of the 
 chorus which was once in the mouth of every individual in 
 the kingdom : 
 
 ' 'Tis there we '11 drink the nut-brown ale, 
 
 An' pay the reck'nin' on the nail ; 
 
 No man for debt shall go to jail 
 
 From Garryowen na gloria. ' 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 HOW EILY O'CONNOR PUZZLED ALL THE INHABITANTS OF 
 GARRYOWEN 
 
 But while Owen lived, and while his garden flourished, he and 
 his neighbours were as merry together, as if death could never 
 
4 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 reach the one, nor desolation waste the other. Among those 
 frequenters of his little retreat whom he distinguished with an 
 especial favour and attention, the foremost was the handsome 
 daughter of an old man who conducted the business of a rope- 
 walk in his neighbourhood, and who was accustomed on a fine 
 Saturday evening to sit under the shade of a yellow osier that 
 stood by his door, and discourse of the politics of the day — of 
 Lord Halifax's administration — of the promising young patriot, 
 Mr. Henry Grattan — and of the famous Catholic concession of 
 1773- Owen, like all Irishmen, even of the humblest rank, was 
 an acute critic in female proportions, and although time had 
 blown away the thatching from his head, and by far the greater 
 portion of blood that remained in his frame had colonised about 
 his nose, yet the manner in which he held forth on the praises of 
 his old friend's daughter was such as put to shame her younger 
 and less eloquent admirers. It is true, indeed, that the origin of 
 the suburban beauty was one which, in a troubled country like 
 Ireland, had little of agreeable association to recommend it ; but 
 few even of those to whom twisted hemp was an object of secret 
 terror, could look on the exquisitely beautiful face of Eily O'Con- 
 nor, and remember that she was a ropemaker's daughter; few 
 could detect beneath the timid, hesitating, downcast gentleness 
 of manner, which shed an interest over all her motions, the traces 
 of a harsh and vulgar education. It was true that she sometimes 
 purloined a final letter from the King's adjectives, and prolonged 
 the utterance of a vowel beyond the term of prosodaical orthodoxy, 
 but the tongue that did so seemed to move on silver wires, and 
 the lip on which the sound delayed, 
 
 ' long murmuring, loth to part,' 
 
 imparted to its own accents an association of sweetness and grace 
 that made the defect an additional allurement. Her education in 
 the outskirts of a city had not impaired the natural tenderness of 
 her character ; for her father, who, all rude as he was, knew how 
 to value his daughter's softness of mind, endeavoured to foster 
 it by every indulgence in his power. Her uncle, too, who was 
 now a country parish-priest, was well qualified to draw forth any 
 natural talent with which she had been originally endowed. He 
 had completed his theological education in the famous university 
 of Salamanca, where he was distinguished as a youth of much 
 quietness of temper and literary application, rather than as one of 
 those furious gesticulators, those ''figures Hibernoises] amongst 
 whom Gil Bias, in his fit of logical lunacy, could meet his only 
 equals. At his little lodging, while he was yet a curate at St. 
 John's, Eily O'Connor was accustomed to spend a considerable 
 portion of her time, and in return for her kindness in presiding at 
 his simple tea-table, Father Edward undertook to bestow a degree 
 of attention on her education, which rendered her in a little time 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 5 
 
 as superior in knowledge as she was in beauty to her female 
 associates. She was remarked likewise at this time as a little 
 devotee, very regular in her attendance at chapel, constant in all 
 the observances of her religion, and grave in her attire and 
 discourse. On the coldest and dreariest morning in winter she 
 might be seen gliding along by the unopened shop windows to 
 the nearest chapel, where she was accustomed to hear an early 
 mass, and return in time to set everything in order for her father's 
 breakfast. During the day she superintended his household 
 affairs, while he was employed upon the adjacent rope-walk ; 
 and, in the evening, she usually slipped on her bonnet, and went 
 across the street to Father Edward's, where she chatted away 
 until tea was over ; if he happened to be engaged in reading his 
 daily office, she amused herself with a volume of moral entertain- 
 ment, such as Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia, or Mr. Addison's 
 Spectator, until he was at leisure to hear her lessons. An attach- 
 ment of the purest and tenderest nature was the consequence of 
 those mutual attentions between the uncle and niece, and it 
 might be said that if the former loved her not as well, he knew 
 and valued her character still better than her father. Father 
 Edward, however, was appointed to a parish, and Eily lost her 
 instructor. It was for her a severe loss, and most severe in 
 reality when its effects upon her own spirits began to wear away. 
 For some months after his departure she continued to lead the 
 same retired and unobtrusive life, and no eye, save that of a 
 consummate observer, could detect the slightest alteration in her 
 sentiments, the least increase of toleration for the world and 
 worldly amusements. That change, however, had been silently 
 effected in her heart. She was now a woman — a lovely, intel- 
 ligent, full-grown woman — and circumstances obliged her to take 
 a part in the little social circle which moved around her. Her 
 spirits were naturally light, and, though long repressed, became 
 readily assimilated to the buoyant tone of the society in which 
 she happened to be placed. Her father, who, with a father's 
 venial vanity, was fond of showing his beautiful child among his 
 neighbours, took her with him to Owen's garden at a time when 
 it was unusually gay and crowded, and from that evening might 
 be dated the commencement of a decided and visible change in 
 the lovely Eily's character. 
 
 As gradual as the approach of a spring morning was the change 
 from grave to gay in the costume of this flower of the suburbs. 
 It dawned at first in a handsome bow-knot upon her head-dress, 
 and ended in the full noontide splendour of flowered muslins, 
 silks, and sashes. It was like the opening of the rose-bud, which 
 gathers around it the winged wooers of the summer meadow. 
 1 Lads, as brisk as bees,' came thronging in her train, with proffers 
 of 'honourable love, and rites of marriage' ; and even among the 
 youths of a higher rank, whom the wild levity of Irish blood and 
 
6 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 high spirits sent to mingle in the festivities of Owen's garden, 
 a jealousy prevailed respecting the favour of the ropemaker's 
 handsome daughter. It was no wonder that attentions paid by 
 individuals so much superior to her ordinary admirers should 
 render Eily indifferent to the sighs of those plebeian suitors. 
 Dunat O'Leary, the haircutter, or Foxy Dunat, as he was named 
 in allusion to his red hair, was cut to the heart by her utter 
 coldness. Myles Murphy, likewise, a good-natured farmer from 
 Killarney, who travelled through the country selling Kerry ponies, 
 and claiming a relationship with every one he met, claimed 
 kindred in vain with Eily, for his claim was not allowed. Lowry 
 Looby, too, the servant of Mr. Daly, a wealthy middleman who 
 lived in the neighbourhood, was suspected by many to entertain 
 delusive hopes of Eily O'Connor's favour — but this report was 
 improbable enough, for Lowry could not but know that he was a 
 very ugly man ; and if he were as beautiful as Narcissus, Mihil 
 O'Connor would still have shut the door in his face for being as 
 poor as Timon. So that, though there was no lack of admirers, 
 the lovely Eily, like many celebrated beauties in a higher rank, 
 ran, after all, a fair chance of becoming what Lady Mary 
 Montague has elegantly termed ' a lay nun.' Even as a book- 
 worm, who will pore over a single volume from morning till night, 
 if turned loose into a library, wanders from shelf to shelf, be- 
 wildered amid a host of temptations, and unable to make any 
 selection until he is surprised by twilight, and chagrined to find, 
 that with so much happiness within his grasp, he has spent, 
 nevertheless, an unprofitable day. 
 
 But accident saved Eily from a destiny so deeply dreaded and 
 so often lamented as that above alluded to — a condition which 
 people generally agree to look upon as one of utter desolation, 
 and which, notwithstanding, is frequently a state of greater 
 happiness than its opposite. On the eve of the seventeenth of 
 March, a day distinguished in the ropemaker's household, not 
 only as the festival of the national saint, but as the birthday of 
 the young mistress of the establishment — on this evening Eily 
 and her father were enjoying their customary relaxation at Owen's 
 garden. The jolly proprietor wsLs seated as usual with his 
 rope-twisting friend under the yellow osier, while Myles Murphy, 
 who had brought a number of his wild ponies to be disposed of 
 at the neighbouring fairs, had taken his place at the end of the 
 table, and was endeavouring to insinuate a distant relationship 
 between the Owens of Kilteery, connections of the person whom 
 he addressed, and the Murphys of Knockfodhra, connections of 
 his own. A party of young men were playing fives at a ball-alley 
 on the other side of the green ; and another, more numerous, and 
 graced with many female figures, were capering away to the tune 
 of the Fox Hunter's Jig on the short grass. Some poor old 
 women, with baskets on their arms, were endeavouring to sell off 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 7 
 
 some Patricks Crosses for children, at the low rate of one half- 
 penny a piece, gilding, paint, and all. Others, fatigued with 
 exertion, were walking under the still leafless trees, some with 
 their hats, some with their coats off, jesting, laughing, and chatting 
 familiarly with their female acquaintances. 
 
 Mihil O'Connor, happening to see Lowry Looby among the 
 promenaders, glancing now and then at the dance and whistling 
 ' Patrick's Day,' requested him to call his daughter out of the group, 
 and tell her that he was waiting for her to go home. Lowry went, 
 and returned to say that Eily was dancing with a strange young 
 gentleman in a boating dress, and that he would not let her go 
 until she had finished the slip jig. 
 
 It continued a sufficient time to tire the old man's patience. 
 When Eily did at last make her appearance, he observed there 
 was a flush of mingled weariness and pleasure on her cheek, 
 which showed that the delay was not quite in opposition to her 
 own inclinations. This circumstance might have tempted him to 
 receive her with a little displeasure, but that honest Owen at that 
 moment laid hold on both father and daughter, insisting that they 
 should come in and take supper with his wife and himself. 
 
 This narrative of Eily's girlhood being merely introductory, 
 we shall forbear to furnish any detail of the minor incidents of 
 the evening, or the quality of Mrs. Owen's entertainment. They 
 were very merry and happy ; so much so, that the Patrick's eve 
 approached its termination before they rose to bid their host and 
 hostess a good night. Owen advised them to walk on rapidly, in 
 order to avoid the ' Pathrick's boys,' who would promenade the 
 streets after twelve, to welcome in the mighty festival with music 
 and uproar of all kinds. Some of the lads, he said, ' might be 
 playin' their tricks upon Miss Eily.' 
 
 The night was rather dark, and the dim glimmer of the oil- 
 lamps, which were suspended at long intervals over the street 
 doors, tended only in a very feeble degree to qualify the gloom. 
 Mihil O'Connor and his daughter had already performed more 
 than half their journey, and were turning from a narrow lane at 
 the head of Mungret Street, when a loud and tumultuous sound 
 broke with sudden violence upon their hearing. It proceeded 
 from a multitude of people who were moving in confused and 
 noisy procession along the street. An ancient and still honoured 
 custom summons the youthful inhabitants of the city on the night 
 of this anniversary to celebrate the approaching holiday of the 
 patron saint and apostle of the island, by promenading all the 
 streets in succession, playing national airs, and filling up the pauses 
 in the music with shouts of exultation. Such was the procession 
 which the two companions now beheld approaching. 
 
 The appearance which it presented was not altogether destitute 
 of interest and amusement. In the midst were a band of 
 musicians who played alternately, ' Patrick's Day,' and ' Garry- 
 
8 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 owen/ while a rabble of men and boys pressed round them, 
 thronging the whole breadth and a considerable portion of the 
 length of the street. The men had got sprigs of shamrock in 
 their hats, and several carried in their hands lighted candles, pro- 
 tected from the wasting night-blast by a simple lamp of whited 
 brown paper. The fickle and unequal light which those small 
 torches threw over the faces of the individuals who held them, 
 afforded a lively contrast to the prevailing darkness. 
 
 The crowd hurried forward, singing, playing, shouting, laughing, 
 and indulging, to its full extent, all the excitement which was 
 occasioned by the tumult and the motion. Bedroom windows are 
 thrown up as they passed, and the half-dressed inmates thrust 
 their heads into the night air to gaze upon the mob of enthusiasts. 
 All the respectable persons who appeared in the streets as they 
 advanced, turned short into the neighbouring byways to avoid 
 the importunities which they would be likely to incur by a contact 
 with the multitude. 
 
 But it was too late for our party to adopt this precaution. 
 Before it had entered their minds, the procession (if we may 
 dignify it by a name so sounding) was nearer to them than they 
 were to any turn in the street, and the appearance of flight, with a 
 rabble of men, as with dogs, is a provocation of pursuit. Of this 
 they were aware ; and accordingly, instead of attempting a vain 
 retreat, they turned into a recess formed by one of the shop-doors, 
 and quietly awaited the passing away of this noisy torrent. For 
 some moments they were unnoticed ; the fellows who moved fore- 
 most being too busy in talking, laughing, and shouting to pay any 
 attention to objects not directly in their way. But they were no 
 sooner espied than the wags assailed them with that species of 
 wit which distinguishes the inhabitants of the back lanes of a city, 
 and forms the terror of all country visitors. These expressions 
 were lavished upon the ropemaker and his daughter, until the 
 former, who was as irritable an old fellow as Irishmen generally 
 are, was almost put out of patience. 
 
 At length a young man, observing the lamp shine for a moment 
 on Eily's handsome face, made a chirp with his lips as he passed 
 by, as if he had a mind to kiss her. Not Papirius himself, when 
 vindicating his senatorial dignity against the insulting Gaul, could 
 be more prompt in action than Mihil O'Connor. The young 
 gentleman received, in return for his affectionate greeting, a blow 
 over the temples which was worth five hundred kisses. An uproar 
 immediately commenced, which was likely to end in some serious 
 injury to the old man and his daughter. A number of ferocious 
 faces gathered round them, uttering sounds of harsh rancour and 
 defiance, which Mihil met with equal loudness and energy. In- 
 deed, all that seemed to delay his fate, and hinder him from 
 sharing in the prostration of his victim, was the conduct of Eily, 
 who, flinging herself in bare-armed beauty before her father, de- 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 9 
 
 fended him for a time against the upraised weapons of his assailants. 
 No one would incur the danger of harming, by an accidental 
 blow, a creature so young, so beautiful, and so affectionate. 
 
 They were at length rescued from this precarious condition by 
 the interposition of two young men, in the dress of boatmen, who 
 appeared to possess some influence with the crowd, and who used 
 it for the advantage of the sufferers. Not satisfied with having 
 brought them safely out of all immediate danger, the taller of the 
 two conducted them to their door, saying little on the way, and tak- 
 ing his leave as soon as they were once in perfect safety. All that 
 Mihil could learn from his appearance was that he was a gentle- 
 man, and very young — perhaps not more than nineteen years of 
 age. The old man talked much and loudly in praise of his 
 gallantry, but Eily was altogether silent on the subject. 
 
 A few days after, Mihil O'Connor was at work upon the rope- 
 walk, going slowly backward in the sunshine, with a little bundle 
 of hemp between his knees, and singing ' Maureen Thierna. 7 A 
 hunchbacked little fellow, in a boatman's dress, came up, and 
 saluting him in a sharp city brogue, reminded the old ropemaker 
 that he had done him a service a few' evenings before. Mihil pro- 
 fessed his acknowledgments, and with true Irish warmth of heart, 
 assured the little boatman that all he had in the world was at his 
 service. The hunchback, however, only wanted a few ropes and 
 blocks for his boat, and even for those he was resolute in paying 
 honourably. Neither did he seem anxious to satisfy the curiosity 
 of old Mihil with respect to the name and quality of his companion ; 
 for he was inexorable in maintaining that he was a turf-boat man 
 from Scagh, who had come up to town with him to dispose of 
 a cargo of fuel at Charlotte's Quay. Mihil O'Connor referred 
 him to his daughter for the ropes, about which, he said, she could 
 bargain as well as himself, and he was unable to leave his work 
 until the rope he had in hand should be finished. The little 
 deformed, no way displeased at this intelligence, went to find Eily 
 at the shop, where he spent a longer time than Mihil thought 
 necessary for his purpose. 
 
 From this time forward the character of Eily O'Connor seemed 
 to have undergone a second change. Her former gravity re- 
 turned, but it did not reappear under the same circumstances as 
 before. In her days of religious retirement it appeared only in 
 her dress and in her choice of amusements. Now both her re- 
 creations and her attire were much gayer than ever, so much so 
 as almost to approach a degree of dissipation, but her cheerfulness 
 of mind was gone, and the sadness which had settled on her heart, 
 like a black reef under sunny waters, was* plainly visible through 
 all her gaiety. Her father was too much occupied in his eternal 
 rope-twisting to take particular notice of this change, and, besides, 
 it is notorious that one's constant companions are the last to 
 observe any alteration in one's manner or appearance. 
 
io THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 One morning, when Mihil O'Connor left his room, he was sur- 
 prised to find that the breakfast-table was not laid as usual, and 
 that his daughter was not in the house. She made her appear- 
 ance, however, while he was himself making the necessary 
 arrangements. They exchanged a greeting somewhat colder on 
 the one side, and more embarrassed on the other, than was usual 
 at the morning meetings of the father and daughter. But when 
 she told him that she had been only to the chapel, the old man 
 was perfectly satisfied, for he knew that Eily would as readily 
 think of telling a falsehood to the priest as she would to her 
 father. And when Mihil O'Connor heard that people were at 
 chapel, he generally concluded (poor old man !) that it was only to 
 pray they went there. 
 
 In the meantime Myles Murphy renewed his proposals to Eily, 
 and succeeded in gaining over the father to his interests. The 
 latter was annoyed at his daughter's obstinate rejection of a fine 
 fellow like Myles, with a very comfortable property, and pressed 
 her either to give consent to the match, or a good reason for her 
 refusal. But this request, though reasonable, was not complied 
 with ; and the ropemaker, though not so hot as Capulet, was as 
 much displeased at the contumacy of his daughter. Eily, on her 
 part, was so much afflicted at the anger of her only parent, that it 
 is probable her grief would have made away with her if she 
 had not prevented that catastrophe by making away with her- 
 self. 
 
 On the fair day of Garryowen, after sustaining a long and dis- 
 tressing altercation with her father and her mountain suitor, Eily 
 O'Connor threw her blue cloak over her shoulders, and walked 
 into the air. She did not return to dinner, and her father felt 
 angry at what he thought a token of resentful feeling. Night 
 came, and she did not make her appearance. The poor old man, 
 in an agony of terror, reproached himself for his vehemence, and 
 spent the whole night in recalling, with a feeling of remorse, 
 every intemperate word which he had used in the violence of dis- 
 pute. In the morning, more like a ghost than a living being, he 
 went from the house of one acquaintance to another, to inquire 
 after his child. No one, however, had seen her, except Foxy 
 Dunat, the haircutter, and he had only caught a glimpse of her 
 as she passed his door on the previous evening. It was evident 
 that she was not to return. Her father was distracted. Her 
 young admirers feared that she had got privately married, and 
 run away with some shabby fellow. Her female friends insinuated 
 that the case might be still worse, and some pious old people 
 shook their heads when the report reached them, and said they 
 knew what was likely to come of it, when Eily O'Connor left off 
 attending her daily mass in the morning, and went to the dance 
 at Garryowen. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS u 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HOW MR. DALY, THE MIDDLEMAN, SAT DOWN TO BREAKFAST 
 
 The Dalys (a very respectable family in middle life) occupied, at 
 the time of which we write, a handsome cottage on the Shannon 
 side, a few miles from the suburban district above mentioned. 
 
 They had assembled, on the morning of Eily's disappearance, 
 a healthy and blooming household of all sizes, in the principal 
 sitting-room, for a purpose no less important than that of de- 
 spatching breakfast. It was a favourable moment for any one who 
 might be desirous of sketching a family picture. The windows 
 of the room, which were thrown up for the purpose of admitting 
 the fresh morning air, opened upon a trim and sloping meadow, 
 that looked sunny and cheerful with the bright green after-grass 
 of the season. The broad and sheety river washed the very 
 margin of the little field, and bore upon its quiet bosom (which 
 was only ruffled by the circling eddies that encountered the 
 advancing tide) a variety of craft, such as might be supposed to 
 indicate the approach to a large commercial city. Majestic 
 vessels, floating idly on the basined flood, with sails half furled, 
 in keeping with the languid beauty of the scene — lighters, 
 burthened to the water's edge with bricks or sand — large rafts of 
 timber, borne onward towards the neighbouring quays under the 
 guidance of a shipman's boat-hook — pleasure-boats, with gaudy 
 pennons hanging at peak and topmast— or turf-boats, with their 
 unpicturesque and ungraceful lading, moving sluggishly forward, 
 while their black sails seemed gasping for a breath to fill them ; 
 such were the incidents that gave a gentle animation to the 
 prospect immediately before the eyes of the cottage dwellers. 
 On the farther side of the river arose the Cratloe hills, shadowed 
 in various places by a broken cloud, and rendered beautiful by 
 the chequered appearance of the ripening tillage, and the 
 variety of hues that were observable along their wooded sides. 
 At intervals, the front of a handsome mansion brightened up in 
 a passing gleam of sunshine, while the wreaths of blue smoke, 
 ascending at various distances from amongst the trees, tended to 
 relieve the idea of extreme solitude which it would otherwise have 
 presented. 
 
 The interior of the cottage was not less interesting to contem- 
 plate than the landscape which lay before it. The principal 
 breakfast-table (for there were two spread in the room) was 
 placed before the window, the neat and snow-white damask cloth 
 covered with fare that spoke satisfactorily for the circumstances of 
 
12 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 the proprietor, and for the housewifery of his helpmate. The former, 
 a fair, pleasant-faced old gentleman, in a huge buckled cravat 
 and square-toed shoes, somewhat distrustful of the meagre beverage 
 which fumed out of Mrs. Daly's lofty and shining coffee-pot, had 
 taken his position before a cold ham and fowl which decorated 
 the lower end of the table. His lady, a courteous old personage, 
 with a face no less fair and happy than her husband's, and with 
 eyes sparkling with good nature and intelligence, did the honours 
 of the board at the farther end. On the opposite side, leaning 
 over the back of his chair with clasped hands, in an attitude 
 which had a mixture of abstraction and anxiety, sat Mr. Kyrle 
 Daly, the first pledge of connubial affection that was born to this 
 comely pair. He was a young man already initiated in the 
 rudiments of the legal profession ; of a handsome figure, and in 
 manner — but something now pressed upon his spirits, which 
 rendered this an unfavourable occasion for describing him. 
 
 A second table was laid in a more retired portion of the room, 
 for the accommodation of the younger part of the family. Several 
 well burnished goblets, or porringers, of thick milk, flanked the 
 sides of this board, while a large dish of smooth-coated potatoes 
 reeked up in the centre. A number of blooming boys and girls, 
 between the ages of four and twelve, were seated at this simple 
 repast, eating and drinking away with all the happy eagerness of 
 youthful appetite. Not, however, that this employment occupied 
 their exclusive attention, for the prattle which circulated round 
 the table frequently became so boisterous, as to drown the con- 
 versation of the older people, and to call forth the angry rebuke 
 of the master of the family. 
 
 The furniture of the apartment was in accordance with the 
 appearance and manners of its inhabitants. The floor was 
 handsomely carpeted, a lofty green fender fortified the fireplace, 
 and supplied Mr. Daly in his facetious moments with occasions 
 for the frequent repetition of a favourite conundrum — ' Why is that 
 fender like Westminster Abbey ? ' — a problem with which he never 
 failed to try the wit of any stranger who happened to spend a 
 night beneath his roof. The wainscotted walls were ornamented 
 with several of the popular prints of the day, such as Hogarth's 
 Roast Beef, Prince Eugene, Schomberg at the Boyne, Mr. 
 Betterton playing Cato in all the glory of 
 
 ' Full wig, flowered gown, and lackered chair' ; 
 
 of the royal Mandane, in the person of Mrs. Mountain, strutting 
 among the arbours of her Persian palace in a lofty t£te and 
 hooped petticoat. There were also some family drawings done 
 by Mrs. Daly in her schooldays, of which we feel no inclination 
 to say more than that they were prettily framed. In justice to 
 the fair artist, it should also be mentioned that, contrary to the 
 established practice, her sketches were never retouched by the 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 13 
 
 hand of her master, a fact which Mr. Daly was fond of insinuat- 
 ing, and which no one who saw the pictures was tempted to call 
 in question. A small bookcase, with the edges of the shelves 
 handsomely gilded, was suspended in one corner of the room, and, 
 on examination, might be found to contain a considerable number 
 of works on Irish history, for which study Mr. Daly had a national 
 predilection, a circumstance much deplored by all the impatient 
 listeners in his neighbourhood, and (some people hinted) in his 
 own household ; some religious books, and a few volumes^ on 
 cookery and farming. The space over the lofty chimney-piece 
 was assigned to some ornaments of a more startling descrip- 
 tion. A gun rack, on which were suspended a long shore gun, a 
 brass-barrelled blunderbuss, a cutlass, and a case of horse-pistols, 
 manifested Mr. Daly's determination to maintain, if necessary, by 
 force of arms, his claim to the fair possessions which his honest 
 industry had acquired. 
 
 ' Kyrle,' said Mr. Daly, putting his fork into a breast of cold 
 goose, and looking at his son — ' you had better let me put a little 
 goose (with an emphasis) on your plate. You know you are going 
 a- wooing to-day.' 
 
 The young gentleman appeared not to hear him. Mrs. Daly, 
 who understood more intimately the nature of her son's reflections, 
 deprecated, by a significant look at her husband, the continuance 
 of any raillery upon so delicate a subject. 
 
 1 Kyrle, some coffee ?' said the lady of the house, but without 
 being more successful in awakening the attention of the young 
 gentleman. 
 
 Mr. Daly winked at his wife. 
 
 I Kyrle ! ' he called aloud, in a tone against which even a lover's 
 absence was not proof, ' do you hear what your mother says ? ' 
 
 I I ask pardon, sir — I was absent — I — what were you saying, 
 mother ? ' 
 
 ' She was saying,' continued Mr. Daly, with a smile, ' that you 
 were manufacturing a fine speech for Anne Chute, and that you 
 were just meditating whether you should deliver it on your knees, 
 or out of brief, as if you were addressing the Bench in the Four 
 Courts.' 
 
 ' For shame, my dear ! Never mind him, Kyrle, I said no such 
 thing ; I wonder how you can say that, my (Jear, and the children 
 listening.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! the little angels are too busy and too innocent to pay 
 us any attention,' said Mr. Daly, lowering his voice, however. 
 ' But, speaking seriously, my boy, you take this affair too deeply 
 to heart ; and whether it be in our pursuit of wealth, or fame, or 
 even in love itself, an extreme solicitude to be successful is the 
 surest means of defeating its own object. Besides, it argues an un- 
 quiet and unresigned condition. I have had a little experience, you 
 know, in affairs of this kind,' he added, smiling and glancing at 
 
14 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 his fair helpmate, who blushed with the simplicity of a young 
 girl. 
 
 1 Ah, sir,' said Kyrle, as he drew nearer to the breakfast-table, 
 with a magnanimous affectation of cheerfulness, ' I fear I have not 
 so good a ground for hope as you may have had. It is very easy, 
 sir, for one to be resigned to disappointment, when he is certain 
 of success.' 
 
 'Why, I was not bidden to despair, indeed,' said Mr. Daly, 
 extending his hand to his wife, while they exchanged a quiet 
 smile, which had in it an expression of tenderness and of melan- 
 choly remembrance. 
 
 ' I have, I believe, been more fortunate than more deserving 
 persons. I have never been vexed with useless fears in my woo- 
 ing days, nor with vain regrets when those days were ended. 
 I do not know, my dear lad, what hopes you have formed, or 
 what prospects you may have shaped out of the future, but I will 
 not wish you a better fortune, than that you may as nearly 
 approach to their accomplishment as I have done, and that Time 
 may deal as fairly with you as he has done with your father.' 
 After saying this, Mr. Daly leaned forward on the table, with his 
 temple supported by one finger, and glanced alternately from his 
 children to his wife, while he sang in a low tone the following 
 verse of a popular song : 
 
 ' How should I love the pretty creatures, 
 
 While round my knees they fondly clung ! 
 To see them look their mother's features, 
 
 To hear them lisp their mother's tongue, 
 And when with envy Time transported, 
 
 Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
 You '11 in your girls again be courted, 
 
 And I ' 
 
 with a glance at Kyrle — 
 
 'And I go wooing with the boys.' 
 
 'And this,' thought young Kyrle, in the affectionate pause that 
 ensued, 'this is the question which 1 go to decide upon this 
 morning — whether my old age shall resemble the picture which I 
 see before me, or whether I shall be doomed to creep into the 
 winter of my life, a lonely, selfish, cheerless, money-hunting old 
 bachelor. Is not this enough to make a little solicitude excus- 
 able, or pardonable at least ? ' 
 
 ' It is a long time now,' resumed Mr. Daly, ' since I have had 
 the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Chute. She was a very beautiful, 
 but a very wild girl when I knew her. Nothing has ever been 
 more inexplicable to me than the choice she made of a second 
 husband. You never saw Anne's step -father, Tom Chute, or you 
 would be equally astonished. You saw him, my love— did you 
 not?' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 15 
 
 Mrs. Daly laughed, and answered in the affirmative. 
 
 'It showed, indeed, a singular taste,' said Mr. Daly. 'They 
 tell a curious story, too, about the manner of their courtship.' 
 
 'What was that, sir?' asked Kyrle, who felt a strong sym- 
 pathetic interest in all stories connected with wooers and wooing. 
 
 ' I have it, I confess, upon questionable authority ; but you shall 
 hear it, such as it is. Now, look at that young thief! ' he added, 
 laughing, and directing Kyrle's attention to one of the children, a 
 chubby young fellow, who, having deserted the potato-eating corps 
 at the side-table, was taking advantage of the deep interest excited 
 by the conversation to make a sudden descent upon the contents 
 of the japanned bread-basket. Perceiving that he was detected, 
 the little fellow relaxed his fingers, and drew back a little, 
 glancing, from beneath his eyelashes, a half dismayed and 
 bashful look at the laughing countenance of his parent. 
 
 ' Charles is not well to-day,' said the mother, in a compassionate 
 tone, cutting him a large wedge of her best home-made bread, 
 which the lad began to demolish with a degree of rapidity that 
 scarcely corroborated the assertion. 
 
 ' But the story, sir ? ' said Kyrle. 
 
 ' But the story. Well, little Tom Chute (he might have been 
 better called little Tom-tit, only that he was not half so sprightly) 
 was a very extraordinary man, for although he was small and fat, 
 he was not merry nor talkative. You would have pitied him to 
 see him walking about a ballroom, with ruffles that looked like 
 small buckles, and a queue half as long as himself, reminding one 
 of the handle of a pump when the sucker is up — with the most 
 forlorn aspect in the world, as if he were looking for a runaway 
 wife. It was a curious anomaly in his character, that although 
 he — (Silence, there ! My dear, will you speak to those children ?) 
 — that although he always looked miserable in the midst of 
 society, he really was so when out of it, as if the continued em- 
 barrassment and mortification which he experienced were a 
 stimulus which he could not do without. Round, fat, shy, awk- 
 ward, and oily, as he was, however, he tumbled his little rotund 
 figure into the heart of Mrs. Trenchard, who was at that time, 
 though a widow, one of the leading belles in Munster. A fair 
 friend was the first to disclose this rapturous secret to poor Tom, 
 for he might have known Mrs. Trenchard for a century without 
 being able to make it out himself. He did not know whether he 
 should be most frightened or pleased at the intelligence ; but 
 certain it is that in the warmth of his first feelings he made a 
 tender of his hand to the lady, and was instantly accepted. A 
 dashing, handsome fellow, who had been rejected by her some 
 time before, and who knew Chute's irresolute temper, resolved to 
 indemnify himself for the mortification he had received, by throw- 
 ing some embarrassment in the way of the nuptials, and effected 
 it simply enough. It seems the lady's accomplishments were of a 
 
t6 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 very general description, for besides playing the harpsichord to 
 admiration, she could manage a horse with any hero of the 
 County Club, and was known to join their hunting parties, and 
 even to ride a steeplechase with eclat. Indeed, it was generally 
 admitted that she possessed more spirit than might have answered 
 her purposes, or her husband's either. What fancy she could 
 have taken to Tom Chute, I cannot for my life conceive. Well, 
 this fellow met Tom going to her house one evening, as spruce as 
 a water-wagtail, with his queue poking up behind, like the flag- 
 staff in the stern of a privateer. They got into conversation 
 about the widow. "Beautiful creature, isn't she?" simpered 
 Tom, blushing up to the eyes, for it was another funny foible of 
 Tom's to redden up like a rose whenever there was any discourse 
 of ladies ; even when nobody dreamed of anything like raillery. 
 "Beautiful creature, isn't she?" says Tom. "Beautiful indeed," 
 replied the other. And Tom stood on his toes, threw out his 
 right elbow, and took snuff. "And accomplished, I think?" 
 "And very sensible," says the other. "And lively," says Tom. 
 "And high spirited," says the other, "so, they say, her late 
 husband found, poor man, to his cost." Tom dropped his jaw a 
 little, and looked inquisitive. But the other, who saw that his 
 business was done, declined all explanation, and" hurried off with 
 a concluding remark, that " the lady was unquestionably a capital 
 whip." Well, Tom got a sudden attack of — I don't know what 
 complaint — went home that night, and sent an apology to the 
 widow. He was not seen near her house for a fortnight after, and 
 a report reached her ears that he had some notion of quitting the 
 country. But if he had, she put a stop to it. One morning when 
 Tom was looking over his books, he was startled by the apparition 
 of a tall woman in a riding dress, with a horsewhip in one hand 
 and a case of duelling pistols in the other. She nodded to Tom. 
 " I understand," said she ' 
 
 At this moment a potato-peel, flung from the side-table, whisked 
 past Mr. Daly's nose, and with happier aim, lighted on that of 
 Prince Eugene in the print before mentioned. The venerable but 
 too little venerated storyteller, who had been for the last few 
 minutes endeavouring to raise his voice so as to make it audible 
 above the increasing uproar of the young people, now turned 
 round at this unparalleled and violent aggression, and confronted 
 the daring group in awful silence. Satisfied, however, with the 
 sudden hush of terror which this action occasioned, and willing to 
 reserve the burst of wrath for a future transgression, he turned 
 again in silence, and directing the servant girl who was in the 
 room, to take the potato-peel off Prince Eugene's nose, he resumed 
 the thread of his narrative. 
 
 '"I understand," said Mrs. Trenchard— for it was no other 
 than the widow — "that you intend leaving Ireland?" Tom 
 stammered and hesitated. " If my brother were living," con- 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 17 
 
 tinued the lady, " he would horsewhip you ; but although he is 
 not, Hetty Trenchard is able to fight her own way. Come, sir, 
 my carriage is at the door below ; either step into it with me this 
 minute, or take one of these pistols, and stand at the other end of 
 the room." Well, Tom looked as like a fool as any man in 
 Ireland. He wouldn't fight, and he wouldn't be horsewhipped ; 
 so the business ended in his going into the carriage, and marrying 
 the lady. Some persons, indeed, insinuated that Tom was 
 observed in the course of the day to chafe his shoulders two or 
 three times with an expression of pain, as if his change of con- 
 dition had been the result of a still harsher mode of reasoning 
 than I have mentioned ; but this part of the story is without 
 foundation.' 
 
 'What a bold creature !' said the gentle Mrs. Daly. 
 
 * And is it possible, sir,' asked Kyrle, ' that this Amazon is the 
 kind old lady whom Anne Chute attends with so much affection 
 and tenderness in her infirmity ? ' 
 
 1 Ah, ha ! Kyrle, I see the nature of the bolt that has wounded 
 you, and I like you the better for it, my boy. A good face is a 
 pippin that grows on every hedge ; but a good heart, that is to 
 say a well regulated one, is the apple of the Hesperides, worth 
 even the risk of ease and life itself. 5 
 
 Kyrle assented to this sagacious aphorism with a deep sigh. 
 
 * Are the Cregans and they on terms now ? ' asked Mrs. Daly. 
 
 1 As much on terms as two families of such opposite habits can 
 be. The Chutes invite the Cregans to a family dinner once or 
 twice in the year, and the Cregans ask the Chutes to their 
 Killarney cottage, both of which invitations are taken as French 
 compliments, and never accepted. Cregan himself hates going to 
 Castle Chute, because he has nobody there to make jovial the 
 night with him, and young Hardress (your friend, Kyrle) is too 
 wild a lad to confine himself to mere drawing-room society. 
 
 Apropos talk of 'tis a vulgar proverb, and let it pass ; but 
 
 there goes his trim pleasure-boat, the " Nora Creina," flying down 
 the river, and there sits the youth himself, tiller in hand as usual. 
 Patcy, bring me the telescope ; I think I see a female dress on 
 board.' 
 
 The telescope was brought and adjusted to the proper focus, 
 while a dozen eager faces were collected about the small window, 
 one over another, in the manner of those groups in painting, 
 called 4 Studies of Heads.' 
 
 1 That is he indeed,' continued Mr. Daly, resting the glass on 
 the window frame, and directing it towards the object of their 
 attention — ' there is no mistaking that dark and handsome face, 
 buried up as it is in the huge oiled penthouse hat, and there is his 
 hunchbacked boatman, Danny Mann, or Danny the Lord, as the 
 people call him since his misfortune, tending the foresheet in the 
 bow. But that female — there is a female there unquestionably in 
 
 B 
 
18 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 a blue mantle, with the hood brought low over her eyes, sitting on 
 the ballast. Who can she be ? ' 
 
 'Perhaps Danny Mann's cousin, Cotch Coonerty,' said Mrs. 
 Daly. 
 
 ' Or some western dealing woman, who has come up to 
 Limerick to purchase a reinforcement of pins, needles, whisky, 
 and reading-made-easys for her village counter, and is getting a 
 free passage home from young master Hardress.' 
 
 'Like enough, like enough; it is just his way. Hillo ! the 
 fellow is going to run down that fishing cot, I believe ! ' 
 
 A hoarse cry of ' Bear away ! — hold up your hand ! ' was heard 
 from the water, and reiterated with the addition of a few expletives, 
 which those who know the energy of a boatman's dialect will 
 understand without our transcribing them here. The pleasure- 
 boat, however, heedless of those rough remonstrances, and appar- 
 ently indisposed to yield any portion of her way, still held her 
 bowsprit close to the wind, and sailed on, paying no more regard 
 to the peril of the plebeian craft than a French aristocrat of the 
 vielle cour might be supposed to exhibit for that of a sans culottes, 
 about to be trodden down by his leaders in the Rue St. Honore. 
 The fishermen, with many curses, backed water, and put about as 
 rapidly as possible, but without being able to avoid the shock of 
 the '' Nora Creina,' who just touched their stern with sufficient force 
 to make the cot dart forward nearly an oar's length through the 
 water, and to lay the rowers sprawling on their backs in the 
 bottom. Fortunately the wind, which had sprung up with the 
 returning tide, was not sufficiently strong to render the concussion 
 more dangerous. 
 
 4 Like his proud mother in every feature,' said Mr. Daly. ' Is it 
 not singular that while we were speaking of the characters of the 
 family, he could not pass our window without furnishing us with 
 a slight specimen of his own ? See how statelily the fellow turns 
 round and contemplates the confusion he has occasioned. There 
 is his mother's grandeur, blended with the harebrained wildness 
 and idle spirit of his father.' 
 
 1 Hardress Cregan's is the handsomest boat in the river,' said 
 Patcy, a stout, sunburnt boy — ' She 'd beat all the Gal way hookers 
 from this to Beale. What a nice green hull ! — and white sails, 
 and beautiful green colours flying over her peak and gaff-topsail ! 
 Oh ! how I 'd like to be steering her.' 
 
 Mr. Daly winked at his wife, and whispered her that he had 
 known rear-admirals come of smaller beginnings. Mrs. Daly, 
 with a little shudder, replied that she should not wish to see him 
 a rear-admiral, the navy was so dangerous a service. Her hus- 
 band, in order to soothe her, observed that the danger was not 
 very near at hand. 
 
 In the meantime, Hardress Cregan became a subject of 
 vehement debate at the side-table, to which the juvenile squadron 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 19 
 
 had returned. One fair-haired little girl declared that she was 
 his ' pet.' A second claimed that distinction for herself. 
 
 'He gave me an O'Dell-cake when he was last here,' said 
 one. 
 
 ' And me a stick of peppermint.' 
 
 ' He gave me a — ' in a whisper — ' a kiss.' 
 
 'And me two.' 
 
 ' He didn't.' 
 
 'He did.' 
 
 ' I '11 tell dadda it was you threw the potato-peel while ago.' 
 
 ' Ah, ha, tattler, tell-tale ! ' 
 
 ' Silence there ! — fie ! fie ! — what words are these ? ' said Mrs. 
 Daly — ' Come, kiss and be friends, now, both of you, and let me 
 hear no more.' 
 
 The young combatants complied with her injunction, and, as 
 the duelling paragraphs say, 'the affair terminated amicably.' 
 
 ' But I was speaking,' Mr. Daly resumed, ' of the family pride 
 of the Cregans. It was once manifested by Hardress's father in 
 a manner that might make an Englishman smile. When their 
 little Killarney property was left to the Cregans, amongst many 
 other additional pieces of display that were made on the occasion, 
 it behoved Mr. Barny Cregan to erect a family vault and monu- 
 ment in his parish churchyard. He had scarcely, however, given 
 directions for its construction, when he fell ill of a fever, and was 
 very near enjoying the honour of handselling the new cemetery him- 
 self. But he got over the fit, and made it one of his first cares to 
 saunter out as far as the church and inspect the mansion which 
 had been prepared for his reception. It was a handsome Gothic 
 monument, occupying a retired corner of the churchyard, and 
 shadowed over by a fine old sycamore. But Barny, who had no 
 taste for the picturesque, was deeply mortified at finding his piece 
 of sepulchral finery thrown so much into the shade. " What did 
 I or my people do," he said to the architect, " that we should be 
 sent skulking into that corner ? I paid my money, and I '11 have 
 my own value for it." The monument was accordingly got rid of, 
 and a sporting, flashy one erected opposite the gateway, with the 
 Cregan crest and shield (in what herald's office it was picked up 
 I cannot take upon me to say) emblazoned on the frontispiece. 
 Here, it is to be hoped, the aspiring Barnaby and his posterity 
 may one day rest in peace.' 
 
 ' That would be a vain hope, I fear,' said Kyrle, ' at least so far 
 as Mr. Cregan is concerned, if it were true, as our peasantry 
 believe, that the churchyard is frequently made a scene of mid- 
 night mirth and revel, by those whose earthly carousals are long 
 concluded. But what relationship is there between that family 
 and Mrs. Chute?' 
 
 ' She is step-sister to Mrs. Cregan.' 
 
 'Indeed! So near?' 
 
2 o THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 1 Most veritable ; therefore, look to it. They tell a story • But 
 
 the talkative old gentleman was interrupted in his anecdotical 
 career by the entrance of a new actor on the scene. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 HOW MR. DALY, THE MIDDLEMAN, ROSE UP FROM BREAKFAST 
 
 But what pen less gifted than his of Chios, or his of Avon, the 
 delineators of Vulcan or of Grumio, can suffice to convey to the 
 reader any idea of the mental and bodily proportions of this new 
 comer, who thrust his small and shining head in upon the family 
 party, to awaken their curiosity, and to rob Mr. Daly of so many 
 attentive listeners as he numbered around him at this moment ! 
 
 The person who opened the door acted as a kind of herdsman 
 or out-door servant to the family, and was a man of a rather singular 
 appearance. The nether parts of his frame were of a size con- 
 siderably out of proportion with the trunk and head which they 
 supported. His feet were broad and flat like those of a duck ; 
 his legs long and clumsy, with knees and ankles like the knobs 
 on one of those grotesque walking-sticks which were in fashion 
 among the fine gentlemen of our own day, some time since ; his 
 joints hung loosely like those of a pasteboard Merry- Andrew ; his 
 body was very small ; his chest narrow ; and his head so diminutive 
 as to be even too little for his herring shoulders. It seemed as if 
 nature, like an extravagant projector, had laid the foundation of a 
 giant, but, running short of material as the structure proceeded, 
 had been compelled to terminate her undertaking within the 
 dimensions of a dwarf. So far was this economy pursued, that 
 the head, small as it was, was very scantily furnished with hair ; 
 and the nose, with which the face was garnished, might be com- 
 pared for its flatness to that of a young kid. 'It looked,' as the 
 owner of this mournful piece of journey-work himself facetiously 
 observed, ' as if his head was not thought worth a roof, nor his 
 countenance worth a handle.' His hands and arms were likewise 
 of a smallness which was much to be admired, when contrasted 
 with the hugeness of the lower members, and brought to mind 
 the forepaws of a kangaroo, or the fins of a seal, the latter simili- 
 tude prevailing when the body was put in motion, on which 
 occasions they dabbled about in a very extraordinary manner. 
 But there was one feature in which a corresponding prodigality 
 had been manifested, namely, the ears, which were as long as 
 those of Riquet with the Tuft, or of any ass in the barony. 
 
 The costume which enveloped this singular frame was no less 
 anomalous than was the nature of its own construction. A huge 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 21 
 
 riding coat of grey frieze hung lazily from his shoulders, and gave 
 to view in front a waistcoat of calf-skin, with the hairy side out- 
 wards ; a shirt, of a texture almost as coarse as sail cloth, made 
 from the refuse of flax, and a pair of corduroy nether garments, with 
 two bright new patches upon the knees. Grey worsted stockings, 
 with dog-skin brogues well paved in the sole, and greased until they 
 shone again, completed the personal adornments of this un- 
 aspiring personage. On the whole, his appearance might have 
 brought to the recollection of a modern beholder one of those 
 architectural edifices, so fashionable in our time, in which the 
 artist, with an admirable ambition, seeks to unite all that is 
 excellent in the Tuscan, Doric, Corinthian, and Ionic order, in 
 one coup dceil. 
 
 The expression of the figure, though it varied with circum- 
 stances, was for the most part thoughtful and deliberative ; the 
 effect, in a great measure, of habitual penury and dependence. 
 At the time of Lord Halifax's administration, Lowry Looby, then 
 a very young man, held a spot of ground in the neighbourhood of 
 Limerick, and was well to do in the world, but the scarcity which 
 prevailed in England at the time, and which occasioned a sudden 
 rise in the price of bere, butter, and other produce of grazing land 
 in Ireland, threw all the agriculturists out of their little holdings, 
 and occasioned a general destitution, similar to that produced by 
 the anti-cottier system in the present day. Lowry was among 
 the sufferers. He was saved, however, from the necessity of 
 adopting one of the three ultimata of Irish misery — begging, en- 
 listing, or emigrating — by the kindness of Mr. Daly, who took 
 him into his service as a kind of runner between his farms ; an 
 office for which Lowry, by his long and muscular legs, and the 
 lightness of the body that encumbered them, was qualified in an 
 eminent degree. His excelling honesty, one of the characteristics 
 of his country, which he was known to possess, rendered him a 
 still more valuable acquisition to the family than had been at first 
 anticipated. He had, moreover, the national talent for adroit 
 flattery, a quality which made him more acceptable to his patron 
 than the latter would willingly admit, and every emulsion of this 
 kind was applied under the disguise of a simpleness, which gave 
 it a wonderful efficacy. 
 
 1 Ha ! Lowry — ' said Mr. Daly. c Well, have you made your 
 fortune since you have agreed with the postmaster ? ' 
 
 Lowry put his hands behind his back, looked successively at 
 the four corners of the room, then round the cornice, then cast his 
 eyes down at his feet, turned up the soles a little, and finally 
 straightening his person, and gazing on his master, replied, ' To 
 lose it I did, sir, for a place.' 
 
 'To lose what?' 
 
 'The place of postman, sir, through the country westwards. 
 Sure there I was a gentleman for life if it wasn't my luck.' 
 
22 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' I do not understand you, Lowry.' 
 
 * I '11 tell you how it was, master. After the last postman died, 
 sir, I took your ricommendation to the postmasther, an' axed him 
 for the place. " I 'm used to thravellin', sir," says I, " for Misther 
 
 Daly, over, and " " Ay," says he, takin' me up short, " an' you 
 
 have a good long pair o' legs, I see." " Middlin', sir," says I 
 (he 's a very pleasant gentleman), " it 's equal to me any day, win- 
 ther or summer, whether I go ten miles or twenty, so as I have 
 the nourishment." "'Twould be hard if you didn't get that, any- 
 way," says he ; " well, I think I may as well give you the place, 
 for I don't know any gentleman that I 'd sooner take his ricom- 
 mendation than Misther Daly's, or one that I 'd sooner pay him 
 a compliment, if I could." ' 
 
 'Well, and what was your agreement?' 
 
 ' Ten pounds a year, sir,' answered Lowry, opening his eyes, as 
 if he announced something of wonderful importance, and speaking 
 in a loud voice, to suit the magnitude of the sum, ' besides my 
 clothing and shoes throughout the year.' 
 
 "Twas very handsome, Lowry.' 
 
 'Handsome, master? 'Twas wages for a prince, sir. Sure 
 there I was, a made gentleman all my days, if it wasn't my luck, 
 as I said before.' . 
 
 ' Well, and how did you lose it ? ' 
 
 ' I '11 tell you, sir,' answered Lowry : ' I was going over to the 
 postmasther yesterday, to get the Thralee mail from him, and to 
 start off with myself on my first journey. Well an' good, of all 
 the world, who should I meet, above upon the road, just at the 
 turn down to the post-office, but that red-headed woman that sells 
 the freestone in the sthreets? So I turned back.' 
 
 ' Turned back ! for what ? ' 
 
 ' Sure the world knows, masther, that it isn't lucky to meet a red- 
 haired woman, and you going of a journey.' 
 
 ' And you never went for the mail-bags ? ' 
 
 ' Faiks, I 'm sure I didn't that day.' 
 
 ' Well, and the next morning ? ' 
 
 ' The next morning, that 's this morning, when I went, I found 
 they had engaged another boy in my place.' 
 
 1 And you lost the situation ?' 
 
 ' For this turn, sir, anyway. 'Tis luck that does it all. Sure I 
 thought I was cock-sure of it, an' I having the postmasther's 
 word. But indeed, if I meet that freestone crathur again, I '11 
 knock her red head against the wall/ 
 
 ' Well, Lowry, this ought to show you the folly of your supersti- 
 tion. If you had not minded that woman when you met her, you 
 might have had your situation now.' 
 
 "Twas she was in fault still, begging your pardon, sir,' said 
 Lowry, 'for sure if I didn't meet her at all, this wouldn't have 
 happened me.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 23 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mr. Daly, laughing, ' I see you are well provided 
 against all argument. I have no more to say, Lowry.' 
 
 The man now walked slowly towards Kyrle, and bending down 
 with a look of solemn importance, as if he had some weighty in- 
 telligence to communicate, he said : ' The horse, sir, is ready this 
 way, at the doore abroad.' 
 
 ' Very well, Lowry. I shall set out this instant. 5 
 
 Lowry raised himself straight again, turned slowly round, and 
 walked to the door, with his eyes on the ground and his hand 
 raised to his temple, as if endeavouring to recollect something 
 farther which he had intended to say. 
 
 ' Lowry ! ' said Mr. Daly, as the handle of the door was turned 
 a second time. Lowry looked round. 
 
 ' Lowry, tell me — did you see Eily O'Connor, the ropemaker's 
 daughter, at the fair of Garryowen yesterday? 5 
 
 * Ah, you 're welcome to your game, masther.' 
 
 "Pon my word, then, Eily is a very pretty girl, Lowry ; and I 'm 
 told the old father can give her something besides her pretty face.' 
 
 Lowry opened his huge mouth (we forgot to mention that it 
 was a huge one), and gave vent to a few explosions of laughter 
 which much more nearly resembled the braying of an ass. ' You 
 are welcome to your game, masther,' he repeated ; ' long life to 
 your honour.' 
 
 ' But is it true, Lowry, as I have heard it insinuated, that old 
 Mihil O'Connor used, and still does, twist ropes for the use of the 
 county gaol ? ' 
 
 Lowry closed his lips hard, while the blood rushed into his face 
 at this unworthy allegation. Treating it, however, as a new piece 
 of { the masther's game,' he laughed, and tossed his head. 
 
 * Folly on — sir — folly on.' 
 
 'Because, if that were the case, Lowry, I should expect to find 
 you a fellow of too much spirit to become connected, even by 
 affinity, with such a calling. A ropemaker ! a manufacturer of 
 rogues' last neckcloths — an understrapper to the gallows — a species 
 of collateral hangman ! ' 
 
 'Ah, then, Missiz, do you hear this ? and all rising out of a little 
 ould fable of a story that happened as good as five years ago, be- 
 cause Moriarty, the crooked hangman (the thief !), stepped into 
 Mihil's little place of a night, and nobody knowin' of him, an' 
 bought a couple o' pen'orth o' whip-cord for some vagary or 
 other of his own. And there's all the call Mihil O'Connor had 
 ever to gallowses or hangmen in his life. That 's the whole toto 
 o' their insiniwaytions.' 
 
 'Never mind your master, Lowry,' said Mrs. Daly ; 'he is only 
 amusing himself with you.' 
 
 ' Oh, ha ! I 'm sure I know it, ma'am ; long life to him, and 'tis 
 he that 's welcome to his joke.' 
 
 'But, Lowry ' 
 
24 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' Ah, Heaven bless you now, masther, an' let me alone. I '11 
 say nothing to you.' 
 
 ' Nay, nay, I only wanted to ask you what sort of a fair it was at 
 Garryowen yesterday/ 
 
 1 Middling, sir, like the small piatees, they tell me,' said Lowry, 
 suddenly changing his manner to an appearance of serious occu- 
 pation ; ' but 'tis hard to make out what sort a fair is when one has 
 nothing to sell himself. I met a huxter, an' she told me it was a 
 bad fair, because she could not sell her piggins ! an' I met a pig- 
 jobber, an' he told me 'twas a dear fair, pork ran so high ; an' I met 
 another little meagre creatur, a neighbour that has a cabin on the 
 road above, an' he said 'twas the best fair that ever came out o' 
 the sky, because he got a power for his pig. But Mr. Hardress 
 Cregan was there, an' if he didn't make it a dear fair to some of 
 'em, you may call me an honest man.' 
 
 1 A very notable undertaking that would be, Lowry. But how 
 was it ? ' 
 
 ' Some o' them boys — them Garryowen lads — sir, to get about 
 Danny Mann, the Lord, Mr. Hardress' s boatman, as he was 
 comin' down from Mihil's with a new rope for some part o' the 
 boat, and to begin reflecting on him in regard o' the hump on his 
 back, poor creatur ! Well, if they did, Master Hardress heerd 
 'em ; and he having a stout blackthorn in his hand, this way, and 
 he made up to the foremost of 'em. "What's that you 're saying, 
 you scoundrel?" says he. "What would you give to know?" 
 says the other, mighty impudent. Master Hardress made no 
 more, only up with the stick, and without saying this or that, 
 or by your leave, or how do you do, he stretched him. Well 
 such a scuffle as began among 'em was never seen. They all fell 
 upon Master Hardress, but faix they had only the half of it, for he 
 made his way through the thick of 'em without as much as a mark. 
 Aw, indeed; it isn't a goose or a duck they had to do with when 
 they came across Mr. Cregan, for all.' 
 
 { And where were you all this while, Lowry ? ' 
 
 { Above in Mihil's door, standin' and lookin' about the fair for 
 myself.' 
 
 'AndEily?' 
 
 ' Ah, hear to this again, now ! I '11 run away out o' the place en- 
 tirely from you, masther, that 's what I '11 do ' ; and suiting the 
 action to the phrase, exit Lowry Looby. 
 
 ' Well, Kyrle,' said Mr. Daly, as the latter rose and laid aside 
 his chair, ' I suppose we are not to expect you back to-night ? ' 
 
 ' Likely not, sir. If I have any good news to tell, I shall send 
 an answer by Lowry, who goes with me ; and if' — something 
 seemed to stick in his throat, and he tried to laugh it out — * if I . 
 should be unsuccessful, I will ride on to the dairy-farm at Gurten- 
 aspig, where Hardress Cregan promised to meet me.' 
 
 Mr. Daly wished him better fortune than he seemed to hope 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 25 
 
 for, and repeated an old proverb about a faint heart and a fair 
 lady. The affectionate mother, who felt the feverishness of the 
 young lover's hand, as he placed it in hers, and probably in secret 
 participated in his apprehensions, followed him to the steps of the 
 hall-door. He was already on horseback. 
 
 1 Kyrle,' said Mrs. Daly, smiling, while she looked up in his face, 
 and shaded her own with her hand — ' Remember, Kyrle, if Anne 
 Chute should play the tyrant with you, that there is many a prettier 
 girl in Munster.' 
 
 Kyrle seemed about to reply, but his young horse became 
 restive, and as the gentleman felt rather at a loss, he made the im- 
 patience of the animal an apology for his silence. He waved his 
 hand to the kind old lady, and rode away. 
 
 'And if she should play the tyrant with you, Kyrle,' Mrs. 
 Daly continued in soliloquy, while she saw his handsome and 
 graceful figure diminish in the distance, 'Anne Chute is not of my 
 mind.' 
 
 So said the mother as she returned to the parlour, and so would 
 many younger ladies have said, had they known Kyrle Daly as 
 well as she did. 
 
 While Mrs. Daly, who was the empress of all housekeepers, 
 superintended the removal of the breakfast-table, not disdaining 
 with her own fair hands to restore the plate and china to 
 their former neatness, the old gentleman called all his children 
 around him, to undergo a customary examination. They came 
 flocking to his knees, the boys with their satchels thrown over 
 their shoulders, and the girls with their gloves and bonnets on, 
 ready for school. Occasionally, as they stood before the patriar- 
 chal sire, their eyes wandered from his face towards a lofty pile of 
 sliced bread and butter, and a bowl of white sugar which stood 
 near his elbow. 
 
 'North-east !' Mr. Daly began, addressing the eldest. 
 
 It should be premised that this singular name was given to the 
 child in compliance with a popular superstition ; for, sensible as 
 the Dalys were accounted in their daily affairs, they were not 
 wholly exempt from the prevailing weakness of their countrymen. 
 Three of Mrs. Daly's children died at nurse, and it was suggested 
 to the unhappy parents, that if the next little stranger were bap- 
 tized by the name of North-east, the curse would be removed from 
 their household. Mrs. Daly acceded to the proposition, adding 
 to it at the same time the slight precaution of changing her 
 nurses. With what success this ingenious remedy was attended, 
 the flourishing state of Mr. Daly's nursery thenceforward suffi- 
 ciently testified. 
 
 ' North-east,' said the old gentleman, 'when was Ireland first 
 peopled ? ' 
 
 ' By Bartholanus, sir, in anno mundi 1956, the great-great-great- 
 great-great-great-grandson of Noah.' 
 
26 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 'Six greats. Right, my boy. Although the Cluan-Mac-Nois 
 makes it 1969. But a difference of a few years, at a distance of 
 nearly four thousand, is not a matter to be quarrelled with. 
 Stay, I have not done with you yet ; Mr. Tickleback tells me 
 you are a great Latinist. What part of Ovid are you reading 
 now?' 
 
 ' The Metamorphoses, sir, book the thirteenth.' 
 
 'Ah, poor Ajax ! he's an example and a warning for all Irish- 
 men. Well, North-east, Ulysses ought to supply you with Latin 
 enough to answer me one question. Give me the construction of 
 this : Mater mea sus est mala.' 
 
 The boy hesitated a moment, laughed, reddened a little, and 
 looked at his mother. 'That's a queer thing, sir,' he said at 
 last. 
 
 * Come, construe, construe.' 
 
 'My mother is a bad sow] said North-east, laughing ; 'that's the 
 only English I can find for it.' 
 
 'Ah, North-east ! Do you call me names, my lad?' said Mrs. 
 Daly, while she laid aside the china in a cupboard. 
 
 ' 'Tis dadda you should blame, ma'am ; 'twas he said it. I only 
 told him the English of it.' 
 
 This affair produced much more laughter and merriment than it 
 was worth. At length Mr. Daly condescended to explain. 
 
 ' You gave me one construction of it,' said he, ' but not the right 
 one. However, these things cannot be learned all in a day, and 
 your translation was correct, North-east, in point of grammar, at 
 all events. But (he continued with a look of learned wisdom) the 
 true meaning of the sentence is this : Mater, mother, 7nea, hasten, 
 sus, the sow, est, eats up (edere, my boy, not esse), mala, the 
 apples.' 
 
 ' Oh, it 's a cran, I see,' said the boy, with some indignation of 
 tone. ' One isn't obliged to know crans. I 'd soon puzzle you if I 
 was to put you all the crans I know.' 
 
 'Not so easily as you suppose, perhaps/ said his father, in 
 dignified alarm, lest his reputation should suffer in the eyes of his 
 wife, who really thought him a profound linguist. But you are 
 a good boy* Go to school, North-east. Here, open your 
 satchel.' 
 
 The satchel was opened, a huge slice of bread from the top of 
 the pile above mentioned was dropped into it, and North-east set 
 off south-south-west out of the house. 
 
 ' Charles, who is the finest fellow in Ireland?' 
 
 ' Henry Grattan, sir.' 
 
 'Why so, sir?' 
 
 ' Because he says we must have a free trade, sir.' 
 
 ' You shall have a lump of sugar with your bread for that. Open 
 your satchel. There ; run away now to school. Patcy ! ' 
 
 'Sir?' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 27 
 
 ' Patcy, tell me, who was the first Lord Lieutenant of Ireland in 
 the present reign?' 
 
 Patcy, an idle young rogue, stood glancing alternately at the 
 pile of bread and at his father's face, and shifting from one foot to 
 another like a foundering nag. At last he said stoutly : 
 
 ' Julius Caesar, sir.' 
 
 1 That 's a good boy. Ah, you young villain, if I had asked you 
 who won the last boat-race, or how many hookers went by this 
 morning, you 'd give me a better answer than that. Was it 
 Julius Caesar sailed round the revenue cutter, near Tarbert, the 
 other day?' 
 
 ■ No, sir, it was Larry Kett.' 
 
 * I '11 engage you know that. Well, tell me this, and I '11 
 forgive you ! Who was the bravest seaman you ever heard of? 
 always excepting Hardress Cregan.' 
 
 1 Brown, sir, the man that brought the Bilboa ship into Youghal, 
 after making prisoners of nine Frenchmen : the fellows, dadda' — 
 the boy continued, warming with his subject — ' were sent to take 
 the vessel into France, and Brown had only three men and a boy 
 with him, and they retook the ship, and brought her into Youghal. 
 But sure one Irishman was more than a match for two French- 
 men.' 
 
 'Well, I perceive you have some knowledge in physics and 
 comparative physiology. There's some hope of you. Go to 
 school.' And the pile of bread appeared a few inches lower. 
 
 The remainder was distributed amongst the girls, to whom the 
 happy father put questions in history, geography, catechism, etc., 
 proportioned to the capacity of each. At length he descended to 
 the youngest, a little cherub, with roses of three years' growth in 
 her cheeks. 
 
 ' Well, Sally, my pet, what stands for sugar ? ' 
 
 1 1, dadda.' 
 
 'Ah, Sally's a wag, I see. You do stand for it, indeed, and you 
 shall get it. We must not expect to force nature,' he added, 
 looking at his wife, and tossing his head. ' Every beginning is 
 weak, and Sam Johnson himself was as indifferent a philologist 
 once in his day. And now, to school at once, darlings, and 
 bring home good judgments. Nelly will go for you at three 
 o'clock.' 
 
 The little flock of innocents, who were matched in size like the 
 reeds of a pandean pipe, each under each, having left the scene, 
 Mr. Daly proceeded to despatch his own affairs, and possessed 
 himself of his hat and cane. 
 
 ' I '11 step over to the meadow, my dear,, and see how the hay 
 gets on. And give me that pamphlet of Hutchinson's — Com- 
 mercial Restraints — I promised to lend it to Father Malachy. 
 And let the stranger's room be got ready, my love, and the sheets 
 aired, for I expect Mr. Windfall, the tax-gatherer, to sleep here 
 
28 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 to-night. And Sally, if Ready should come about his pigs that I 
 put in pound last night, let him have them free of cost, but not 
 without giving the fellow a fright about them ; and above all, 
 insist upon having rings in their noses before night My little lawn 
 is like a fallow-field with them. I '11 be back at five. 5 
 
 Saying this, and often turning his head as some new com- 
 mission arose to his memory, the Munster ' Middleman' sallied 
 out of his house, and walked along the gravelled avenue, hum- 
 ming, as he went, a verse of the popular old song : 
 
 ' And when I at last must throw off this frail covering, 
 
 Which I have worn for three score years and ten, 
 On the brink of the grave 1 11 not seek to keep hovering, 
 
 Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again. 
 My face in the glass I '11 serenely survey, 
 
 And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow, 
 For this old worn-out stuff that is threadbare to-day 
 
 May become everlasting to-morrow ! 
 To-morrow ! To-morrow ! 
 
 May become everlasting to-morrow ! ' 
 
 Such, in happier days than ours, was the life of a Munster farmer. 
 Indeed, the word is ill adapted to convey to an English reader an 
 idea of the class of persons whom it is intended to designate, for 
 they were, and are, in mind and education, far superior to the 
 persons who occupy that rank in most other countries. Oppro- 
 brious as the term ' middleman ' has been rendered in our own 
 time, it is certain that the original formation of the sept was both 
 natural and beneficial. When the country was deserted by its 
 gentry, a general promotion of one grade took place among those 
 who remained at home. The farmers became gentlemen, and 
 the labourers became farmers, the former assuming, together 
 with the station and influence, the quick and honourable spirit, 
 the love of pleasure, and the feudal authority, which distinguished 
 their aristocratic archetypes, while the humbler classes looked up 
 to them for advice and assistance, with the same feeling of re- 
 spect and of dependence which they had once entertained for the 
 actual proprietors of the soil. The covetousness of landlords 
 themselves, in selling leases to the highest bidder, without any 
 inquiry into his character or fortune, first tended to throw im- 
 putations on this respectable and useful body of men, which, in 
 progress of time, swelled into a popular outcry, and ended in an 
 act of the legislature for their gradual extirpation. There are few 
 now in that class as prosperous, many as intelligent and high- 
 principled, as Mr. Daly. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 29 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 HOW KYRLE DALY RODE OUT TO WOO, AND HOW LOWRY 
 LOOBY TOLD HIM SOME STORIES ON THE WAY 
 
 Kyrle Daly had even better grounds than he was willing to 
 insist upon for doubting his success with Anne Chute. He had 
 been introduced to her for the first time, in the course of the 
 preceding spring, at an assize ball, and thought her, with justice, 
 the finest girl in the room : he danced two sets of country-dances 
 {ah! ces beaux jours /) with her, and was ravished with her man- 
 ners ; he saw her home at night, and left his heart behind him 
 when he bade her farewell. 
 
 The conquest of his affections might not have been so per- 
 manent as to disturb his quiet, had it not been quickly followed 
 by that of his reason likewise. His subsequent acquaintance with 
 the young lady produced a confirmation of his first impressions, 
 from which he neither sought nor hoped to be delivered. The 
 approbation of his parents fixed the closing rivet in the chain 
 which bound him. Mrs. Daly loved Anne Chute for her filial 
 tenderness and devotion, and Mr. Daly, with whom portionless 
 virtue would have met but a tardy and calm acceptance, was 
 struck motionless when he heard that she was to have the mansion 
 and demesne of Castle Chute, which he knew had been held by 
 her father's family at a pepper-corn rent, insomuch that Kyrle 
 might have said with Lubin in the French comedy, 7/ ne tiendra 
 qifa elle que nous ne soyons maries ensemble. 7 
 
 Nothing, however, in the demeanour of the young lady led him 
 to believe that their acquaintance would be likely to terminate in 
 such a catastrophe. It was true she liked him, for Kyrle was a 
 popular character amongst all his fair acquaintances. He had, in 
 addition to his handsome appearance, that frank and cheerful 
 manner, not unmingled with a certain degree of tenderness and 
 delicacy, which is said to be most successful in opening the 
 female heart. Good nature spoke in his eyes, in his voice, and in 
 ' the laughter of his teeth,' and he carried around him a certain 
 air of ease and freedom, governed by that happy and instinctive 
 discretion which those who affect the quality in vain attempt to 
 exercise, and always overstep. But he could not avoid seeing 
 that it was as a mere acquaintance he was esteemed by Miss 
 Chute — an intimate, familiar, and, he sometimes flattered himself, 
 a valued one, but still a mere acquaintance. She had even 
 received some of his attentions with a coldness intentionally 
 marked ; but as an elegant coldness formed a part of her general 
 
3 o THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 manner, the lover, with a lover's willing blindness, would not 
 receive those intimations as he at first thought they were in- 
 tended. 
 
 When the affections are once deeply impressed with the image 
 of beauty, everything in nature that is beautiful to the eyes, 
 musical to the ears, or pleasing to any of the senses, awakens a 
 sympathetic interest within the heart, and strengthens the im- 
 pression under which it languishes. The loveliness of the day, 
 and of the scenes through which he passed, occasioned a deep 
 access of passion in the breast of our fearful wooer. The sky was 
 mottled over with those small bright clouds which sailors, who 
 look on them as ominous of bad weather, term mackrel ; large 
 masses of vapour lay piled above the horizon, and the deep blue 
 openings overhead, which were visible at intervals, appeared 
 streaked with a thin and drifted mist which remained motionless, 
 while the clouds underneath were driven fast across by a wind 
 that was yet unfelt on earth. 
 
 The wooded point of land which formed the site of Castle Chute 
 projected considerably into the broad river, at a distance of many 
 miles from the road on which he now travelled, and formed a 
 point of view, on which the eye, after traversing the extent of 
 water which lay between, reposed with much delight. Several 
 small green islands, and rocks, black with seaweed, and noisy 
 with the unceasing cry of sea-fowl, diversified the surface of the 
 stream, while the shores were clothed in that graceful variety of 
 shade, and light, and hue, which is peculiar to the season. As 
 Kyrle, with the fidelity of a lover's eye, fixed his gaze on the point 
 of land above mentioned, and on the tall castle which overtopped 
 the elms, and was reflected in the smooth and shining waters 
 underneath, he saw a white-sailed pleasure-boat glide under its 
 walls, and stand out again into the bed of the river. A sudden 
 flash shot from her bow, and after the lapse of a few seconds, the 
 report of a gun struck upon his ear. At the same moment, the 
 green flag which hung at the peak of the boat was lowered in 
 token of courtesy, and soon after hoisted again to its former 
 position. - Kyrle, who recognised the ' Nora Creina,' felt a sudden 
 hurry in his spirits at the sight of this telegraphic communion 
 with the family of his beloved. The picture instantly rushed into 
 his mind of the effects produced by this incident in the interior 
 of Castle Chute ;— Anne Chute looking up, and starting from her 
 work-table, her mother leaning on her gold-headed cane, and 
 rising with difficulty from her easy chair, to move towards the 
 window ; the cross old steward, Dan Dawley, casting a grum side 
 glance from his desk, through the hall window the housemaid, 
 Syl Carney, pausing, brush in hand, and standing like an evoked 
 spirit, in a cloud of dust, to gape in admiration of the little 
 pageant ; the lifting of the sash, and waving of a white hand- 
 kerchief, in answer to the greeting from the water. But could it 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 31 
 
 be visible at that distance ? He put spurs to his horse and rode 
 on at a brisker rate. 
 
 The figure of Lowry Looby, moving forward at a sling trot on 
 the road before him, was the first object that directed his attention 
 from the last-mentioned incident, and turned his thoughts into a 
 merrier channel. The Mercury of the cabins, with a hazel stick 
 for his herpe^ and a pair of well-paved brogues for his talaria^ 
 jogged forward at a rate which obliged his master to trot at the 
 summit of his speed in order to overtake him. He carried the 
 skirts of his great frieze riding-coat under his arm, and moved— 
 or, more properly, sprang — forward, throwing out his loose- 
 jointed legs forcibly, and with such a careless freedom, that it 
 seemed as if when once he lifted his foot from the ground he 
 could not tell where it would descend again. His hat hung so far 
 back on his head that the disk of the crown was fully visible to 
 his followers, while his head was so much in the rear of his 
 shoulders, and moved from side to side with such a jaunty air, 
 that it seemed at times as if the owner had a mind to leave it 
 behind him altogether. In his right hand, fairly balanced in the 
 centre, he held the hazel stick before alluded to, while he half 
 hummed, half sang aloud, a verse of a popular ballad : 
 
 ' Bryan O'Lynn had no small-clothes to wear, 
 He cut up a sheep-skin to make him a pair, 
 With the skinny side out and the woolly side in — 
 " 'Tis pleasant and cool," says Bryan O'Lynn.' 
 
 * Lowry ! ' shouted Kyrle Daly. 
 
 * Going, sir ! ' 
 
 1 Going ? I think you are going, and at a pretty brisk rate, too, 
 You travel merrily, Lowry.' 
 
 ' Middlen, sir, middlen — as the world goes. I sing for company, 
 ever and always, when I go a long road by myself ; an' I find it a 
 dale pleasanter and lighter on me. Equal to the lark, that the 
 louder he sings the higher he mounts, it 's the way with me, an' I 
 travellin' — the lighter my heart, the faster the road slips from 
 under me. 
 
 I am a bold bachelor, airy and free, 
 Both cities and counties are equal to me ; 
 Among the fair females of every degree, 
 I care not how long I do tarry.' 
 
 c Lowry, what do you think of the day ? ' 
 
 1 What do I think of it, sir ? I 'm thinkin' 'twill rain, an' I 'm 
 sorry for it, an' the master's hay out yet. There 's signs o' wind 
 an' rain. The forty days ar'n't out yet, and there was a sight o' 
 rain the last Saint Sweeten.' And he again resumed his melody, 
 suffering it to sink and swell in a manner alternately distinct and 
 
32 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 inarticulate, with a slight mixture of that species of enunciation 
 which Italians term the voice of the head : 
 
 1 1 never will marry while youth 's at my side, 
 For my heart it is light and the world is wide ; 
 I '11 ne'er be a slave to a haughty old bride, 
 To curb me and keep me uneasy.' 
 
 'And why should last St. Swithin have anything to do with this 
 day?' 
 
 'Oyeh, then, sure enough, sir. But they tell an ould fable 
 about Saint Sweeten when he was first buried ' 
 
 ' Why, was he buried more than once, Lowry ? ' 
 
 1 Oyeh, hear to this ! Well, well — 'tis makin' a hand o' me your 
 honour is, fairly, kind father for you ! He was, then, buried more 
 than once, if you go to that of it. He was a great Saint living, 
 an' had a long berrin when he died ; an' when they had the grave 
 dug, and were for puttin' him into it, the sky opened, an' it kept 
 powerin', powerin' rain for the bare life, an' stopt so for forty days 
 an' nights.' 
 
 ' And they couldn't bury him ? ' 
 
 'An' they couldn't bury him till the forty days were 
 over ' 
 
 1 He had a long wake, Lowry.' 
 
 'Believe it, sir. But ever since that, they remark, whatever 
 way Saint Sweeten's day is, it is the same for forty days after. You 
 don't b'lieve that, sir, now ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, I am rather doubtful. 5 
 
 c See that, why ! Why, then, I seen a schoolmaster westwards, 
 that had as much Latin an' English as if he'd swallowed a diction- 
 ary, an' he 'd outface the world, that it was as true as you 're going 
 the road this minute. But the quollity doesn't give into them 
 things at all. Heaven be with ould times ! There is nothin' at all 
 there as it used to be, Master Kyrle. There isn't the same weather 
 there, nor the same peace, nor comfort, nor as much money, nor 
 as strong whisky, nor as good piatees, nor the gentlemen isn't so 
 pleasant in themselves, nor the poor people so quiet, nor the boys 
 so divartin', nor the girls so coaxin', nor nothin' at all is there as it 
 used to be formerly. Hardly, I think, the sun shines as bright in 
 the day ; an' nothin' shows itself now by night, neither spirits nor 
 good people. In them days a man couldn't go a lonesome road 
 at night without meetin' things that would make the hair of his 
 head stiffen equal to bristles. Now you might ride from this to 
 Dingle without seeing anything uglier than yourself on the way. 
 But what help for it ? 
 
 Once in fair England my Blackbird did flourish. 
 He was the chief flower that in it did spring ; 
 
 Prime ladies of honour his person did nourish, 
 Because that he was the true son of a king. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 33 
 
 But this false fortune, 
 
 Which still is uncertain, 
 Has caused this long parting between him and me ; 
 
 His name I '11 advance, 
 
 In Spain an' in France, 
 An' seek out my Blackbird, wherever he be. 
 
 An' you wouldn't believe, now, Master Kyrle, that anything does 
 be showin' itself at night at all ? Or used to be of ould ?' 
 
 ' It must be a very long while since, Lowry.' 
 
 ' Why, then, see this, sir. The whole country will tell you that 
 after Mr. Chute died, the ould man of all, Mr. Tom's father — you 
 heerd of him ? ' 
 
 ' I recollect to have heard of a fat man, that ' 
 
 ' Fat ! ' exclaimed Lowry, in voice of surprise — ' you may say 
 fat. There isn't that door on hinges that he 'd pass in, walkin' 
 with a fair front, widout he turned sideways, or skamed in one way 
 or other. You an' I, an' another along wid us, might be made out 
 of the one half of him aisy. His body-coat, when he died, med a 
 whole shoot for Dan Dawley, the steward, besides a jacket for his 
 little boy ; an' Dan was no fishing-rod that time, I tell you. But 
 any way, fat or lain, he was buried, an' all the world will tell you 
 that he was seen rising a fortnight after by Dan Dawley, in the 
 shape of a drove o' young pigs.' 
 
 1 A whole drove ? ' 
 
 'A whole drove. An' 'tisn't lain, lanky carcaishes o' store pigs 
 either, only fat, fit for bacon. He was passin' the forge, near the 
 ould gate, an' the moon shinin' as bright as silver, when he seen 
 him comin' again' him on the road. Sure he isn't the same man 
 ever since.' 
 
 'Dan Dawley is not easily caught by appearances. What a 
 sharp eye he must have had, Lowry, to recognise his master 
 under such a disguise ! ' 
 
 ' Oyeh, he knew well what was there. 'Tisn't the first time with 
 Dan Dawley seein' things o' the kind. Didn't you ever hear what 
 happened Dan in regard of his first wife, sir?' 
 
 1 No.' 
 
 'Well, aisy, an' I '11 tell you. Dan was married to a girl o' the 
 Hayeses, a very inthricate little creatur, that led him a mighty 
 uneasy life from the day they married out. Well, it was Dan's 
 luck, she got a stitch, an' died one mornin', an' if she did, Dan made 
 &fiilliloo an' a lavo over her, as if he lost all belongin' to him. They 
 buried her, for all, an' Dan was sittin' in his own door, an' he twistin' 
 a gad, to hang a little taste o' bacon he had, an' he singin' the Rovin 
 Journeyman for himself, when, tundher alive ! who should walk in 
 the doore to him only his dead wife, an' she livin' as well as ever ! 
 Take it from me, he didn't stay long where he was. " Eh, is that 
 you, Cauth?" says he. "The very one," says she, "how does the 
 world use you, Dan ? " " Wisha, middlin'," says Dan again. " I didn't 
 
 c 
 
34 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 think we 'd see you any more, Cauth," says he. " Nor you wouldn't 
 either," says she, "only for yourself." "Do you tell me so," says 
 Dan Dawley ; " how was that ? " " There are two dogs," says she, 
 " that are sleeping on the road I was goin' in the other world, an' 
 the noise you made cryin' over me wakened 'em, an' they riz again' 
 me, and wouldn't let me pass." " See that, why ! " says Dan, grin- 
 ning ; " warn't they the conthrairy pair ? " Well, after another 
 twelvemonth Cauth died the second time ; but, I '11 be your bail, 
 it was long from Dan Dawley to cry over her this turn as he did 
 at first. 'Twas all his trouble to see would he keep the women at 
 the wake from keening over the dead corpse, or doing anything in 
 life that would waken the dogs. Signs on, she passed 'em, for he 
 got neither tale nor tidin's of her from that day to this. " Poor 
 Cauth," says Dan, " why should I cry, to have them dogs tearin' 
 her maybe ? " ' 
 
 1 Dan Dawley was a lucky man,' said Kyrle. ' Neither Orpheus 
 nor Theseus had so much to say for themselves as he had.' 
 
 * I never hear talks o' them gentlemen, sir ; wor they o' these 
 parts ? ' 
 
 ' Not exactly. One of them was from the county of Attica, and 
 the other from the county of Thrace.' 
 
 1 I never hear of 'em : I partly guessed they wor strangers,' 
 Lowry continued, with much simplicity ; ' but," any way, Dan 
 Dawley was a match for the best of 'em, an' a luckier man than 
 I told you yet, moreover — that 's in the first beginnin' of his days.' 
 
 At this moment a number of smart young fellows, dressed out 
 in new felt hats, clean shoes and stockings, with ribbons flying at 
 the knees, passed them on the road. They touched their hats 
 respectfully to Mr. Daly, while they recognised his attendant by a 
 nod, a smile, and a familiar ' Is that the way, Lowry?' 
 
 1 The very way, then, lads,' said Lowry, casting a longing look 
 after them. ' Goin' to Garryowen they are now, divartin' for the 
 night,' he added in a half envious tone, after which he threw the 
 skirt of his coat from the left to the right arm, looked down at his 
 feet, struck the ground with the end of his stick, and trotted on, 
 singing: _ 
 
 • I 'm noted for dancin a jig in good order, 
 
 A min'et I 'd march, an" I'd foot a good reel, 
 
 In a country-dance I 'd still be the leading partner, 
 
 I ne'er faltered yet from a crack on the heel. 
 
 My heart is wid ye, boys, this night. But I was tellin' you, Master 
 Kyrle, about Dan Dawley's luck ! Listen hether.' 
 
 He dried his face, which was glistening with moisture and flushed 
 with exercise, in his frieze coat, and commenced his story : 
 
 "Tis not in Castle Chute the family lived always, sir, only in 
 ould Mr. Chute's time ; he built it, an' left the Fort above, an' I '11 
 tell you for what raison, The ould man of all, that had the Fort 
 before him, used to be showing himself there at night, himself an' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 35 
 
 his wife, an' his two daughters, an J a son, an' there were the 
 strangest noises ever you hear, going on above stairs. The master 
 had six or seven sarvints, one after another, stopping up to watch 
 him, but there isn't one of 'em but was killed by the spirit. Well, 
 he was forced to quit at last on the 'count of it, an' it is then he built 
 Castle Chute— the new part of it, where Miss Anne an' the ould 
 lady lives now. Well an' good, if he did, he was standin' one 
 mornin' oppozit his own gate on the road side, out, an' the sun 
 shining, an' the birds singing for themselves in the bushes, when 
 who should he see only Dan Dawley, an' he a little gaffer the 
 same time, serenadin' down the road for the bare life. " Where 
 to now, lad ? " says Mr. Chute (he was a mighty pleasant man). 
 " Looking for a master, then," says Dan Dawley. " Why, then, 
 never go past this gate for him," says Mr. Chute, "if you'll do 
 what I bid you," says he. "What's that, sir?" says the boy. So 
 he up an' told him the whole story about the Fort, an' how some- 
 thing used to be showin' itself there, constant, in the dead hour o' 
 the night ; " an' have you the courage," says he, " to sit up a night, 
 an' watch it ? " " What would I get by it ? " says Dan, looking 
 him up in the. face. " I '11 give you twenty guineas in the mornin', 
 an' a table, an' a chair, an' a pint o' whisky, an' a fire, an 'a candle, 
 an' your dinner before you go," says Mr. Chute. " Never say it 
 again," says the gorsoon, " 'tis high wages for one night's work, 
 an' I never yet done," says he, " anything that would make me in 
 dread o' the living or the dead, or afraid to trust myself into the 
 hands o' the Almighty." " Very well, away with you," says the 
 gentleman, "an' I '11 have your life if you tell me a word of a lie in 
 the mornin'," says he. " I will not, sir," says the boy, " for what ? " 
 Well, he went there, an' he drew the table a-near the fire for him- 
 self, an' got his candle, an' began readin' his book. 'Tis the lone- 
 somest place you ever seen. Well, that was well an' good, till he 
 heerd the greatest racket that ever was goin' on above stairs, as if 
 all the slates on the roof were fallin'. " I 'm in dread," says Dan, 
 " that these people will do me some bad hurt," says he, an' hardly 
 he said the word, when the doore opened, and in they all walked, 
 the ould gentleman with a great big wig on him, an' the wife, an' 
 the two daughters, an' the son. Well, they all put elbows upon 
 themselves, an' stood lookin' at him out in the middle o' the floore. 
 He said nothin' and they said nothin', an' at last, when they were 
 tired o' lookin', they went out an' walked the whole house, an' went 
 upstairs again. The gentleman came in the mornin' early. " Good 
 morrow, good boy," says he. " Good morrow, sir," says the boy ; 
 " I had a dale o' fine company here last night," says he ; " ladies 
 an' gentlemen." "It's a lie you're tellin' me," says Mr. Chute. 
 "'Tis not a word of a lie, sir," says Dan; " there was an ould gentle- 
 man with a big wig, an' an ould lady, an' two young ones, an' a 
 young gentleman," says he. "True for you," says Mr. Chute, 
 puttin' a hand in his pocket, and reaching him twenty guineas. 
 
36 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 " Will you stay there another night ? " says he. " I will, sir," 
 says Dan. Well, he went walkin' about the fields for himself, an' 
 when night comes ' 
 
 'You may pass over the adventures of the second night 
 Lowry,' said Kyrle, 'for I suspect that nothing was effected 
 until the third. 5 
 
 ' Why, then, you just guessed it, sir. Well, the third night he 
 said to himself, " Escape how I can," says he, " I '11 speak to that 
 ould man with the wig, that does be puttin' an elbow on himself 
 an' looking at me ! " Well, the ould man an' all o' them came 
 and stood oppozit him with elbows on 'em as before. Dan got 
 frightened, seeing 'em stop so long in the one place, and the 
 ould man lookin' so wicked (he was after killin' six or seven, in 
 the same Fort), an' he went down on his two knees, an' he put 
 his hands together, an' says he ' 
 
 A familiar incident of Irish pastoral life occasioned an interrup- 
 tion in this part of the legend. Two blooming country girls, 
 their hair confined with a simple black ribbon, their cotton gowns 
 pinned up in front, so as to disclose the greater portion of the 
 blue stuff petticoat underneath, and their countenances bright 
 with health and laughter, ran out from a cottage door, and inter- 
 cepted the progress of the travellers. The prettier of the two 
 skipped across the road, holding between her fingers a worsted 
 thread, while the other retained between her hands the large 
 ball from which it had been unwound. Kyrle paused, too well 
 acquainted with the country customs to break through the slender 
 impediment. 
 
 'Pay your footing, now, Master Kyrle Daly, before you go 
 farther,' said one. 
 
 'Don't overlook the wheel, sir,' added the girl who remained 
 next the door. 
 
 Kyrle searched his pocket for a shilling, while Lowry with a 
 half-smiling, half-censuring face, murmured : 
 
 'Why, then, Heaven send ye sense, as it is it ye want this 
 morninV 
 
 'And you manners, Mr. Looby. Single your freedom, and 
 double your distance, I beg o' you. Sure your purse, if you have 
 one, is safe in your pocket. Long life an' a good wife to you, 
 Master Kyrle, an' I wisht I had a better hould than this o' you. I 
 wisht you were in looze, an' that I had the finding o' you this 
 mornin'.' 
 
 So saying, while she smiled merrily on Kyrle, and darting a 
 scornful glance at Lowry Looby, she returned to her woollen 
 wheel, singing, as she twirled it round : 
 
 ' I want no lectures from a learned master ; 
 He may bestow 'em on his silly train — 
 I 'd sooner walk through my blooming garden, 
 An' hear the whistle of my jolly swain.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 37 
 
 To which Lowry, who received the lines, as they were probably 
 intended, in a satirical sense, replied, as he trotted forwards, in 
 the same strain : 
 
 1 Those dressy an' smooth-faced young maidens, 
 
 Who now looks at present so gay, 
 Has borrowed some words o' good English, 
 
 An' knows not one half what they say. 
 No female is fit to be married, 
 
 Nor fancied by no man at all, 
 But those who can sport a drab mantle, 
 
 An' likewise a cassimere shawl. 
 
 Hoop-whishk ! Why, then, she 's a clean-made little girl for 
 all, isn't she, Master Kyrle? But I was tellin' you — where 's 
 this I was? Iss, just. Dan Dawley going on his knees an' 
 talking to the sperrit. Well, he raised his two hands this way, 
 an' " The Almighty be betune you an' me this night," says he. 
 " Ah ! that 's my good boy," says the ould man, " I was waiting 
 these three nights to have you speak first, an' if you hadn't that 
 time, I 'd have your life equal to all the others," says he. " But 
 come with me now, an' I '11 make a gentleman o' you, for you 're 
 the best boy that ever I see," says he. Well, the boy got a 
 trembling, an' he couldn't folly him. " Don't be one bit afeerd 
 o' me," says the ould gentleman, " for I won't do you a ha'p'orth of 
 hurt." Well, he carried Dan after him through the house, an' he 
 showed him three crocks o' goold buried behind a doore, an' 
 " D'ye hear to me now ? " says he ; " tell my son to give one o' 
 these crocks to my daughter, an' another to you, an' to keep 
 the third himself ; an' then I won't show myself this way any 
 more," says he, " for it is the goold that does be always troubling 
 us in the ground. An' tell him, if he lives," says he, "to give you 
 my daughter in marriage, an' this Fort along with her." Alilu ! 
 me tell him ! " cries Dan Dawley. " I 'm sure I wouldn't take him 
 such a message for the world." "Do, ay eh," says the ould 
 man, " an' show him this ring for a token, an' tell him I '11 be 
 showing myself be day an' be night to him, until he '11 give her to 
 you." So he vanished in the greatest tundher ever you hear. 
 That was well an' good — well, the next mornin' Mr. Chute come, 
 an' if he did, " Good morrow, good boy," says he ; " Good 
 morrow, sir," says Dan. " Have you any news for me after the 
 night?" says he. " I have very good news," says Dan. " I have 
 three crocks o' goold for you, I got from the ould gentleman," says 
 he, an' he up an' tould him all about it, an' showed him the goold. 
 11 It 's a lie you 're telling me," says Mr. Chute, " an' I '11 have your 
 life," says he — " you went rootin' an' found these yourself." So 
 Dan put a hand in his pocket, an' pulled out the ring and gave 
 it into his hand. It was the ring, sir, his father wore the day he 
 was buried. " I give it into you," says Mr. Chute, " you did see 
 them surely. What else did he say to you ? " Well, Dan begin 
 
38 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 lookin' down an' up, an' this way, an' that way, an' didn't know 
 what to say. "Tell me at once," says Mr. Chute, "an' fear 
 nothin'." Very well. He did. " Sir," says he, "the ould gentle- 
 man told me, an' sure 'tis a thing I don't expect — but he said I 
 should get Miss Anne, your sister, in marriage." Well, Mr. 
 Chute stood lookin' at Dan as if he had three heads on him. 
 " Give you my sister, you keowt of a geoeogh ! " says he ; " you 
 flog Europe for bouldness — get out of my sight," says he, "this 
 minute, or I '11 give you a kick that will raise you from poverty to 
 the highest pitch of affluence." "An' won't I get the crock o' 
 goold, sir ! " says Dan. " Away out o' that with you," says the 
 gentleman, "'tis to rob me you want, I believe, you notorious 
 delinquent." Well, Dan was forced to cut, but in a while after, the 
 ould man sent for him, an' made him a compliment o' something 
 handsome, an' put him over his business as he is to-day with the 
 present people, and an honest creatur as could be. There 's more 
 people says that it was all a fable, an' that Dan Dawley dremt of 
 it, but this was his own story. An' sure I might as well be drain- 
 ing too,' he added, casting a side glance at Kyrle, ' for it 's little 
 attention you are paying to me or my story.' 
 
 In this assertion Lowry was perfectly correct, for his young 
 master's thoughts at that moment were occupied by a far more 
 interesting subject. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 HOW KYRLE DALY WAS MORE PUZZLED BY A PIECE OF PAPER 
 THAN THE ABOLISHERS OF THE SMALL-NOTE CURRENCY 
 THEMSELVES 
 
 In taking out of his pocket the piece of silver which he wanted to 
 bestow on the cottage Omphale, he drew forth with it a little 
 paper, containing a copy of verses which he had taken from one 
 of Anne Chute's music-books. They were written in a boyish 
 hand, and signed with the letters H. C, and Kyrle was taxing 
 his memory to recapitulate all the bachelors in the county who 
 bore those initials. There was, in the first place, Hyland Creagh, 
 commonly called Fireball Creagh, a great sweater and pinker — a 
 notorious duellist, who had been concerned, either on behalf of 
 himself or his friends, in more than one hundred ' affairs of honour ' 
 — a member of the Hell-Fire Club, a society constituted on prin- 
 ciples similar to that of the Mohocks, which flourished in London 
 about half a century before Kyrle's time, and whose rules and 
 orders the reader may peruse at full length in the manifesto of their 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 39 
 
 Emperor Taw Waw Eben Zan Kaladar. as set forth in Mr. 
 Addison's amusing journal. Of the provincial branch of this 
 society above mentioned (it is a name that we are loth to repeat 
 oftener than is necessary), Mr. Hyland Fireball Creagh had been 
 a member in his early days, and was still fond of recounting their 
 customs and adventures with greater minuteness than always 
 accorded with the inclinations of his hearers. There were some 
 qualities in the composition of this gentleman, which made it 
 probable enough that he might write verses in a lady's music- 
 book. He was as gallant as any unmarried Irishman of his day, 
 and he had a fighting name, a reputation which was at that time 
 in much higher repute than it is in our own. He had con- 
 versation (an essential talent in a man of gallantry) — he dressed 
 well, though with a certain antiquated air — and he had a little 
 poodle dog, which shut the door when you said ' Baither- 
 shin] and chucked a crust of bread from his nose into his 
 mouth at the word ' Fire ! ' And Mr. Creagh, whenever his 
 canine follower was called on to perform those feats, was 
 careful to make the ladies observe, that Pincher never ven- 
 tured to snap at the word ' Make ready ! ' or ' Present ! ' while 
 if you whispered ' Fire ! ' in never so gentle a tone — pop ! 
 the bread vanished in an instant. But then, there were some 
 objections, which were likely to neutralise these accomplishments 
 of Fireball and his dog, and to render it unlikely, after all, that 
 he (that is the former) had been the perpetrator of the verses. 
 He had run through his property, and reduced himself to the 
 mean estate of a needy guest at other men's tables, and a drinker 
 of other men's wine, or rather whisky, for that was the funda- 
 mental ingredient of his customary beverage. This circumstance 
 laid him under the necessity of overlooking a greater number of 
 unhandsome speeches than was consistent with his early fame. 
 And there was one other objection, which rendered it still more 
 improbable that Anne Chute would think any of his effusions 
 worth preserving. He was just turned of sixty-five. 
 
 It could not, therefore, be Mr. Hyland Fireball Creagh. H. C. ? 
 — Who was it ? Hepton Connolly ? 
 
 Now, reader, judge for yourself what a wise conjecture was 
 this of Mr. Kyrle Daly's. Mr. Hepton Connolly was a still more 
 objectionable swain than the Irish diner-out above described ; 
 indeed, he had no single qualification to recommend him as a 
 social companion, except that of being able to contain a prodigious 
 quantity of whisky-punch at a sitting — a virtue in which a six- 
 gallon jar might have excelled him. Nor do I find that there was 
 any part of Anne Chute's demeanour which could lead Kyrle Daly 
 to suppose that this circumstance would take a powerful hold of 
 her affections, although it secured him an envied place in those of 
 her uncle, Mr. Barnaby Cregan of Roaring Hall. For the rest, 
 Mr. Hepton Connolly was one individual of a species which is 
 
4 6 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 now happily extinct among Irish gentlemen. He just retained 
 enough of a once flourishing patrimony to enable him to keep 
 a hunter, a racer, and an insolent groom. He was the terror of 
 all the pettifogging lawyers, the three-and-ninepenny attorneys, 
 bailiffs, and process-servers in the county. Against these last, in 
 particular, he had carried his indignation to such a length as to 
 maim one of them for life by a shot from his hall window. And 
 he told fifty anecdotes, which made it appear astonishing that he 
 had escaped the gallows so long. But he relied strongly (and in 
 those days not without reason) on the fact, that there could not be 
 a jury empanelled against him on which he might not number a 
 majority of his own relations. It was not, indeed, that he calcu- 
 lated much on their personal regard or affection for himself, but 
 the stain upon their own name was such, he knew, as they would 
 not willingly incur. His reliance upon this nicety of honour in 
 his friends was so complete, that he never suffered any uneasiness 
 upon those occasions when it became necessary for him to plead 
 to an indictment, however irresistible the evidence by which it 
 was supported ; and the only symptoms of anxiety which he ever 
 manifested, consisted in a frequent reference to his watch, and a 
 whisper to the under-turnkey, to know whether he _ had left 
 directions at the jail to keep his dinner hot. One amusing effect 
 produced by Mr. Connolly's repeated collisions with judicial 
 authorities was, that he acquired a gradual fondness for the law 
 itself, and became knowing upon the rights of persons and the 
 rights of things, in proportion to the practical liberties which he 
 was in the habit of taking with the one and the other. While he 
 made little account of breaking a man's head at a second word, 
 he would prosecute, to the rigour of the law, a poor half-naked 
 mountaineer, for stealing a basket of turf from his ricks, or cutting 
 a faggot in one of his hedges. To do him justice, however, it 
 should be mentioned that he never was known to pursue matters 
 to extremity in the instance of punishment, and was always 
 satisfied with displaying his own legal skill before the petty 
 sessions. Nay, he had even been frequently known to add con- 
 siderably to his own loss in those cases, by making a gift to the 
 culprit of many times the amount of the pilfered property. If 
 Anne Chute could receive this single trait of good feeling as a 
 counterpoise for much bad principle — if she could love to see her 
 house filled with jockeys, horse-riders, grooms, and drunken 
 gentlemen — if she could cherish a fondness for dogs and un- 
 licensed whisky — if, in a word, she could be the happy wife of a 
 mere sportsman— then it was possible that Mr. Hepton Connolly 
 might be the transcriber (author was out of the question) of the 
 little effusion that had excited Kyrle Daly's curiosity. 
 
 Who was it? The question still remained without solution. 
 Ha! Her cousin and his college friend, Mr. Hardress Cregan? 
 The conjecture at first made the blood fly into his face, while his 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 41 
 
 nerves were thrilled by a horrid sensation of mingled fear, grief, 
 and anger. But a moment's reflection was sufficient to restore 
 quiet to his mind, and to smile down the spirit of jealousy at its 
 first motion within his breast. Hardress Cregan was perfectly 
 indifferent to the lady ; he seldom spoke of her, and scarcely ever 
 visited at Castle Chute. It could not be Hardress. He was a 
 great deal too shy and timid to carry on a lengthened interchange 
 of raillery with any young lady, and if it were more than raillery, 
 he knew the intensity of his friend's character too well to suppose 
 that he would refrain from pursuing his fortunes. It could not be 
 Hardress. He was perfectly aware of Kyrle Daly's secret — he 
 had repeatedly expressed the warmest wishes for his success ; and 
 Hardress Cregan was no hypocrite. They had been friends, 
 attached friends, at college ; and although their intercourse had 
 been much interrupted since their return home, by difference 
 of pursuits and of tastes or habits, still their early friendship 
 remained unchanged, and they never met but with the warmth 
 and affection of brothers. It was true he had heard Hardress 
 speak of her with much esteem, on his first introduction to college, 
 and when he was yet a very young lad ; but a little raillery was 
 abundantly sufficient to strike him dumb for ever on the subject ; 
 and he had not taken many lounges among the beauties of Capel 
 Street and the Phcenix Park, when he appeared to have lost all 
 recollections of his boyish attachment. Kyrle Daly had pene- 
 tration enough to be aware that he could not, with certainty, 
 calculate on a character at once so profound and so unsettled as 
 that of his young friend, who had always, even in his mere boy- 
 hood, been unapproachable by his most intimate acquaintances, 
 and whom he suspected to be capable of one day wielding a 
 mightier influence in society than he seemed himself to hope or 
 aspire to. But Hardress was no hypocrite. That was a sufficient 
 security that, if there were a rival in the case, he was not the man ; 
 and if Kyrle needed a more positive argument, it might be found 
 in the fact of a new attachment, which had of late been intimated 
 to him by his young friend himself. 
 
 The love which Kyrle entertained for this lady was so singular, 
 so rational, and regulated by so fine a principle of judgment, that 
 trie warmest, the wisest, and the best of men might condescend to 
 take an interest in its success. Naturally gifted with the gentlest 
 qualities of heart, and educated by a mother, who taught him the 
 use of that mind by which they were to be directed, it would not 
 be easy to discover a more estimable character among the circles 
 in which he moved. He was the more fortunate, too, that his 
 goodness was the result of natural feeling rather than that of 
 principle alone; for it is a strange and a pitiable peculiarity in our 
 nature, that if a man, by mere strength of reason and persever- 
 ance, have made himself master of all the social virtues, he shall 
 not be as much loved in the world as another who has inherited 
 
42 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 them from nature, although, in the latter instance, they may be 
 obscured by many hideous vices. It may appear presumptuous to 
 hazard an opinion upon a subject of so much gravity ; but, per- 
 haps, the reader will not charge us with having caught the 
 paradoxical air of the day, if we venture to intimate, that the true 
 source of the preference may be referred to the common principle 
 of self-perservation. A character that is naturally, and by 
 necessity, generous, may be calculated upon with more certainty 
 than that which is formed by education only, as long as men's 
 opinions shall be found more variable than their feelings. Other- 
 wise, why should we bestow more affection on that character 
 which is really the less admirable of the two ? But the reader 
 may receive or reject this conjecture as he pleases. We proceed 
 with our history. 
 
 For this, or for some better reason, it was that Kyrle Daly, 
 though highly popular among his inferiors and dependents, had 
 only a second place in their affection, compared with his friend 
 Hardress. A generosity utterly reckless and unreasoning is a 
 quality that in all seasons has wrought most powerfully upon the 
 inclinations of the Irish peasantry, who are themselves more 
 distinguished for quick and kindly feeling, than, for a just per- 
 ception of moral excellence. Because, therefore, the flow of 
 generosity in Hardress Cregan was never checked nor governed 
 by motives of prudence nor of justice, while good sense and reason 
 regulated that of Kyrle Daly, the estimation in which they were 
 held was proportionably unequal. The latter was spoken of 
 amongst the people as ' a good master ' ; but Hardress was their 
 darling. His unbounded profusion made them entertain for him 
 that natural tenderness which we are apt to feel towards any 
 object that seems to require protection. 'His heart,' they 
 observed, ' was in the right place.' ' It would be well for him, if 
 he had some of Master Kyrle's sense, poor fellow.' ' Master 
 Kyrle would buy and sell him at any fair in Munster.' 
 
 It was only, therefore, among those who were thoroughly 
 intimate with his character, that Kyrle Daly was fully understood 
 and appreciated ; and it is not saying a little in his praise, to 
 remark that his warmest admirers, as well as his best lovers, 
 were to be found within the circle of his own family. 
 
 It is impossible that such a mind as we have described could 
 give a tranquil entertainment to any serious passion. Few could 
 suppose from the general gaiety and cheerfulness of his 
 demeanour, and the governed and rational turn of his discourse, 
 that he held a heart so acutely susceptible of passion and so 
 obnoxious to disappointment. It is true, that in the present 
 instance he was in some degree guarded by his own doubts and 
 fears against the latter contingency ; but he had also cherished 
 hope sufficient to insure him, in case of rejection, a grievous load 
 of misery. He had weighed well the lady's worth before he fixed 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 43 
 
 his affections upon her ; and when he did so, every faculty of his 
 mind and feeling of his heart subscribed to the conviction, that 
 with her, and her alone, he could be earthly happy. 
 
 The sun had passed the meridian before Kyrle Daly again 
 beheld the small and wooded peninsula which formed the site of 
 Castle Chute. The languor of heart that always accompanies the 
 passion in its hours of comparative inaction, that luxurious feeling 
 of mingled pensiveness and joy, which fills up the breast, and 
 constitutes in itself an Elysium even to the doubting lover, were 
 aided in their influence by the sunny calmness of the day and the 
 beauty of the landscape, which every step unfolded to his view. 
 The fever of suspense became more tormenting in proportion as 
 he drew nearer to the solution of his doubts, and the last few 
 miles of his journey seemed incomparably the most tedious. His 
 horse, however, who was not in love, and had not broken fast 
 since morning, began, at sight of a familiar baiting-place, to show 
 symptoms of inanition, to remedy which his considerate master 
 drew up, and alighted^at the inn-door. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 HOW KYRLE DALY DISCOVERS THAT ALL THE SORROW UNDER 
 THE SUN DOES NOT REST UPON HIS SHOULDERS ALONE 
 
 He left Lowry Looby standing by the trough to see justice done 
 to the dumb creature, while he strolled onwards in the sunshine, 
 unwilling to disturb the current of his own thoughts by any con- 
 versation with the people of the inn. 
 
 The owner of this place of 'entertainment' also filled the 
 dignified post of pound-keeper to the neighbouring village, and 
 his roofless bastille was situated at no great distance farther on 
 the roadside. As Kyrle walked by the iron gate he was surprised 
 to see it crowded by a number of Kerry ponies, such as may be 
 discerned along the mountain-sides from the Upper Lake of 
 Killarney. They were of various colours — bright bay, dun, and 
 cream ; but the shagginess of their coats, and the diminutiveness 
 of their size, rendered them but a little more respectable in 
 appearance than the same number of donkeys. Several of these 
 half-starved creatures had their heads thrust out over the low 
 pound wall, as if to solicit the interference of passengers, while 
 others, resigned to their fate, stood in drooping postures in the 
 centre of the enclosure, quite chop-fallen. Kyrle Daly's curiosity 
 was sufficiently excited to induce him to turn once more upon his 
 path, and make some inquiry at the inn concerning the owner of 
 the herd. 
 
44 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 He found the landlord at the door, a small, withered old man, 
 with an air of mingled moroseness and good nature in his 
 countenance — the former the effect of his office, the latter of his 
 natural disposition. He was standing on a three-foot stool, and 
 occupied in taking down a sign-board, for the purpose of trans- 
 mitting it to a scene of rural festivity which was going forward in 
 the neighbourhood. 
 
 He suspended his labours, and was about to enter into an 
 ample exposition of the history of the ponies, when his wife, a 
 blooming, middle-aged woman, in a tete, and a glossy green 
 petticoat, came to the door, and looked out to know what made 
 the hammering cease. The glance of her eye was enough for the 
 innkeeper, who recommenced his work with fresh diligence, while 
 his watchful helpmate undertook to satisfy the curiosity of our 
 traveller. 
 
 The ponies, she told him, were the property of a mountaineer 
 from Killarney, who was making a ' tower ' of the country, to try 
 and sell them at the fairs and patterns. He had come to their 
 neighbourhood last night, and turned his ponies out on the 
 common ; but finding that it furnished only short commons for 
 them, the poor things had made their way into the improvements 
 of Castle Chute, and were apprehended by Mr. Dan Dawley in the 
 act of trespass. That inexorable functionary had issued an order 
 for their immediate committal to pound ; and Myles Murphy, the 
 owner, was now gone off to make interest with Miss Anne, ' the 
 young mistress,' for their release. 
 
 * He '11 be a lucky boy,' she continued, ' if he overtakes her at 
 home this way, for herself and a deal o' quality are to be at the 
 sands below, to see the races and doings there/ 
 
 1 Races ? ' repeated Kyrle. ' I never heard of races in this 
 quarter.' 
 
 ' Oyeh, what races ! ' exclaimed her husband. ' A parcel of 
 ould staggeens, sir, that 's running for a saddle ; that 's all the 
 races they '11 have.' 
 
 'So itself, what hurt,' returned the wife. 'The whole European 
 world will be there to look at 'em ; and I '11 be bound they '11 
 drink as hearty as if Jerry Sneak an' Sappho were on the coorse. 
 An' 'tis there you ought to be an hour ago in your tent, instead 
 of crusheening here about Myles Murphy an' his ponies.' 
 
 1 Myles Murphy ! — Myles-na-Coppaleen ! — Myles of the Ponies, 
 is it ? ' said Lowry Looby, who just then led Kyrle Daly's horse to 
 the door. ' Is he in these parts now?' 
 
 ' Do you know Myles, eroo?' was the truly Irish reply. 
 
 ' Know Myles-na-Coppaleen ? Wisha, an' 'tis I that do, an' 
 that well ! Oh, murthur ! an' are them poor Myles's ponies I see 
 in the pound over ? Poor boy ! I declare I 'm sorry for his 
 trouble.' 
 
 ' If you be as you say,' the old innkeeper muttered, with a dis- 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 45 
 
 trustful smile, ' put a hand in your pocket, an' give me four-and- 
 eightpence, an' you may take the fourteen of 'em after him.' 
 
 ' Why then, see ; I J m blest, if I had it, but I wouldn't break 
 your word this day, or more than that, if it was in my power, for 
 poor Myles. There isn't a better son nor brother this moment 
 goin' the road than what he is.' 
 
 ' It 's true for you, by all accounts,' said the pound-keeper, as 
 he counted over Kyrle's change ; ' but people must do their duty 
 for all' 
 
 1 Surely, surely,' said Lowry, turning off. 
 
 Mrs. Normal, the hostess, here made her reappearance at the 
 door, with a foaming pot of Fermoy ale in her hand, to which she 
 directed Lowry's attention. 
 
 'Ah, then, what's that your doin'?' he said, with a look of 
 rough remonstrance, while he fixed, nevertheless, a steady and 
 wistful eye upon the draught. 
 
 < Drink it off, I tell you.' 
 
 ' Sorrow a drop. 5 
 
 'You must, again.' 
 
 * I won't I tell you.' 
 
 ' Do you refuse my handsel, 1 an' I goin' to the races ? Be said 
 by me, I tell you. The day is drouthy.' 
 
 Lowry offered no further objection, but made his own of the 
 ale, observing, as he returned the vessel, with closed and watery 
 eyes, that it was 'murtherin' sthrong.' The colloquy above 
 detailed was carried on with so much roughness of accent and 
 violence of gesture that a person at a little distance might have 
 supposed the parties were on the eve of coming to blows in an 
 actual quarrel. But it was all politeness. 
 
 Kyrle Daly obtained from his attendant, as they proceeded on 
 their way, an account of the individual in whom he had expressed 
 so deep an interest. Myles Murphy, or, as he was more generally 
 called, Myles of the Ponies, was the occupier of a tract of land on 
 one of the Killarney mountains, comprising about seven hundred 
 acres. For this extensive holding he paid a rent of fifteen pounds 
 sterling in the year ; and if there were a market for grey lime- 
 stone in the neighbourhood, Myles would be one of the wealthiest 
 men in Kerry. But as the agricultural taste of the vicinity ran 
 chiefly in favour of mud, his property in mineral was left as an 
 heirloom upon his hands. Of the whole seven hundred acres, 
 there was no more under tillage than sufficed to furnish potatoes 
 for the consumption of his own family. The vast remainder was 
 stocked with numerous herds of wild ponies, who found scanty 
 pasturage between the fissures of the crags, and yet were multi- 
 plied to such a degree, that Myles could not estimate the amount 
 of his own stud. 
 
 1 It is considered unlucky to refuse a handsel. 
 
46 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' His own goodness it was,' continued Lowry, 'that got that for 
 him. He was left, poor fellow, after his father dying of the sick- 
 ness, 1 with a houseful o' childher — fourteen sons an' two daughters, 
 besides himself to provide for, an' his ould mother. He supported 
 
 'em all be the labour of his two hands, till Lord K hear talk 
 
 of him of a day, an' give him a lease o' that farm, an' behaved a 
 good landlord to him since. Still an' all, Myles do be poor, for 
 he never knew how to keep a hoult o' the money. He provided 
 for all his brothers— had one priested, an' another bound to a 
 brogue-maker, an' another settled as a schoolmaster in the place, 
 an' more listed from him, an' two went to say, an' I don't know 
 what he done with the rest, but they're all very well off; an' left 
 poor Myles with an empty pocket in the latter end.' 
 
 Lowry went on to inform our traveller that this said Myles was 
 a giant in stature, measuring six feet four inches ' in his vamps ' ; 
 that he never yet met 'that man that could give him a stroke, and 
 he having a stick in his hand ' ; that he was a clean-made boy as 
 ever ' walked the ground,' and such a master of his weapon, that 
 himself and Luke Kennedy, the Killarney boatman, used to be 
 two hours 'oppozite' one another, without a single blow being 
 received on either side. On one occasion, indeed, he was 
 fortunate enough to ' get a vacancy at Kennedy,' of which he 
 made so forcible a use, that the stick which was m the hand of 
 the latter flew over Ross Castle into the lower lake, merely from 
 a successful tip on the elbow. 
 
 ' BuV Lowry added, ' there 's a change come in poor Myles of 
 late. It was his luck to meet Eily O'Connor, the ropemaker's 
 daughter, of a day, an' he selling his ponies, an' 'tis a new story 
 with him since. He's mad, sir — mad in love. He isn't good for 
 anything. He says she gave him powders one day in an apple at 
 Owen's garden, where they had a benefit, but 1 wouldn't give in 
 to such a story as that at all, for Eily is as delicate and tender in 
 herself as a lady.' 
 
 They were interrupted at this juncture by a startling incident. 
 A mounted countryman galloped up to Ihem, dressed in a complete 
 suite of frieze, made from the undyed wool of black sheep, such 
 as formed the texture of the phalang in the days of Gerald Barry. 
 His face was pale and moist, and grimed with dust. A smooth, 
 yellow wig was pushed away upon his temples, disclosing a mass of 
 grey hair that was damp and matted with the effects of violent 
 exercise. He looked alternately at both the travellers with an 
 expression of mingled wildness and grief in his countenance ; and 
 again clapping spurs to his horse, rode off, and disappeared at a 
 short turn in the road. 
 
 1 1 'm blest but that flogs Europe ! ' exclaimed Lowry Looby, in 
 a tone of utter surprise and concern—' There 's something great 
 happened, surely. 
 
 1 Typhus fever. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 47 
 
 ' Who is he, Lowry ? I think I ought to know his face. 
 
 ' Mihil O'Connor, sir, father to the girl we were just talking of. 
 He looks to be in trouble. Easy! Here's little Foxy Dunat, the 
 haircutter, trottin' after him, an' he '11 tell us.' 
 
 The person whom he named, a small, red-haired man, rode up 
 at the same moment, appearing to keep his seat on horseback with 
 much difficulty. The animal he rode, though lean, was of great 
 size, and presented a circumference much too extensive to be 
 embraced by the short legs of the haircutter. His feet, for 
 greater security, were stuck between the stirrup-leathers, while 
 the empty irons remained dangling underneath. For the purpose 
 of making assurance doubly sure, he had grasped fast with one 
 hand the lofty pommel of the saddle, while the other was entwined 
 in the long and undressed mane. 
 
 I Pru-h ! Pru-h ! Stop her, Lowry, eroo ! Stop her, an' 
 heavens bless you. I 'm fairly flayed alive from her, that 's what 
 I am, joultin', joultin', for the bare life. Your sarvent, Mr. Daly — 
 I 'm not worth lookin 3 at. See my wig ' — he pulled one out of his 
 pocket, and held it up to view. ' I was obleeged to take it off an' 
 put it in my pocket, 'twas so tossed from the shakin' I got. I 
 never was a-horseback before, but once at Molly Mac's funeral, 
 an' I never '11 be a-horseback again, till I 'm going to my own. Oh, 
 murther ! murther ! I have a pain in the small o' my back that 
 would kill the Danes. Well, Mr. Daly, I hope the master liked 
 his new wig ? I kep' it a long time from him, surely. I never '11 
 be the better o' this day's ridin'. Did you see Mihil-na-thiadrucha 1 
 go by this way ? I 'm kilt and spoiled that 's what I am.' 
 
 I I did see him,' said Lowry ; ' what 's the matter with him ? ' 
 ' Eily, his daughter, is gone from him, or spirited away.' 
 
 ' Erra, you don't tell me so ? ' 
 
 1 She is, I tell you, an' he's like a wild man about it. Here he's 
 back himself.' 
 
 O'Connor again appeared at the turn of the road, and galloped 
 roughly back upon the group. He looked ferociously at Lowry, 
 and pointing his stick into his face, while his frame trembled with 
 rage, he roared out : ' Tell me, did you see her, this minute, or 
 I '11 thrust my stick down your throat ! Tell me, do you know 
 anything of her, I advise you.' 
 
 ' I don't,' said Lowry, with equal fierceness. Then, as if 
 ashamed of resenting a speech uttered by the poor old man under 
 so terrible an occasion of excitement, he changed his tone, and 
 repeated more gently, ' I don't, Mihil, an' I don't know what cause 
 I ever gave you to speak to me in that strain.' 
 
 The old ropemaker dropped the bridle, his clasped hands fell on 
 the pommel of the saddle, and he drooped his head, while he 
 seemed to gasp for utterance : ' Lowry,' he said, c heavens guide 
 
 1 Michael of the ropes. 
 
4 8 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 you, an 5 tell me do you know, or could you put me in a way of 
 hearing anything of her.' 
 
 ' Of who, ayeh ? ' 
 
 ' Eily, my daughter ! Oh, Lowry, a'ra gal, my daughter ! My 
 poor girl ! } 
 
 < What of her, Mini!?' 
 
 ' What of her ? — Gone ! lost ! Gone from her ould father, an' 
 no account of her.' 
 
 ' Erra, no ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I tell you!' He threw a ghastly look around — 'She is 
 stolen or she strayed. If she is stolen, may the Almighty forgive 
 them that took her from me, an' if she strayed of her own liking, 
 may my curse ' 
 
 ' Howl ! howl ! 1 I tell you, man,' cried Lowry, in a loud voice, 
 'don't curse your daughter, without knowin' what you do. Don't 
 I know her, do you think ? An' don't I know that she wouldn't be 
 the girl you say, for her apronful of goold ? ' 
 
 ' You 're a good boy, Lowry ; you 're a good boy,' said the old 
 man, wringing his hands, 'but she's gone. I had none but 
 her, an' they took her from me. Her mother is dead these three 
 years, an' all her brothers an' sisters died young, an' I reared 
 her like a lady, an' this is the way she left me now. But what 
 hurt? Let her go.' 
 
 'The M'Mahons were at the fair of Garryowen yesterday,' said 
 Lowry, musing. ' I wonder could it be them at all. I tell you 
 there are bad boys among them. There was one of 'em hanged 
 for spiriting away a girl o' the Hayeses before.' 
 
 ' If I thought it was one o' them,' O'Connor exclaimed, stretching 
 his arm to its full length, and shaking his clenched hand with 
 great passion, ' an' if I knew the one that robbed me, I 'd find him 
 out, if he was as cunning as a rabbit, an' I 'd tear him between my 
 two hands if he was as strong as a horse. They think to play 
 their game on me because my hair is grey. But I can match the 
 villains yet. If steel, or fire, or pikes, or powder, can match 'em, 
 I '11 do it. Let go my horse's bridle, an' don't be holding me here 
 when I should be flying like the wind behind 'em.' 
 
 Here he caught the eye of Kyrle Daly, as the latter asked him 
 whether he 'had not laid informations before a magistrate ?' 
 
 Instead of answering, the old man, who now recognised Daly 
 for the first time, took off his hat with a smile in which grief and 
 anger were mingled with native courtesy, and said, 'Mr. Daly, 
 astkore, I ask your pardon for not knowing you ; I meant no 
 offence to you, or to your father's son. I couldn't do it. How are 
 you, sir ? How is the masther and the misthress ? The Lord direct 
 'em, an' spare 'em their children.' Here the old man's eyes grew 
 watery, and the words were broken in his throat. ' Lay informa- 
 
 i Hold. 
 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 49 
 
 tions ?' he continued, taking up Kyrle Daly's question. ' No — no, 
 sir. My back 1 isn't so poor in the country that I need to do so 
 mean a thing as that.' 
 
 I And what other course would you take to obtain justice ? ' 
 
 I I '11 tell you the justice I 'd want,' said O'Connor, griping his 
 stick hard, and knitting his brows together, while the very beard 
 bristled upon his chin for anger. ' To plant him overright me in 
 the heart o' Garryowen fair, or where else he 'd like, an' give him 
 a stick, an' let me pick justice out of his four bones ! ' Here he 
 indulged himself with one rapid flourish of the blackthorn stick 
 above his head, which considerably endangered that of the young 
 gentleman to whom he addressed himself. 
 
 At the same moment a neighbour of O'Connor's galloped up 
 to them and exclaimed, ' Well, Mihil, agra t any tidings of her yet ? ' 
 
 ' Sorrow the tale or tidings.' 
 
 1 An' is it here you 're stoppin,' talkin', an' them villains spiriting 
 your daughter through the country ? Wisha, but you 're a droll 
 man, this day ! ' 
 
 Not Hamlet, in that exquisitely natural burst of passion over 
 the tomb of 'the fair Ophelia' — where he becomes incensed 
 against the affectionate Laertes for ' the bravery of his grief,' and 
 treats it as an infringement on his own prerogative of sorrow — not 
 Hamlet the Dane, in that moment of 'towering passion,' could 
 throw more loftiness of rebuke into his glance, than did Mihil 
 O'Connor, as he gazed upon the daring clansman who had thus 
 presumed to call his fatherly affection to account. More temperate, 
 however, than the Danish Prince, he did not let his anger loose, 
 but compressed his teeth, and puffed it forth between them. 
 Touching his hat to Kyrle, and bidding Lowry ' stand his friend,' 
 he put spurs to his horse, and rode forwards, followed by his friend ; 
 while Lowry laid his hand on the haircutter's arm, and asked him 
 for an account of the particulars. 
 
 ' Sonuher 2, to me if I know the half of it,' said the foe of un- 
 shaven chins, speaking in a shrill, professional accent ; ' but I was 
 standing in my little place above, shaving a boy o' the Downeses 
 against the benefit at Batt Coonerty's, an' being delayed a good 
 while (for the Downeses have all very strong hair — I 'd as lieve 
 be shaving a horse as one of 'em), I was sthrappin' my razhor 
 (for the twentieth turn), and lookin' out into the fair, when 
 who should I see going by only Eily O'Connor, an' she dressed in 
 a blue mantle, with the hood over her head, an' her hair curling 
 down about her neck like strings of goold. (Oh, the beauty o' 
 that girl!) Well, "It's a late walk your taking, Eily," says I. 
 She made me no answer, only passed on, an' I thought no more 
 about it till this morning, when her father walked into me. I 
 thought, at first, 'tis to be shaved he was coming, for, dear knows, 
 
 1 Faction. 2 A good wife. 
 
 D 
 
$o THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 he wanted it, when all at once he opened upon me in regard of his 
 daughter. Poor girl, I 'm sure sorrow call had I to her goin' or 
 stayin' more than I had to curl the Princess Royal's front — a job 
 that '11 never trouble me, I 'm thinking.' 
 
 ' Wisha, but it 5 s a droll business ! ' ejaculated Lowry, letting go 
 the stirrup-leather, which he had held fast during the foregoing 
 narrative. 'Ride on after him, Dunat, or you won't catch him 
 before night. Oh, vo ! vo ! Eily, asthore. Oh, wirra, Eily ; this 
 is the black day to your ould father ! ' 
 
 * An' the black an' blue day to me, I 'm sure,' squeaked out the 
 haircutter, trotting forwards, and groaning aloud at every motion, 
 as he was now thrown on the pommel, now on the hind-bow of the 
 saddle ; those grievances telling the more severely as he was a 
 lean little man, and but scantily furnished by nature with that 
 material which is best able to resist concussion. 
 
 The misfortune of the poor ropemaker indisposed Lowry (who 
 had once been a respectful and distant admirer of the lovely Eily) 
 from proceeding with the conversation ; and his young master had 
 ample leisure for the indulgence of his own luxurious reveries, 
 until they reached the entrance to the fair demesne of Castle 
 Chute. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 HOW THE READER, CONTRARY TO THE DECLARED INTENTION 
 OF THE HISTORIAN, OBTAINS A DESCRIPTION OF CASTLE 
 CHUTE 
 
 An old portress, talking Irish, with a huge bunch of keys at her 
 girdle — a rusty gate-lock — piers, lofty, and surmounted by a pair 
 of broken marble vases, while their shafts, far from exhibiting that 
 appearance of solidity so much admired in the relics of Grecian 
 architecture, were adorned in all their fissures by tufts of long 
 grass — an avenue, with rows of elms, forming a vista to the river 
 — a sudden turn, revealing a broad and sunny lawn — hay-cocks— 
 mowers at work — a winding gravel-walk lost in a grove— the house 
 appearing above the trees — the narrow-paned windows glittering 
 amongst the boughs — the old ivied castle, contrasted in so 
 singular a manner with the more modern addition to the build- 
 ing—the daws cawing about the chimneys— the stately herons, 
 settling on the castellated turrets, or winging their majestic way 
 through the peaceful kingdom of the winds — the screaming of a 
 peacock in the recesses of the wood — a green hill, appearing 
 sunny-bright against a clouded horizon — the heavy Norman arch- 
 way — the shattered sculpture — the close and fragrant shrubbery 
 —the noisy farm-yard and out-offices (built, as was then the 
 fashion, quite near the dwelling-house)— the bowering monthly rose, 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 51 
 
 embracing the simple pediment over the hall-door— the ponderous 
 knocker — the lofty gable — the pieces of broken sculpture and 
 tender foliage, that presented to the mind the images of youth and 
 age, of ruined grandeur and of rising beauty, blended and wreathed 
 together under the most pleasing form. 
 
 Such were the principal features of the scenery through which 
 Kyrle Daly passed into the dwelling of his beloved. The neces- 
 sities of our narrative forbid us to dwell at a more ample length 
 on the mere description of a landscape. 
 
 To his surprise, and, in some degree, to his disappointment, he 
 found the castle more crowded with company than he had expected. 
 He was admitted by a richly-ornamented Gothic archway, while 
 Lowry remained walking his horse under the shade of the trees. 
 A handsome, though rather ill-used curricle,' which appeared to 
 have been lately driven, was drawn up on the gravel plat ; and a 
 servant, in tarnished livery, was employed in cooling two horses 
 on the slope which shelved downward to the river-side. The foam 
 that flecked their shining necks, and covered the curbs and 
 branches, showed that they had been ridden a considerable 
 distance, and by no sparing masters. 
 
 Oh, murther, Master Kyrle, is this you ? ' exclaimed Falvey, the 
 servant boy, as he looked into the narrow hall and recognised the 
 young ' collegian.' ' Ma grine chree bu / it 's an opening to the 
 heart to see you ! ' 
 
 ' Thank you, Pat. Are the ladies at home ? ' 
 
 * They are, sir. Oh, murther, murther ! are you come at 
 last, sir?' he repeated, with an air of smiling wonder; then 
 suddenly changing his manner, and nodding with great freedom 
 and cunning, ' Oh, the ladies ?— they are at home, sir, both of 
 'em.' 
 
 'And well?' 
 
 1 And well. I give praise— both of 'em well ; where 's the 
 horse, sir?' 
 
 1 Lowry is walking him near the shrubbery.' 
 
 'An' is Lowry come, too ? Oh, murther, murther !' He ran to 
 the door and looked out, nodded, and raised his hand in courtesy, 
 and then hastened back to Kyrle—' Gi' me the hat, sir, an' I '11 
 hang it up— poof, it 's full o' dust— come in here, Masther Kyrle, 
 an' I '11 give you a touch before you go upstairs ; there 's a power 
 
 o' quollity in the drawin'-room, an' ' here he again cast down 
 
 his head with a knowing smile— 'there's reasons for doin's ; the 
 ladies must be plaised surely. An' how is Mr. Daly an' herself 
 an' all of 'em, sir ? Oh, murther, murther ! ' 
 
 ' They are all well, Pat, thank you.' 
 
 'The Lord keep 'em so ! There's a sight above stairs in the 
 new house. Mr. Cregan of Roaring Hall (ah, that's a rale 
 sporting gettleman), an' Mr. Creagh, an' Pincher, an' Doctor 
 Lake, an' the officer, westwards ' j then, with another familiar 
 
52 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 wink, 'there's the drollest cratur in life in the servants' hall 
 abroad, the officer's sarvent-boy, a Londoner, afeerd o' the world 
 that he '11 have his throat cut be the Whiteboys before he quits 
 the country. Poor cratur, he makes me laugh the way he talks 
 of Ireland, as if he was a marked man among us, the little 
 sprissawneen, that nobody ever would trouble their heads about 
 — coming ! ' — a bell rang — ' That 's for the luncheon ; I must 
 smarten myself, or Miss Anne will kill me. They're all going off, 
 after they take something, to the races near the point below, 
 where they 're to have the greatest divarsion ever you hear ; an' 
 so the master is well, eastwards ? why, then, I 'm glad to hear it ; 
 that's a good gettleman as ever sat down to his own table' — the 
 bell rang again — ' Oh, murther ! there 's the bell again ; I '11 be 
 kilt entirely ! There now, Master Kyrle, you 're purty well, I 
 think ; they 're all upstairs in the drawin'-room in the new house. 
 I need not tell you the way. Syl Carney will open the doore for 
 you, an' I '11 wait aisy a minute, for it wouldn't look seemly for me 
 to be takin' in the thray and things close behind you.' 
 
 While this communicative retainer slipped away, napkin in 
 hand, to the pantry, Kyrle Daly ascended a corkscrew flight of 
 narrow stone steps, at the head of which he was met by the 
 blooming handmaiden above named. Here he had as many 
 1 Masther Kyrle's ' and pretty smiles, and officious, though kindly 
 meant, attentions to undergo, as in the narrow hall. These he 
 repaid in the usual manner, by complimenting Syl on her good 
 looks — wondering she had not got married, and reminding her 
 that Shrovetide would be shortly coming round again ; in return 
 for which the pretty Syl repeatedly told him that he was ' a funny 
 gentleman ' and ' a great play-boy.' 
 
 They passed through an old banqueting room which had once 
 formed the scene of a council of the Munster chieftains in the 
 days of Elizabeth, and descending a flight of a few wooden steps, 
 stood in the centre of a lobby of much more modern architecture. 
 Here Kyrle Daly felt his heart beat a little wildly, as he heard 
 voices and laughter in the adjoining room. Modestly conscious, 
 however, of his graceful person, and aware of the importance of 
 displaying it to some advantage in the eyes of his mistress, he 
 adjusted his ruffles, and, with something like the feeling of a 
 young debutant, conscious of merit, yet afraid of censure, made 
 his entrance on the little domestic scene. 
 
 The company all rose and received him with that pompous 
 display of affability and attention which our fathers mistook for 
 politeness, but which their wiser descendants have discovered to 
 be the exact contrary, and discarded from the drawing-room as 
 unbefitting the ease and sincerity of social life. Mrs. Chute was 
 unable to rise, but her greeting was at once cordial and dignified. 
 Anne gave him her hand with the air of an affectionate relative ; 
 Mr. Hyland Creagh placed his heels together, adjusted his ample 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 53 
 
 shirt frills, and bowed until the queue of his powdered wig cul- 
 minated to the zenith ; while Pincher wagged his tail, looked up 
 at his master as if to inquire the nature of his movements, and 
 finally coiled himself up on the carpet and slept ; Mr. Barnaby 
 Cregan gripped his hand until the bones cracked, expressing, in 
 very concise language, a wish that his soul might be doomed to 
 everlasting misery in the next world if he were not rejoiced to see 
 him ; Doctor Leake tendered him a finger, which Kyrle grasped 
 hard, and (in revenge, perhaps, for the punishment inflicted on 
 him by Cregan) shook with so lively an expression of regard, that 
 the worthy physician was tempted to repent his condescension. 
 To the young officer, an Englishman, Kyrle was introduced by 
 the formal course of—' Captain Gibson, Mr., Daly — Mr. Daly, 
 Captain Gibson,' on which they bowed as coldly and stiffly as the 
 figures in a clockmaker's window in Holborn, and all resumed 
 their places. 
 
 After the usual inquiries into the condition of both families had 
 been made and answered, Kyrle Daly indulged himself in a brief 
 perusal of the personal appearance of the individuals in whose 
 society he was placed. The information which he derived from 
 the few glances that happened to fall wide of Miss Chute, shall 
 here be laid before the reader. 
 
 Mrs. Chute, the venerable lady of the mansion, was seated in 
 a richly carved arm-chair, near an ebony work-table, on which 
 were placed a pair of silver spectacles and the last racing calen- 
 dar. A gold-headed cane rested against her chair, and a small 
 spaniel, in the attitude which heralds term couchant^ lay at her 
 side, burlesquing the lion of Brittania in the popular emblem. In 
 her more youthful days, indeed, Mrs. Chute might have assumed 
 her part in the latter without exciting any ludicrous association ; 
 and even in this decay and mouldering of her womanly attractions, 
 there was a grace, a dignity, a softened fire, and even a beauty, 
 to be traced, which awakened the spectator's respect, and some- 
 times warmed it into admiration. Old age, while it took nothing 
 away from her dignity, had imparted to her manner that air of 
 feminine dependence in which she was said to have been some- 
 what too deficient in her youth, and replaced in tenderness and 
 interest the beauty which it had removed. 
 
 Her daughter, who bore a very perceptible resemblance to the 
 old lady in the cast of her features, as well as in their expression, 
 looked at this moment exceedingly beautiful. A dark-blue riding- 
 dress displayed her figure to such advantage, that if a young 
 sculptor could have taken it as a model for a study of Minerva, 
 and could likewise afford a lobster and a bottle of sherry to a 
 critic in the ' Fine Arts,' there is little doubt that he would make 
 his fortune. Her hair, which was shining black, cut short, and 
 curled so gracefully that it might vie with the finest head in Mr. 
 Hope's book of costumes, crept out from beneath her small round 
 
54 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 hat, and shaded a countenance that glowed at this moment with 
 a sweet and fascinating cheerfulness. The common herd of 
 mankind frequently exhibit personal anomalies of so curious a 
 description as to remind one of Quevedo's fanciful vision of the 
 general resurrection, where one man, in his hurry, claps his 
 neighbour's head upon his own shoulders, and the upper portion 
 of a turtle-fed alderman is borne along by the trembling shanks 
 of a starveling magazine poet. But nothing of that incongruity 
 was observable in the charming person of the heiress of Castle 
 Chute. Her countenance was exquisitely adapted both in form 
 and character to the rest of her frame ; and she might be justly 
 admired as a piece of workmanship not entrusted by Nature (as 
 in a pin manufactory) to the hands of nine journeymen, but 
 wrought out and polished by that great adept herself as a sample 
 of womankind for the inspection of customers. 
 
 It was, indeed, remarked by those who enjoyed only a visiting 
 acquaintance with Anne Chute, that her general manner was cold 
 and distant, and that there was, in the wintry lustre of her large 
 black eyes and the noble carriage of her fine person, a loftiness 
 which repelled in the spectator's breast that enthusiasm which 
 her beauty was calculated to awaken, and induced him to stop 
 short at the feeling of simple admiration. Hardress Cregan, 
 who, with all his shyness, had the reputation of being a fine critic 
 on these subjects, had been heard to say of her on his return from 
 college, that ' she was perfect. Her form and face were absolutely 
 faultless, and a connoisseur might, with a better taste, pretend to 
 discover a fault in the proportions of the Temple of Theseus. 
 But there,' he added, ' I must terminate the eulogy ; for I could 
 no sooner think of loving such a piece of frost-work than of 
 flinging my arms in ecstasy around one of the Doric pillars of the 
 old edifice itself.' 
 
 But Hardress Cregan had been only once, and for a few 
 minutes, in the lady's company, when he pronounced this judg- 
 ment. Neither was he an impartial observer, for the embarrass- 
 ment which he experienced in consequence of her unconscious 
 dignity, made him throw more asperity into his criticism than the 
 occasion actually required. Those who enjoyed a longer and a 
 nearer intimacy with Miss Chute found an additional fascination 
 in that very coldness which kept ordinary acquaintances at a 
 distance, and which for them was so cheerfully and so winningly 
 removed. In proportion to the awe which it inspired on a first 
 introduction, was the delight occasioned by its subsequent dissi- 
 pation ; and it gave to her whole character that effect of surprise 
 which is dangerous or available to the influence of the fair 
 possessor, according as the changes which it reveals are attractive 
 or otherwise. The feelings which accompanied a growing 
 intimacy with this lovely girl resembled those of one who en- 
 deavours, by a feeble light, to discover the graces of a landscape 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 55 
 
 which he knows to be beautiful, but which he is unable to 
 appreciate until the morning light streams in upon the picture, 
 and brings it forth in all its exquisite reality before his eyes. 
 
 The remainder of the company are not so interesting as to 
 claim an equal portion of the reader's notice. Mr. Barnaby 
 Cregan, a stout, top-booted old gentleman, with a nose that told 
 tales of many a rousing night, was seated close to Mrs. Chute, 
 and deeply engaged in a discussion upon cocks and cockerels, 
 sparring, setting, impounding, the long law, the short law, and 
 every other law that had any connection with his reigning passion. 
 The rosy and red-coated Captain Gibson, who was a person of 
 talent and industry in his profession, was listening with much 
 interest to Dr. Lucas Leake, who possessed some little anti- 
 quarian skill in Irish remains, and who was at this moment 
 unfolding the difference which existed between the tactics of King 
 Lugh-Lamb-Fada and those issued from his late most gracious 
 Majesty's War-office ; between one of King Malachy's hobbilers 
 and a life-guardsman ; between an English halberd and a stone- 
 headed gai-bulg ; and between his own commission of lieutenant 
 and the Fear Comhlan Caoguid of the Fion Erin. 
 
 Mr. Hyland Creagh, who, as before mentioned, notwithstand- 
 ing the perfect maturity of his years, still continued to affect the 
 man of gallantry, was standing near Miss Chute, and looking 
 with a half-puzzled, half-smiling air over a drawing which she had 
 placed in his hands. Now and then, as he held the picture to 
 the light, he looked askance, and with a forbidding expression, at 
 Kyrle, who was carelessly sauntering towards the fair object of 
 his attentions, and yet endeavouring to give his approximation 
 rather the appearance of accident than of design. Mr. Creagh's 
 experience in society had long since made him aware that youth 
 was a quality which contributed materially to success with the 
 ladies, and the consequence of this discovery was a hearty 
 detestation (a term more qualified would not express the feeling) 
 of every gentleman who was younger than himself. ' Puppies ! ' 
 he would exclaim, 'they assume the air and port of men when 
 they should be confined to bibs and frills, and bestride a blood- 
 horse when their highest corvet should be made in the hall on 
 their grandfather's walking-cane.' But he had the mortification 
 to find that his sentiments on this head were adopted by no 
 unmarried ladies except those whose wisdom and experience were 
 equal to his own ; and about their opinions, unhappily, Mr. Creagh 
 was as indifferent as the young coxcombs whom he censured. 
 
 'I profess my ignorance,' he said, after contemplating the 
 picture for several minutes. 'The drawing is admirable; the 
 colouring has a depth and softness of tone that I have seen rarely 
 produced by water-colours ; and the whole design bears the 
 stamp of reality upon it ; but I profess my ignorance of the place 
 which you say it is intended to represent.' 
 
56 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Anne, affecting a disappointed tone, and pleased 
 to put the old gentleman's gallantry to the torture : 'then I must 
 have made a sad failure, for the scene ought to be quite familiar 
 to you.' 
 
 ' 1 am the worst person in the world at tracing a resemblance, 5 
 said Mr. Creagh, looking puzzled. ' Perhaps it is meant for 
 Ballylin Point?' 
 
 'Oh, Mr. Creagh, can you find any resemblance? What a 
 wretched bungler you must think me ! You did well to say meant 
 for— that expression indicates so exactly the degree of relation 
 between my sketches and the originals.' 
 
 "Pon my honour, Miss Chute — 'pon my honour, as a gentle- 
 man.' 
 
 'Mr. Daly!' Kyrle flew to her side. 'Perhaps you could 
 restore me to my self-esteem. Do you know that Mr. Creagh has 
 mistaken this for a sketch of Ballylin Point ! Try if you can 
 restore my credit, for it is sinking very fast, even in my own 
 estimation.' 
 
 ' Ballylin Point !' exclaimed Kyrle, taking the drawing into his 
 hands — ' I do not see the least resemblance.' Mr. Creagh's eyes 
 flashed fire at this unceremonious declaration ; but he checked 
 his resentment, and congratulated Miss Chute on this proof, that 
 the fault lay in his want of observation, not in her want of 
 skill. 
 
 'And do you recognise the scene?' continued Miss Chute, who 
 was well aware of the old servente's foible, and loved to toy with 
 it for her amusement. ' Let me hear if I have been, indeed, so 
 very unsuccessful.' 
 
 Her lover delayed answering, not because he shared the diffi- 
 culty of Mr. Creagh, but that he was wrapt in admiration of the 
 drawing. It was an interesting landscape, and finished with 
 more taste and fineness of touch than are usually to be traced in 
 the efforts of accomplished young ladies. The foreground of the 
 picture exhibited a grassy slope, which formed a kind of peninsula 
 in a magnificent sheet of water, running a little to the left, and 
 terminating at what artists term the middle distance in a grace- 
 fully-wooded point. The remains of an old castle appeared 
 among the trees, the gloom and majesty of which were exhibited, 
 in a striking degree, by a brilliant effect of sunshine on the water 
 and on the green slope above mentioned. Two small islands, 
 affording an anchorage to some open boats, broke the expanse of 
 water on the right ; while the small bay, formed by the point 
 before described on the left, was graced by the figures of fisher- 
 men in the act of casting their nets. The waters were bounded 
 in the distance by a range of blue hills, some of which projected 
 into rocky or wooded headlands ; while the whole was softened 
 by that deep and rich blue tint which is peculiar to the moist 
 atmosphere of the climate ; and by imparting at once distinctness 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 57 
 
 and softness to the landscape, is far better adapted to the scenes 
 of rural solitude, than even the lonely splendour of a Tuscan 
 sun. 
 
 1 Ballylin ? ' echoed Mr Cregan, who had walked over to look at 
 the drawing. ' 'Tis as like Ballylin as Roaring Hall is to Dublin 
 Castle. ; Tis Castle Chute, and right well touched off too, by 
 jingo.' To this observation he added, in language which the 
 altered customs of society prevent our copying verbatim, that he 
 wished, the spiritual foe of the human race might lay hold of him 
 if it were not an admirable resemblance. 
 
 Mr. Creagh had his own reasons for not taking offence at any 
 opinion that was urged by his good friend and frequent host, Mr. 
 Cregan ; but he did not forget the difference of opinion that was 
 hazarded by his young acquaintance. To thefair artist's raillery 
 he replied with a bow and an air of old-fashioned politeness, that, 
 ' frequently as he had the honour of visiting Castle Chute, he was 
 yet unfamiliar with the scenery, for his thoughts on approaching 
 it were exclusively occupied by one object.' 
 
 'And even though they were at liberty,' added Kyrle, 'it is 
 more than probable Mr. Creagh has never seen Castle Chute at 
 this point of view, so that it could hardly be expected to remain 
 on his recollection.' Then moving closer to Anne, and speaking 
 in a lower tone of voice, he said : ' This is the very scene of which 
 I told you Hardress Cregan was so enthusiastic an admirer. You 
 have drawn it since ?' 
 
 Miss Chute answered in the affirmative, and, turning quickly 
 away, replaced the sketch in her portfolio. Then, turning to 
 Creagh, she told him that he would be very shortly qualified to 
 give an opinion as to the fidelity of her design, for they would 
 pass the spot in question, on their way to the little racecourse. 
 There was some*further conversation, not worth detailing, on the 
 subject of Hardress Cregan's salute ; and some conjectures were 
 hazarded concerning the female in the blue cloak, none of which, 
 however, threw any certain light upon that mystery. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 HOW MYLES MURPHY IS HEARD ON BEHALF OF HIS PONIES 
 
 Pat Falvey, supposing that he had remained a sufficient time 
 without to prevent the suspicion of any private understanding be- 
 tween him and Mr. Daly, now made his appearance with luncheon. 
 A collared head, cream-cheese, honey, a decanter of gooseberry 
 wine, and some garden fruit, were speedily arranged on the table, 
 
58 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 and the visitors, no way loth, were pressed to make a liberal use 
 of the little banquet ; for the time had not yet gone by when 
 people imagined that they could not display their regard for a 
 friend more effectually than by cramming him up to the throat 
 with food and strong drink. Kyrle Daly was in the act of taking 
 wine with Mrs. Chute, when he observed Falvey stoop to his young 
 mistress's ear, and whisper something with a face of much 
 seriousness. 
 
 1 A boy wanting to speak to me ? ' said Miss Chute. ' Has he 
 got letters ? let him send up his message.' 
 
 ' He says he must see yourself, Miss. 'Tis in regard of some 
 ponies of his that were impounded be Mr. Dawley for trespassing 
 above here last night. He hasn't the mains of releasing 'em, poor 
 craythur, an' he's far from home. I'm sure he's an honest boy. 
 He says he 'd have a good friend in Mr. Cregan, if he knew he 
 was below.' 
 
 ' Me ? ' said Mr. Cregan ; ' why, what 's the fellow's name ? ' 
 
 * Myles Murphy, sir, from Killarney, westwards/ 
 
 1 Oh, Myles-na-Coppaleen ? Poor fellow, is he in tribulation ? 
 We must have his ponies out by all means.' 
 
 1 It requires more courage than I can always command,' said 
 Miss Chute, ' to revoke any command of Dawley's. He is an old 
 man, and, whether that he was crossed in love, or from a natural 
 peevishness of disposition, he is such a morose creature, that I 
 am quite afraid of him. But I will hear this Myles at all 
 events.' 
 
 She was moving to the door when her uncle's voice made her 
 turn. 
 
 ' Stay, Anne,' said Mr. Cregan ; ' let him come up. 'Twill be 
 as good as a play to hear him and the steward pro and con. 
 Kyrle Daly here, who is intended for the bar, will be our assessor, 
 to decide on the points of law. I can tell you, Kyrle, that Myles 
 will give you a lesson in the art of pleading that may be of use to 
 you on circuit at one time or another.' 
 
 Anne laughed, and looked to Mrs. Chute, who, with a smile of 
 tolerating condescension, said, while she cleared with a silken 
 kerchief the glasses of her spectacles : ' If your uncle desires it, 
 my love, I can see no objection. Those mountaineers are amusing 
 creatures.' 
 
 Anne returned to her seat, and the conversation proceeded, 
 while Falvey, with an air of great and perplexed importance, 
 went to summon Myles upstairs. 
 
 'Mountaineers!' exclaimed Captain Gibson. 'You call every 
 upland a mountain here in Ireland, and every one that lives out 
 of sight of the sea, a mountaineer.' 
 
 'But this fellow is a genuine mountaineer, cried Mr. Cregan, 
 ' with a cabin two thousand feet above the level of the sea. If 
 you are in the country next week, and will come down and see us 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 59 
 
 at the Lakes, along with our friends here, I promise to show you 
 as sturdy a race of mountaineers as any in Europe. Doctor 
 Leake can give you a history of 'em up to Noah's flood, some 
 .time when you're alone together — when the country was first 
 peopled by one Parable, or Sparable.' 
 
 ' Paralon,' said Dr. Leake ; ' Paralon, or Migdonia, as the 
 Psalter sings : 
 
 "On the fourteenth day, being Tuesday, 
 
 They brought their bold ships to anchor, 
 In the blue fair port with beauteous shore, 
 Of well-defended Inver Sceine." 
 
 In the rest of Munster, where ' 
 
 ' Yes — well, you '11 see 'em all, as the doctor says, if you come 
 to Killarney,' resumed Mr. Cregan, interrupting the latter, to 
 whose discourse a country residence, a national turn of character, 
 and a limited course of reading, had given a tinge of pedantry ; 
 and who was, moreover, a firm believer in all the ancient Shanachus, 
 from the yellow book of Moling to the black book of Molega. 
 'And if you like to listen to him, he'll explain to you every action 
 that ever befell, on land or water, from Ross Castle up to 
 Carrigaline.' 
 
 Kyrle, who felt both surprise and concern at learning that Miss 
 Chute was leaving home so soon, and without having thought it 
 worth her while to make him aware of her intention, was about 
 to address her on the subject, when the clatter of a pair of heavy 
 and well-paved brogues on the small flight of stairs in the lobby, 
 produced a sudden expectation amongst the company. They 
 heard Pat Falvey urging some instructions, in a low and smothered 
 tone, to which a strong and not unmusical voice replied, in that 
 complaining accent which distinguishes the dialect of the more 
 western descendants of Heber : ' Ah, lay me alone, you foolish 
 boy ; do you think did I never speak to quollity in my life before ?' 
 
 The door opened, and the uncommissioned master of horse 
 made his appearance. His appearance was at once strikingly 
 majestic and prepossessing, and the natural ease and dignity with 
 which he entered the room might almost have become a peer of 
 the realm coming to solicit the interest of the family for an 
 electioneering candidate. A broad and sunny forehead, light and 
 wavy hair, a blue cheerful eye, a nose that in Persia might have 
 won him a throne, healthful cheeks, a mouth that was full of 
 character, and a well-knit and almost gigantic person, constituted 
 his external claims to attention, of which his lofty and confident, 
 although most unassuming carriage, showed him to be in some 
 degree conscious. He wore a complete suit of brown frieze, with 
 a gay-coloured cotton handkerchief around his neck, blue worsted 
 stockings, and brogues carefully greased, while he held in his 
 right hand an immaculate felt hat, the purchase of the pre- 
 
60 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ceding day's fair. In the left he held a straight-handled whip and 
 a wooden rattle, which he used for the purpose of collecting his 
 ponies when they happened to straggle. An involuntary murmur 
 of admiration ran amongst the guests at his entrance. Dr. 
 Leake was heard to pronounce him a true Gadelian, and Captain 
 Gibson thought he would cut a splendid figure in a helmet and 
 cuirass, under one of the arches in the horse-guards. 
 
 Before he had spoken, and while the door yet remained open, 
 Hyland Creagh roused Pincher with a chirping noise, and gave 
 him the well-known countersign of ' Baithershin 1 ' 
 
 Pincher waddled towards the door, raised himself on his hind 
 legs, closed it fast, and then trotted back to his master's feet, 
 followed by the staring and bewildered gaze of the mountaineer. 
 
 1 Well,' he exclaimed, ' that flogs cock-fighting ! I never 
 thought I 'd live to have a dog taich me manners, any way. 
 '•''Baithershin" says he, an' he shets the doore like a Christian.' 
 
 The mountaineer now commenced a series of most profound 
 obeisances to every individual of the company, beginning with the 
 ladies, and ending with the officer; after which he remained 
 glancing from one to another with a smile of mingled sadness and 
 courtesy, as if waiting, like an evoked spirit, the spell-word of the 
 enchantress who had called him up. ' 'Tisn't manners to speak 
 first before quollity,' was the answer he would have been prepared 
 to render, in case any one had inquired the motive of his conduct. 
 
 * Well, Myles, what wind has brought you to this part of the 
 country ? ' said Mr. Barney Cregan. 
 
 'The ould wind always then, Mr. Cregan,' said Myles, with 
 anotfrer-deep obeisance, ' seeing would I get a feow o' the ponies 
 off. Long life to you, sir ; I was proud to hear you wor above 
 stairs, for it isn't the first time you stood my friend in trouble. 
 My father (the heavens be his bed this day !) was a fosterer o' 
 your uncle Mick's, an' a first an' second cousin, be the mother's 
 side, to ould Mrs. O'Leary, your honour's aunt, westward. So 'tis 
 kind for your honour to have a leanin' towards uz.' 
 
 * A clear case, Myles ; but what have you to say to Mrs. Chute 
 about the trespass ?' 
 
 'What have I to say to her? why, then, a deal. It's a long 
 while since I see her now, an' she wears finely, the Lord bless 
 her ! Ah, Miss Anne ! — Oyeh, murther, murther ! Sure I 'd know 
 that face all over the world — your own livin' image, ma'am (turnin' 
 to Mrs. Chute), an' a little dawney touch o' the master (heaven 
 rest his soul !) about the chin, you 'd think. My grandmother an' 
 himself wor third cousins. Oh, vo ! vo !' 
 
 ' He has made out three relations in the company already,' said 
 Anne to Kyrle ; ' could any courtier make interest more skilfully ? ' 
 
 1 Well, Myles, about the ponies.' 
 
 'Poor craturs, true for you, sir. There's Mr. Creagh there, 
 long life to him, knows how well I aim 'em for ponies. You seen 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 61 
 
 what trouble I had with 'em, Mr. Creagh, the day you fought the 
 iewel with young M'Farlane from the north. They went skelping 
 like mad over the hills down to Glena, when they heerd the shot. 
 Ah, indeed, Mr. Creagh, you cowed the north countryman that 
 morning fairly. " My honour is satisfied," says he, " if Mr. Creagh 
 will apologise." " I didn't come to the ground to apologise," says 
 Mr. Creagh ; " it 's what I never done to any man," says he, " and 
 it'll be long from me to do it to you." "Well, my honour is 
 satisfied any way," says the other, when he heerd the pistols cock- 
 ing for a second shot. I thought I 'd split laughing.' 
 
 ' Pooh, pooh ! nonsense, man,' said Creagh, endeavouring to 
 hide a smile of gratified vanity. ' Your unfortunate ponies will 
 starve while you stay inventing wild stories .' 
 
 1 He has gained another friend since,' whispered Miss Chute. 
 
 1 Invent ! ' echoed the mountaineer. ' There 's Docthor Leake 
 was on the spot, an' he knows if I invent. An' you did a good 
 job, too, that time, docthor,' he continued, turning to the latter ; 
 ' Old Keys, the piper, gives it up to you, of all the docthors going, 
 for curing his eyesight, An' he has a great leaning to you, more- 
 over, you're such a fine Irishian.' 1 
 
 * Another,' said Miss Chute, apart. 
 
 * Yourself an' ould Mr. Daly,' he continued. ' I hope the master 
 is well in his health, sir ? ' (turning to Kyrle with another profound 
 conge), ' may the Lord fasten the life in you an' him. That 's a 
 gentleman that wouldn't see a poor boy in want of his supper or a 
 bed to sleep in, an' he far from his own people, nor persecute him 
 in regard of a little trespass that was done unknown.' 
 
 * This fellow is irresistible,' said Kyrle. * A perfect Ulysses.' 
 
 ' And have you nothing to say to the captain, Myles ? is he no 
 relation of yours ? ' 
 
 ' The captain, Mr. Cregan ? Except in so far as we are all ' 
 servants of the Almighty and children of Adam, I know of none. 
 But I have a feeling for the red coat, for all. I have three 
 brothers in the army, serving in America ; one of 'em was made a 
 corporal, or an admiral, or some ral or another, for behavin' well 
 at Quaybec, the time of Woulfs death. The English showed 
 themselves a great people that day, surely/ 
 
 Having thus secured to himself what lawyers call ' the ear of 
 the court,' the mountaineer proceeded to plead the cause of his 
 ponies with much force and pathos, dwelling on their distance 
 from home, their wild habits of life, which left them ignorant of 
 the common rules of boundaries, enclosures, and field-gates, 
 setting forth with equal emphasis the length of road they had 
 travelled, their hungry condition, and the barrenness of the com- 
 mon on which they had been turned out ; and finally, urged in 
 mitigation of penalty, the circumstances of this being a first 
 
 1 One skilled in Irish antiquities, language, eto 
 
62 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 offence, and the improbability of its being ever renewed in 
 future. 
 
 The surly old steward, Dan Dawley, was accordingly summoned 
 for the purpose of ordering the discharge of the prisoners, a com- 
 mission which he received with a face as black as winter. Miss 
 Anne might ' folly her liking, 5 he said ' but it was the last time 
 he'd ever trouble himself about damage or trespass any more. 
 What affair was it of his if all the horses in the barony were 
 turned loose into the kitchen-garden itself? ' 
 
 ' Horses, do you call 'em?' exclaimed Myles, bending on the 
 old man a frown of dark remonstrance — ' a parcel of little ponies 
 not the height o' that chair.' 
 
 1 What signify is it?' snarled the steward — 'they'd eat as much, 
 an' more than a racer.' 
 
 1 Is it they, the craturs ? They 'd hardly injure a plate of stir- 
 about if it was put before 'em.' 
 
 'Ayeh! hugh !' 
 
 ' An' 'tisn't what I 'd expect from you, Mr. Dawley, to be going 
 again' a relation o' your own in this manner.' 
 
 'A relation o' mine!' growled Dawley, scarcely deigning to 
 cast a glance back over his shoulder as he hobbled out of the 
 room. 
 
 1 Yes, then, o' yours.' 
 
 Dawley paused at the door and looked back. 
 
 'Will you deny it o' me if you. can,' continued Myles, fixing his 
 eye on him, ' that Biddy Nale, your own gossip, an' Larry Foley 
 wor second cousins ? Deny that o' me, if you can.' 
 
 ' For what would I deny it ? ' 
 
 1 Well, why ! An' Larry Foley was uncle to my father's first 
 wife — (the angels spread her bed this night !). An' I tell you 
 another thing, the Dawleys would cut a poor figure in many a fair 
 westwards, if they hadn't the Murphys to back 'em, so they 
 would ; but what hurt ? Sure you can folly your own pleasure.' 
 
 The old steward muttered something which nobody could hear, 
 and left the room. Myles of the Ponies, after many profound 
 bows to all his relations, and a profusion of thanks to the ladies, 
 followed him, and was observed in a few minutes after on the 
 avenue talking with much earnestness and apparent agitation to 
 Lowry Looby. Kyrle Daly, who remembered the story of the 
 mountaineer's misfortune at Owen's garden, concluded that Lowry 
 was making him aware of the abduction of the beautiful Eily, and 
 felt a pang of sympathetic affliction for the poor fellow, in which 
 probably no one else in the room would have participated, at 
 least not altogether so deeply. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 63 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 HOW KYRLE DALY SPED IN HIS WOOING 
 
 The sun was in the west when the party arrived at the bridle- 
 road that turned off to the race-ground. To Kyrle Daly's great 
 delight, Mr. Cregan had taken his horse, resigning to him the 
 agreeable office of driving Anne Chute in the curricle, while he 
 rode forward with the gentlemen. Seldom, indeed, I believe, did 
 the wheels of that vehicle enter so many ruts, x>r come in contact 
 with so many obstacles, as in this short drive, a circumstance 
 rather to be attributed to the perplexity of the driver's mind than 
 to any deficiency of skill or practice in his hand. 
 
 None of the company knew, or indeed cared to be informed, 
 what the nature was of the conversation which had passed be- 
 tween Miss Chute and her young escort on the road. They 
 observed, however, when the curricle drew up, that Kyrle looked 
 pale and flurried, and that his manner was absent ; while that of 
 his fair companion was marked by an unusual degree of serious- 
 ness, not unmingled with confusion. 
 
 1 What !' exclaimed Cregan, 'you look as ruffled as if you had 
 been sparring. Get your hutts in order, then, for you must be set 
 again before you come to the ground. You have a quarter of a 
 mile through the fields to travel yet.' 
 
 * Why, uncle, does not the road sweep by it ?' 
 
 ' No nearer than I tell you, and the curricle can go no further. 
 Come, Creagh, give my niece her little hunter and walk with me 
 across the fields. Mr. Daly, I resign your seat to you once more. 
 A pretty stepping thing this is of yours. I 'd like to see her tried 
 with ten or twelve stone weight at a steeplechase.' 
 
 'Do not/ said Kyrle, in a low and earnest tone, addressing 
 Anne Chute, ' do not, I entreat of you, deprive me of this last 
 opportunity. I would give the whole world for a minute's 
 conversation.' 
 
 ' I believe I shall walk, uncle,' said the young lady, with some 
 hesitation, ' and Mr. Daly is kind enough to say he will accom- 
 pany me on foot.' 
 
 ' With all my heart,' cried the cock-fighter. ' I remember the 
 time, Daly, when I would not have given up a walk through the 
 fields with a fine girl, on a sunshiny evening, for all the races in 
 Munster. If Hepton Connolly be on the ground, as his insolent 
 groom tells me he is, I will make him keep the staggeens at the 
 starting-post until you come up.' 
 
 So saying, he rode on with the ci-devant sweater, to overtake 
 
64 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 the doctor and captain, who, he observed, had grown as thick as 
 two pickpockets since morning. 
 
 - 1 am afraid,' said Kyrle, with a mixture of dignity and dis- 
 appointment in his manner, ' I am afraid, Miss Chute, that you 
 will think this importunate, after what you have already told me. 
 But that rejection was so sudden — I will not say so unexpected — 
 that I cannot avoid entering more at length into the subject. Be- 
 sides, it may, it must be a long time before we shall meet again.' 
 
 * I am sorry you should think that necessary, Mr. Daly,' said 
 Anne ; ' I always liked you as a friend, and there is not a person 
 I know, whose society, in that light, I could prize more highly : 
 but if you think it necessary to your own peace of mind to remain 
 away from us, it would be very unreasonable in me to murmur. 
 Yet, I think and hope,' she added, affecting a smiling air as she 
 looked round upon him, ' that it will not be long before we shall 
 see you again with altered sentiments, and a mind as much at 
 ease as ever.' 
 
 'You do me wrong, Anne !' said Kyrle, with sudden passion. 
 ' I am not so ignorant of my own character as to suppose that 
 possible. No, Miss Chute. This is not with me a boyish fancy, 
 a predilection suddenly formed, and capable of being just as 
 suddenly laid aside. If you had said this last summer, a few 
 weeks after I first saw you, the remark perhaps might have been 
 made with justice. I knew little of you then besides your beauty, 
 your talents, and your accomplishments ; and I will say, in justice 
 to myself, that those qualities in any woman never could so 
 deeply fix or interest me as to produce any lasting disquiet in my 
 mind. But our acquaintance has been since too much pro- 
 longed ; I have seen you too often ; I have known you too well ; 
 I have loved you too deeply and too sincerely to feel this dis- 
 appointment as anything less than a dreadful stroke. Let me 
 entreat you,' he continued, with increasing warmth, and disre- 
 garding the efforts which Miss Chute made to interrupt him, 'let 
 me implore you to recall that hasty negative. You said you 
 were unprepared — that you did not expect such a proposal from 
 me. I do not press you to answer at this moment ; the torture of 
 suspense itself is preferable to absolute despair. Say you will 
 think of it ; say anything rather than at once decide on my — 
 destruction, I cannot but call it.' 
 
 ' I must not, I will not act with so much injustice,' said Anne, 
 who was considerably distressed by the depth of feeling that 
 was evident in her lover's voice and manner. ' I should be 
 treating you most unfairly, Mr. Daly, if I did so. It is true that I 
 did not expect such a declaration as you have made — not in the 
 least ; but my decision is taken notwithstanding. It is impos- 
 sible I can ever give you any answer than you have already 
 received. Do not, I will entreat of you in my turn, give way to 
 any groundless expectations — any idea of a change in my senti- 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 65 
 
 ments on this subject. It is as impossible we should ever be 
 united as if we lived in two separate planets.' 
 
 The unhappy suitor looked the very image of pale and ghastly 
 despair itself. His eye wandered, his cheek grew wan, and every 
 muscle in his face quivered with passion. His words, for several 
 moments, were so broken as to approach a degree of incoherency, 
 and his knees trembled with a sickly faintness. He continued, 
 nevertheless, to urge his addresses. Might he not be favoured with 
 Miss Chute's reasons ? Was there anything in his own conduct ? 
 Anything that might be altered ? The dejection that was in his 
 accents as well as his appearance, touched and almost terrified 
 his obdurate mistress, and she took some pains to alleviate his 
 extreme despondency, without, however, affording the slightest 
 ground for a hope which she felt could never be accomplished. 
 The consolations which she employed were drawn rather from 
 the probability of a change in his sentiments than her own. 
 
 ' You are not in a condition,' she said, ' to judge of the state of 
 your own mind. Believe me, this depression will not continue as 
 you seem to fear. The Almighty is too just to interweave any 
 passion with our nature which is not in the power of our reason 
 to subdue.' 
 
 1 Ay, Anne,' said Kyrle ; ' but there are some persons for whose 
 happiness the struggle is quite sufficient. I am not so ignorant 
 as you suppose of the effect of a disappointment like this. I 
 know that it will not be at all times as violent and oppressive as I 
 feel it at this moment ; but I know, too, that it will be as lasting 
 as life itself. I have often experienced a feeling of regret that 
 amounted to actual pain, in looking back to years that have 
 been distinguished by little beyond the customary enjoyments of 
 boyhood. Imagine, then, if you can, whether I have reason to 
 apprehend the arrival of those hours when I shall sit alone in the 
 evening, and think of the time that was spent in your society ! ' 
 
 Miss Chute heard this speech with a feeling of deep and even 
 sympathetic emotion. As Kyrle ventured to glance at her counten- 
 ance, and observed the peculiar expression of her sorrow, the idea 
 of a rival, which, till that moment, had not once occurred to him, now 
 flashed upon his mind, and changed the current of his feelings to 
 a new direction. The sensation of jealousy was almost a useful 
 stimulant in the excessive dejection under which he laboured. 
 
 'Will you forgive me,' he said, 'and take the present state of 
 my feelings as an apology, if there should be anything offensive 
 in the question I am about to ask you ? There can be only one 
 reason for my rejection which would save my pride the mortifica- 
 tion of believing myself altogether unworthy. I should feel some 
 consolation in knowing that my own misery was instrumental 
 to your happiness ; indeed, I should not think of breathing 
 another word upon the subject, if I thought that your affections 
 had been already engaged.' 
 
 E 
 
66 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 The agitation seemed now to have passed over to the lady's 
 side. Her brow became dark red, and then returned to more 
 than its accustomed whiteness. ' I have no other engagement,' 
 she said, after a pause — ' if I had, I should think it hardly fair to 
 press such an inquiry; but, I assure you, I have none. And 
 since you have spoken of my own views of life, I will be more 
 explicit, and confess to you that I do not at present think it is 
 likely I shall ever contract any. I love my mother ; and her 
 society is all that I desire or hope to enjoy at present. Let me 
 now entreat you as a friend, for my sake, as well as your own, 
 never again to renew any conversation on this subject.' 
 
 This was said in a tone of such decision that Kyrle saw it 
 would be impossible, without hazarding the loss of the young 
 lady's friendship, to add another word of remonstrance or of 
 argument. Both, therefore, continued their walk in silence, nor 
 did they exchange even an indifferent observation until they 
 reached the summit of the little slope from which the course 
 was visible. Their thoughts, however, were not subjected to the 
 same restriction, and the train of reflection, in either case, was 
 not calculated to awaken envy. 
 
 1 She received my question with embarrassment,' thought Kyrle, 
 ' and she evaded a reply. I have a rival, it is evident, and a 
 favoured, at least, if not a declared- one. Well, if she is to be 
 happy, I am content ; but unquestionably the most miserable 
 contented man upon the earth.' 
 
 The lady's meditation also turned upon the same crisis in the 
 conversation. ' All that I desire ? ' she mentally repeated, quoting 
 her own words to her rejected suitor. 'And have I so far con- 
 quered my own feelings as to be capable, with perfect sincerity, 
 of making an assertion such as that ? or, if it be sincere, am I 
 sure that I run no risk of disqualifying myself for retaining 
 the same liberty of mind by accepting my uncle's invitation ? 
 But it is not possible, surely, that my peace should be endan- 
 gered in the society of one who treats me with something more, 
 and colder, than indifference itself; and if it were, my part is 
 already taken, and it is now too late to retract. Poor Kyrle ! he 
 wastes his eloquence in exciting my commiseration for a state of 
 mind with which I have been long and painfully conversant. If 
 he knew how powerful a sympathy my own experience had 
 awakened for him, he need not use an effort to increase it.' 
 
 A loud shout of welcome, sent forth in honour of the heiress of 
 Castle Chute, and the lady-patroness of the day's amusements, 
 broke in upon these sombre meditations, and called the attention 
 of that lady and of her downcast escort to a novel scene and new 
 performers. 
 
 Clamorem immensum tollit, quo pontus et omnes 
 Intremuere undae, penitusque exterrita tellus 
 Momonics. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 67 
 
 The sounds of greeting then sank into a babbling murmur, and at 
 last into a hush of expectation, similar to that with which Pasta is 
 welcomed at the Italian Opera, when she comes forward to stop 
 the mouths of the unintelligible chorus, and to thrill the bright 
 assembly with the frantic sorrows of Medea. 
 
 The spot selected for the occasion was the shore of a small bay, 
 which was composed of a fine hard sand that afforded a very fair 
 and level course for the horses. At the farther end was a lofty 
 pole, on the top of which was suspended by the stirrup a new 
 saddle, the destined guerdon of the conqueror. A red handker- 
 chief, stripped from the neck of Dan Hourigan, the house car- 
 penter, was hoisted overhead, and a crowd of country people 
 dressed, notwithstanding the fineness of the day, in their heavy 
 frieze greatcoats, stood round the winning-post, each faction being 
 resolved to see justice done to its own representative in the match. 
 A number of tents, composed of old sheets, bags, and blankets, 
 with a pole at the entrance, and a sheaf of reed, a broken bottle, 
 or a sod of turf, erected for a sign, were discernible among the 
 multitude that thronged the side of the little rising ground before 
 mentioned. High above the rest Mick Normal's signboard waved 
 in the rising wind. Busy was the look of that lean old man, as 
 he bustled to and fro among his pigs, kegs, mugs, pots, and 
 porringers. A motley mass of felt hats, white muslin caps and 
 ribbons, scarlet cloaks, and blue riding-jocks, filled up the spaces 
 between the tents, and moved in a continual series of involutions, 
 whirls, and eddies, like those which are observable on the surface 
 of a fountain newly filled. The horses were to start from the end 
 of the bay, opposite to the winning-post, go round Mick Normal's 
 tent and the cowel on the hill-side, and returning to the place 
 from whence they came, run straight along the sand for the saddle. 
 This was to be the victor's prize. 
 
 Hie, qui forte velint rapido contendere cursu, 
 Invitat pretiis animos, et premia ponit. 
 
 The solatia victo were to be had at the rate of fourpence a 
 tumbler, at Mick Normal's tent. 
 
 A rejected lover can hardly be supposed to have any predilec- 
 tion for the grotesque. Kyrle Daly, however, observing that 
 Miss Chute made an effort to appear disembarrassed, and feeling, 
 in the sincerity of his affection, a sentiment of grief for the uneasi- 
 ness he had occasioned her, compelled himself to assume the 
 appearance of his usual good humour, and entered with some 
 animation into the spirit of the scene. Captain Gibson, who now 
 approached them on foot, could not, with the recollections of 
 Ascot and Doncaster fresh in his mind, refrain from a roar of 
 laughter at almost every object he beheld : at the condition of 
 the horses ; the^ serious and important look of the riders ; the 
 Tenters appearance of the whole course ; the band, consisting of 
 
68 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 a blind fiddler, with a piece of listing about his waist and another 
 about his old hat ; the self-importance of the stewards, Tim 
 Welsh, the baker, and Batt Kennedy, the poet or janius of the 
 village, as they went at a jog trot round the course, collecting 
 shilling subscriptions to the saddle from all who appeared on 
 horseback. 
 
 1 Well, Anne,' said Cregan, riding up to the group, ' we have 
 lost three of our company. Hepton Connolly is gone off to fight 
 a duel with some fellow from the mountains that called him a 
 scoundrel, and taken Creagh with him for a second. That 's the 
 lad that'll see them properly set. Doctor Leake has followed 
 for the purpose of stopping any holes they may happen to make 
 in one another, so we have all the fun to ourselves. If the doctor 
 had stayed, we should have had so many accounts of the sport 
 of Tailten and all that. He is a very learned little man, the 
 doctor ; I don't suppose there 's so long a head in the country ; 
 but he talks too much. Captain, I see you laugh a great deal, 
 but you musn't laugh at our girls, though ; there are some pretty 
 bits o' muslin here, I can tell you.' 
 
 ' I like them uncommonly,' said the captain ; ' their dress, in 
 particular, I think very becoming. The muslin cap, with a ribbon 
 tied under the chin and a pretty knot above, is a very simple and 
 rural head-dress ; and the scarlet cloak and hood, which seems 
 * to be a favourite article of costume, gives a gay and flashy air to 
 their rustic assemblies. Look at that girl now, with the black 
 eyes, on the bank — what a pretty modest dress that is ! A hand- 
 kerchief pinned across the bosom, a neat figured gown, and check 
 apron ; but what demon whispered her to case her little feet in 
 black worsted stockings and brogues ? ' 
 
 ' They are better than the clouted shoes of the continent, 5 said 
 Anne; 'and durability must sometimes be preferred to appear- 
 ance.' 
 
 ' Why, that ; s Syl Carney, Anne,' exclaimed Cregan. 
 
 ' It is, sir. She has seen her beau somewhere on the course, I 
 will venture to say.' 
 
 A roar of laughter from Captain Gibson here attracted their 
 attention. 
 
 ' Look at that comical fellow on horseback,' he cried ; ' did you 
 ever see such a pair of long legs with so small a head ? A fire- 
 tongs would sit a horse as well. And observe the jaunty way he 
 carries the little head, and his nods and winks at the girls. 
 That's an excruciating fellow ! And the arms — the short arms ! 
 how the fellow gathers up the bridle, and makes the lean animal 
 hold up his head, and jog airily forward. Is that fellow really 
 going to run for the stake ? ' 
 
 Kyrle Daly turned his eyes in the same direction, and suffered 
 them to _ dilate with an expression of astonishment, when he 
 beheld his own saucy squire seated upon the haircutter's mare, 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 69 
 
 and endeavouring to screen himself from his master's observation 
 by keeping close to the side of Batt Kennedy, the janius ; while 
 the latter recited aloud a violent satire which he had made upon 
 a rival versifier in the neighbourhood. In fact, Lowry Looby, 
 understanding that Syl Carney was to be at the course, and 
 wishing to cut a figure in her eyes, had coaxed Foxy Dunat 'out 
 of the loand of his mare for one hate,' while that indifferent 
 equestrian refreshed his galled person with a 'soft sate' on the 
 green sod in Mick Normal's tent 
 
 Mr. Cregan here left the party with the view of assuming his 
 place as judge of the course at the winning-post; while the 
 staggeens with their riders moved forward, surrounded by a dense 
 and noisy crowd, to the starting-post, near ,the elevation that was 
 occupied by our three friends. 
 
 ' We are at a loss here,' said Miss Chute, ' for — " List of this 
 day's running horses, the'colour of the rider, and the rider's name." ' 
 [Here she imitated with some liveliness, the accent of the boys 
 who sell those bills at more regular fetes of the kind.] ' But you, 
 Captain Gibson, seem to take an interest in the proceeding ; and 
 I am acquainted not only with the character of the heroes who 
 hold the reins, but with all the secret machinery of intrigue which 
 is expected to interfere with the fair dealing of the day ; I will, 
 therefore, if you please, let you into the most amusing parts of 
 their history as they pass. 
 
 Captain Gibson, with a fresh burst of laughter, protested that 
 he would give the world for a peep into the social policy of an 
 Irish village.' 
 
 'Well, then,' said Anne, assuming a mock Ossianic manner, 
 ' the first whom you see advancing on that poor half-starved black 
 mare, with the great lump on her knee, and the hay-rope for a 
 saddle-girth, is Jerry Cooley, our village nailor, famed alike for 
 dexterity in shaping the heads of his brads, and demolishing those 
 of his acquaintances. Renowned in war is Jerry, I can tell you — 
 Gurtenaspig and Derrygortnacloghy re-echo with his fame. Next 
 to him, on that spavined grey horse, rides John O'Reilly, our 
 blacksmith, not less estimated in arms, or rather in cudgels. Not 
 silent, Captain Gibson, are the walks of Garryowen on the deeds 
 of John O'Reilly, and the bogs of Ballinvoric quake when his 
 name is mentioned. A strength of arm, the result of their habitual 
 occupations, has rendered both these heroes formidable among 
 the belligerent factions of the village, but the nailor is allowed a 
 precedence. He is the great Achilles ; O'Reilly, the Telemon 
 Ajax of the neighbourhood. And, to follow up my Homeric 
 parallels, close behind him, on that long-backed, ungroomed 
 creature, with the unnameable colour, rides the crafty Ulysses of 
 the assemblage, Dan Hogan, the process-server. You may read 
 something of his vocation in the sidelong glance of his eye, and in 
 the paltry, deprecating air of his whole demeanour. He starts, as 
 
70 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 if afraid of a blow, whenever any one addresses him. As he is 
 going to be married to Dooley's sister, it is apprehended by the 
 O'Reillys that he will attempt to cross the blacksmith's mare ; but 
 the smoky Achilles, who gets drunk with him every Saturday 
 night, has a full reliance on his friendship. Whether, however, 
 Cupid or Bacchus will have the more powerful influence upon the 
 process-server, is a question that I believe yet remains a mystery 
 even to himself; and I suspect he will adopt the neutral part of 
 doing all he can to win the saddle for himself. The two who 
 ride abreast behind Hogan are mountaineers, of whose motives or 
 intentions I am not aware. The sixth and last is Lowry Looby, a 
 retainer of my friend Mr. Daly's, and the man whose appearance 
 made you laugh so heartily a little while since. He is the only 
 romantic individual of the match. He rides for love, and it is to 
 the chatty disposition of the lady of his affections, our own house- 
 maid, that I am indebted for all this information.' 
 
 One would have thought the English officer was about to die 
 with laughter several times during the course of this speech. He 
 leaned, in the excess of his mirth, upon the shoulder of Kyrle 
 Daly, who, in spite of his depression, was compelled to join him, 
 and placing his hand against his forehead — 
 
 Laughed, sans intermission, 
 An hour by the dial. 
 
 The mere force of sympathy compelled the lady and gentleman to 
 lay aside for the moment their more serious reflections, and adapt 
 their spirits to the scene before them. It seemed curious to 
 Kyrle Daly, that, slightly as he esteemed this new military 
 acquaintance, he felt jealous for the moment of the influence thus 
 exercised by the latter on the temper of Anne Chute, and wished 
 at the time that it were in his power to laugh as heartily as 
 Captain Gibson. But a huge diaphragm, though a useful 
 possession in general society, is not one that is most likely to win 
 the affections of a fine girl. In affairs of the heart your mere 
 laugher is a fool to your thinker and sentimentalist. 
 
 Before the Captain could sufficiently recover himself to make 
 his acknowledgments for the entertainment which Miss Chute 
 had afforded him, a cry of ' Clear the coorse ! clear the coorse ! ' 
 resounded along the sand, and the two stewards, the baker and 
 the poet, came galloping round at a furious rate, laying about 
 them stoutly with their cord whips, while the horses scattered 
 the sand and pebbles in all directions with their hoofs, and the 
 stragglers were seen running off to the main body of spectators, to 
 avoid a fate similar to that sustained by the victims of Juggernaut, 
 in that pious procession to which his Majesty's non-emancipating 
 government so largely and so liberally contribute. c Clear the 
 coorse ! ' shouted the baker, with as authoritative an accent as 
 if he were King Pharaoh's own royal dough-kneader. ' Clear the 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 71 
 
 coorse ! ' sung the melodious Batt Kennedy, the favourite of the 
 muses, as he spurred his broken-winded Pegasus after the man 
 of loaves ; and, of course, the course was cleared and kept clear, 
 less perhaps by the violence of Tim Welsh, than the amenity of 
 Batt Kennedy, who, though not a baker, was the more pithy and 
 flowery orator of the two. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 HOW KYRLE DALY HAS THE GOOD LUCK TO SEE A STAGGEEN 
 
 RACE 
 
 The signal was given — and the six horsemen started in good 
 order, and with more zeal and eagerness in their faces than was to 
 be found in the limbs of the animals which they bestrode. For a 
 few moments the strife seemed doubtful, and Victory hovered, 
 with an indecisive wing, now over one helmet, and now over 
 another. The crowd of spectators, huddling together on a heap, 
 with faces that glowed and eyes that sparkled with intense in- 
 terest, encouraged the riders with shouts and exclamations of 
 hoarse and vehement applause. ' Success ! success, Jerry ! ' It 's 
 done ; a half-pint wit you, Dan Hogan wins ! ' 'I depend my life 
 upon John O'Reilly.' 'Give her a loose, Lowryl' and other 
 expressions of a similar nature. 
 
 But ere they again came round the winning-post, the position of 
 the horses was altered. O'Reilly rode in front, lashing his horse in 
 the flank with as much force as if he were pounding on his own 
 anvil. Dooley, the nailor, came close behind, drubbing his black 
 mare's lean ribs with the calves of his legs, as if designing to beat 
 the poor beast out of the last remnant of her wind. The others 
 followed, lashing their horses and one another, each abusing his 
 neighbour in the grossest terms, all except Lowry Looby, who prud- 
 ently kept out of harm's way, keeping a loose reign in his hand, and 
 giving the haircutter's mare the advantage of what jockeys term 
 a sob — a relief, indeed, of which the poor creature stood in the 
 utmost need. He was thus prepared to profit by the acci- 
 dent which followed. The blacksmith's grey horse started at a 
 heap of seaweed, and suffered the nailor's mare to come down 
 like a thunderbolt upon his haunches. Both steeds fell, and the 
 process-server, who rode on their heels, falling foul of them as 
 they lay kicking on the sand, was compelled to share in their pros- 
 tration. This accident produced among the fallen heroes a series 
 of kicks and bruises, in which the horses were not idle. O'Reilly, 
 clenching his hand, hit the nailor a straightforward blow between 
 
72 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 the eyes, which so effectually interfered with the exercise of those 
 organs, that he returned the favour with a powerful thrust in the 
 abdomen of his own prostrate steed. For this good office he was 
 rewarded by the indignant quadruped with a kick over the right 
 ear, which made it unnecessary to inflict a second, and the quarrel 
 remained between the process-server and the blacksmith, who 
 pummelled one another as if they were pounding flax, and with as 
 much satisfaction as if they had never got drunk together in their 
 lives. They were at length separated and borne from the ground, 
 all covered with blood and sand, while their horses, with much 
 difficulty, were set upright on their legs, and led off to the neigh- 
 bouring slope. 
 
 In the meantime, our party observed Lowry Looby returning 
 from the winning-post, under the protection of Mr. Cregan, with 
 the saddle torn to fritters between his hands, and his person ex- 
 hibiting tokens of severe ill-usage. He had contrived to outstrip 
 the mountaineers, and had obtained the prize; but the adverse 
 factions, irritated at beholding their laurels flourishing on a 
 stranger's brow, had collected around and dragged him from his 
 horse, alleging that it was an unfair heat, and that there should be 
 a second trial. Mr. Cregan, however, with some exertion, suc- 
 ceeded in rescuing Lowry from their hands ; but not until every 
 man in the crowd had put a mark upon him by which he might be 
 easily distinguished at any future meeting. 
 
 Tired of the deafening uproar that surrounded him, and longing 
 for retirement, that he might brood at leisure over his disappoint- 
 ment, Kyrle Daly now left the course, notwithstanding the invita- 
 tion of Anne Chute that he would return and dine at the castle. 
 His intention was to spend the night at the cottage on one of his 
 father's dairy-farms, which lay at the distance of a few miles lower 
 on the river-side, and where one neat room was always kept in 
 order for his use, whenever he joined Hardress Cregan in a shoot- 
 ing excursion towards the mouth of the stream. Hardress had 
 promised to visit him at this cottage a few weeks before, and as he 
 knew that his young friend must have come to an anchor in 
 waiting for the tide, he judged it not unlikely that he might see 
 him this very night. He had now an additional reason for desir- 
 ing to hold conversation with Hardress, in order that he might 
 receive the consolations of his friendship under his own disap- 
 pointment, and, if possible, obtain some knowledge of the true 
 condition of his mistress's affections. 
 
 Lowry Looby, once more reduced to his legs, followed him at a 
 distance somewhat more considerable than that recommended by 
 Dean Swift as proper to be observed by gentlemen's gentlemen. 
 He lingered only to restore the mare to Foxy Dunat, presenting 
 him at the same time with the mutilated saddle, and obstinately 
 declining the haircutter's proposal of 'traiting him to the best that 
 the " Cat an' Bagpipes" could afford.' After which conversation the 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 73 
 
 two friends threw their arms about each other's neck, kissed, as in 
 France, and separated. 
 
 The night had fallen before Kyrle alighted at the cottage door. 
 Mrs. Frawley, the dairy-woman, had been provident enough to 
 light a fire in the little yellow room, and to place beside it the arm- 
 chair and small painted table, with the volume of Blackstone 
 which her young master was accustomed to look into in the even- 
 ing. The night, she observed, 'was smart enough to make an air 
 o' the fire no unpleasant thing ; and even if it were not cold, a fire 
 was company when one would be alone that way.' With equal 
 foresight, she had prepared the materials for a tolerable dinner, 
 such as a hungry man might not contemn without trial. Whether 
 it were the mere effect of custom, or an indication of actual and 
 unromantic appetite, the eye of our desponding lover was not dis- 
 pleased, on entering the little parlour, to see the table decorated 
 with a snow-white damask cloth, a cooler of the sweetest butter, a 
 small cold ham, and an empty space which he knew to be destined 
 for a roast duck or chickens. There is no time at which the heart 
 is more disposed to estimate in a proper light the comforts of 
 home and a quiet fireside than when it has experienced some 
 severe rejection in society ; and it was with the feeling of one who, 
 after much and harassing annoyance, encounters a sudden refuge, 
 that our drooping traveller flung himself into the chair, and 
 exclaimed in the words of Oriana : — 
 
 ' Though but a shadow, but a sliding, 
 Let me know some little joy. 
 We that suffer long annoy, 
 Are contented with a thought, 
 Through an idle fancy wrought. 
 Oh, let my joys have some abiding ! ' 
 
 While Mrs. Frawley superintended the dressing of the fowl in 
 the kitchen, much wondering at the forlorn and absent air with 
 which her officious attentions were received by the young collegian, 
 that meditative gentleman was endeavouring to concentrate his 
 attention on the pages of the learned work that lay before him. 
 His eyes wandered over the concise and lucid detail of the recip- 
 rocal rights of baron and feme ; but what purpose could this 
 answer, except to remind him that he could never claim the lovely 
 Anne Chute as \i\sfeme, nor would the lovely Anne Chute consent 
 to acknowledge him as her baron. He closed the volume, and 
 laying it on the little chimney-piece, resumed his mood of settled 
 meditation by the fire. 
 
 The silence of the place was favourable to that sort of drowsy 
 musing in which the mind delights to repose its energies after any 
 strong and passionate excitement. There was no effort made to 
 invite or pursue a particular train of reflection ; but those thoughts 
 which lay nearest to the heart — those memories, hopes, fears, and 
 
74 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 wishes, with which they were most intimately associated, passed 
 in long and still procession before his mind. It was a dreary and 
 funereal train to witness, but yet the lover found a luxurious in- 
 dulgence in its contemplation. He remained gazing on the fire, 
 with his hand supporting his temple, until every crackling turf and 
 faggot became blended in his thoughts with the figures which 
 his memory called up from the past, or his fancy created for the 
 future. 
 
 While he leaned thus silent in his chair, he overheard in the ad- 
 joining kitchen a conversation, which for the moment diverted his 
 attention from the condition of his own fortunes. 
 
 1 Where to are you running in such a hurry, Mary ? ' said Mrs. 
 Frawley ; 'one would think it was for the seed o' the fire you come. 
 Sit down again.' 
 
 ' Oh, wisha,' said a strange voice, ' I 'm tired from sitting. Is it 
 to look after the butter Mr. Kyrle is come down to ye ?' 
 
 ' Oyeh, no. He doesn't meddle in them things at all. If he did 
 we'd have a bad story to tell him. You'll burn that duck, Nelly, 
 if you don't mind it.' 
 
 1 Why so — a bad story, Mrs. Frawley ? ' 
 
 * I '11 tell you, Mary. I don't know what the reason of it is, but 
 our butter is going from us this two months now. I 'd almost take 
 the vestment 1 of it, that Mr. Enright's dairyman, Bill Noonan, 
 made a pishogue? and took away our butter.' 
 
 1 Oyeh ! ' 
 
 'What else, what would become of it? Sure Bill himself told 
 me they had double their complement last week, at a time 
 when, if we were to break our hearts churning from this till dooms- 
 day, we could get nothing but the buttermilk in the latter end.' 
 
 * Did you watch your cows last May eve, to see that nobody 
 milked 'em from ye ?' 
 
 ' I did, to be sure. I sat up until twelve o'clock, to have the first 
 milk myself ; for Shaun Lauther, the fairy doctor, told me that if 
 another milked 'em that night, she 'd have their butter the whole 
 year round. And what good was it for me ? I wouldn't wonder 
 if old Moll Noonan had a hand in it.' 
 
 1 Swear by the priest's vestment. 
 
 2 A mystic rite, by which one person is enabled to make a supernatural 
 transfer of his neighbour's butter into his own churns. The failure and 
 diminution of butter at different times, from the poverty of the cream, appears 
 so unaccountable that the country people can only attribute it to witchcraft ; 
 and those dairy superstitions have prevailed to a similar degree in the country 
 parts of England. In The Devil is an Ass, his Satanic Majesty is thus made 
 to jest on the petty mischief of his imp, Pug, who seeks a month's furlough 
 to the Earth : 
 
 * You have some plot now, 
 Upon a tunning of ale, to stale the yeast, 
 Or keep the churn so that the butter come not, 
 Spite of the housewife's cord and her hot spit.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 75 
 
 * Nor I neither. They say she's a witch. Did I ever tell you 
 what Davy Neal's wife did to her of a time ? ' 
 
 * Not as I know.' 
 
 1 The same way as with yourself, the butter — no, 'tisn't the butter 
 but the milk itself, was going from Katty Neal, although her little 
 cow was a kind Kerry, and had the best of grazing. Well, she 
 went, as you done, to Shaun Lauther, the knowledgeable man, and 
 put a half a crown into his hand, and asked his advice. "Well, 
 tell me," says Shaun, " were you at Moll Noonan's yesterday ? " "I 
 was," says Kate. " And did you see a hair spancel hanging over 
 the chimney ? " says he. " I did see that, too," says Kate. " Well," 
 says Shaun, " 'tis out of that spancel that Moll do be milking your 
 cows every night, by her own chimney corner, and you, breaking 
 your heart at a dry udder at the same time." " And what am I to 
 do ? " says Kate. " I '11 tell you," says he. " Go home, and redden 
 this horse-shoe in the fire, and observe when you 're milking, that 
 a grey cat will sit by you on the bawn. Just strike her with the 
 red shoe, and your business will be done." Well, she did his bid- 
 ding. She saw the grey cat, and burnt her with the shoe, till she 
 flew screeching over the hedge.' 
 
 1 Oh, murther, hadn't she the courage ! ' 
 
 'She had. Well, the next day she went to Moll Noonan's and 
 found her keeping her bed, with a great scald she said she got 
 from a pot of boiling water she had down for scalding the keelers. 
 "Ayeh," thought Kate, "I know what ails you well, my old lady." 
 But she said nothing, and I '11 engage she had the fine can o' milk 
 from her cows next morning.' 
 
 ' Well, she was a great girl.' 
 
 'Ah, what should ail her?' said Nelly the servant wench, who 
 was employed in turning the duck. ' I remember Jug Flannigan, 
 the cooper's wife, above, was in the same way, losin' all her butter, 
 an' she got it again by puttin' a taste o' the last year's butter in the 
 churn, before churnin', along with the crame, and into every keeler 
 in the house. Here, Mrs. Frawley, will you have an eye to the spit 
 a minute while I go look at them hens in the coob abroad ? Master 
 Kyrle might like a fresh egg for his tay, an I hear them clockin'.' 
 
 'Do, then, Nell, a^ra gal, and, as you're going, turn in the tur- 
 keys, for the wind is rising, and I 'm in dread it will be a bad 
 night.' 
 
 A loud knocking at the door was the next sound that invaded 
 the ear of Kyrle Daly. The bolt flew back, and a stranger rushed 
 in, while, at the same moment, a gust of wind and rain dashed 
 the door with violence against the wall, and caused a cloud of 
 smoke and ashes to penetrate even to the room in which he 
 sat. 
 
 1 Shut out the doore ! shut out the doore ! ' screamed Mrs. Fraw- 
 ley, c the duck will be all destroyed from the ashes. Ah, Lowry, 
 what kep' you till now ?' 
 
76 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 'Oh, let me alone, woman,' exclaimed Lowry, in a loud and 
 agitated voice. ' Where 's Master Kyrle ? ' 
 
 1 Sitting in the parlour within. What 's the matter, eroo ? ' 
 
 Without making any reply, Lowry Looby presented himself at 
 the parlour door, and waving his hand with much force, exclaimed : 
 ' Come out ! come out ! Master Kyrle. There 's the "Nora Creina" 
 abroad just goin' down, and every soul aboard of her. She never 
 will reach the shore. Oh, vo ! vo ! 'tis frightful to see the swell 
 that's round her. The Lord in His mercy stretch out His hand 
 upon the wathers this fearful night ! ' 
 
 Kyrle started up in alarm, snatched his hat, and rushed out of 
 the room, not paying any attention to the recommendation of Mrs. 
 Frawley, that he would throw the frieze riding-coat over his shoul- 
 ders before he went out in the rain. Lowry Looby, with many 
 ejaculations of terror and of compassion, followed his master to 
 the shore, within a gun-shot of which the cottage was situated. 
 They arrested their steps on a rocky point, which, jutting far into 
 the river, commanded a wide prospect on either side. It was 
 covered with wet seaweed and shellfish, and afforded a slippery 
 footing to the young collegian and his squire. A small fishing- 
 boatlay at anchor on the leeward side of the point, and her crew, 
 consisting of a swarthy old man and a youth, w r ere standing on 
 the shore, and watching the pleasure-boat with much interest. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 HOW FORTUNE BRINGS TWO OLD FRIENDS TOGETHER 
 
 The situation of the little vessel was in reality terrific. A fierce 
 westerly wind, encountering the receding tide, occasioned a pro- 
 digious swell in the centre of the channel : and even near the shore 
 the waves lashed themselves with so much fury against the rocky 
 headland before mentioned, that Kyrle and his servant were cov- 
 ered with spray and foam. There was yet sufficient twilight in 
 the sky to enable them to discern objects on the river, and the 
 full autumnal moon, which ever and anon shot, like a flying ghost, 
 from one dark mass of vapour to another, revealed them at inter- 
 vals with a distinctness scarcely inferior to that of day. The object 
 of the pleasure-boat seemed to be that of reaching the anchorage 
 above alluded to, and, with this view, the helmsman held her head 
 as close to the wind as a reefed mainsail and heavy swell would 
 allow him. The white canvas, as the boat came foaming and 
 roaring towards the spectators, appeared half-drenched in brine, 
 from the breaking of the sea against the windward bow. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 77 
 
 The appearance of the vessel was such as to draw frequent 
 ejaculations of compassion from Lowry and the boatmen, and to 
 make Kyrle Daly's heart sink low with fear and anxiety. At one 
 time, she was seen on the ridge of a broken wave, showing her 
 keel to the moonlight, and bending her white and glistening sails 
 over the dark gulf upon her lee. 
 
 At another the liquid mountain rolled away, and left her buried 
 in the trough, while her vane alone was visible to the landsmen, 
 and the surges, leaping and whitening in the moonshine, seemed 
 hurrying to overwhelm and engulf their victim. Again, how- 
 ever, suddenly emerging into the light, she seemed to ride the 
 waters in derision, and left the angry monsters roaring in her 
 wake. 
 
 ' She never '11 do it, I'm in dread, 5 said Lowry, bending an in- 
 quisitive glance on the boatman. The latter was viewing intently, 
 and with a grim smile, the gallant battle made by the little vessel 
 against the elements. 
 
 "Tis a good boy that has the rudder in his hand,' he said ; 
 * and as for their lives, 'tis the same Lord that is on the water as 
 on the land. When their hour is come, on sea or shore, 'tis all 
 the same to 'em. I wouldn't wondher if he done it yet. Ah, that 
 swell put him off of it. He must make another tack. 'Tis a good 
 boy that houlds the rudder.' 
 
 ' What ! ' exclaimed Kyrle, ' do you think it will be necessary 
 for them to put out into the tide again ?' 
 
 * Indeed, I don't say she'll ever do without it,' said the old boat- 
 man, still keeping his eyes fixed on the ' Nora Creina.' ' There she 
 comes round. She spins about like a top, God bless her ! ' Then 
 putting his huge chapped hands at either side of his mouth, so as 
 to form a kind of spealdng-trumpet, he cried out, in a voice as loud 
 and hoarse as that of the surges that rolled between them, ' Ahoy ! 
 ahoy! Have an oar out in the bow, or she'll miss-stay in the 
 swell.' 
 
 'Thank you, thank you, it is done already,' shouted the helms- 
 man in answer. ' Kyrle, my boy, how are you ? Kyrle, have a 
 good fire for us when we go in. This is cold work.' 
 
 * Cold work ! ' repeated Lowry Looby. ' Dear knows, it 's true 
 for you. Ah, then, isn't it little he makes of it, after all, God bless 
 him ! an' it blowing a perfect harico.' 
 
 Notwithstanding the vigour and confidence which spoke in the 
 accents of the hardy helmsman, Kyrle Daly, when he saw the ves- 
 sel once more shoot out into the deep, felt as if he had been listen- 
 ing to the last farewell of his friend. He could not return his gal- 
 lant greeting, and remained with his head leaning forward, and 
 his arm outstretched, and trembling, while his eyes followed the 
 track of the pleasure-boat. Close behind him stood Lowry, his 
 shoulders raised against the wind, and his hand placed over that 
 ear on which it blew, clacking his tongue against his palate for pity, 
 
78 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 and indulging in many sentiments of commiseration for ' Master 
 Hardress' and ' the family,' not forgetting ' Danny the Lord,' and 
 his sister, ' Fighting Poll of the Reeks.' 
 
 We shall follow the vessel in her brief but daring course. The 
 young helmsman has been already slightly introduced to the reader 
 in the second chapter of this history ; but the change which cir- 
 cumstances had since effected in his appearance, rendered it well 
 worthy of our pains to describe his person and bearing with more 
 accuracy and distinctness. His figure was tall, and distinguished 
 by that muscularity and firmness of set which characterises the 
 inhabitants of the south-west of Europe. His attitude, as he kept 
 one hand on the rudder and his eye fixed upon the foresail, was 
 such as displayed his form to extreme advantage. It was erect, 
 composed, and manly. Every movement seemed to be dictated by 
 a judgment perfectly at ease, and a will that, far from being de- 
 pressed, had caught a degree of fire and excitement from the im- 
 minent dangers with which it had to struggle. The warm and 
 heroic flush upon his cheek could not be discovered in the pale 
 and unequal light that shone upon him $ but the settled and steady 
 lustre of his large dark eye, over which not even the slightest con- 
 traction of the arched brow could be discerned, the perfect calm- 
 ness of his manner, and the half-smiling expression of his mouth 
 (that feature which, of all others, is most traitorous to the dissem- 
 bling coward), bespoke a mind and heart that were pleased to 
 encounter danger, and well calculated to surmount it. It was such 
 a figure as would have at once awakened associations in the be- 
 holder's mind of camps and action, of states confounded in their 
 councils, and nations overrun by sudden conquest. His features 
 were brightened by a lofty and confident enthusiasm, such as the 
 imagination might ascribe to the Royal Adventurer of Sweden, as 
 he drew his sword on his beleaguerers at Belgrade. _ His forehead 
 was ample and intellectual in its character ; his hair 'coal-black' 
 and curling ; his complexion of that rich, deep, Gipsy-yellow which, 
 showing as it did the healthy bloom beneath, was far nobler in its 
 character than the feminine white and red. The lower portion of 
 his physiognomy was finely and delicately turned; and a set of 
 teeth as white as those of a young beagle, gave infinite vivacity 
 to the expression of his lips. The countenance was such a one as 
 men seldom look upon, but when once beheld, can never be for- 
 gotten. 
 
 On a seat at the weather-side sat a young girl, her slight person 
 wrapped in a blue cloak, while her eyes were raised to the cheer- 
 ful face of the helmsman, as if from him she derived all her hope 
 and her security. The wind had blown back the hood from her 
 shoulders, and the head and countenance which thus ' unmasked 
 their beauty to the moon ' were turned with a sylph-like grace and 
 lightness. The mass of curly hair which was blown over her left 
 temple seemed of a pale gold, that harmonised well with the 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 79 
 
 excelling fairness and purity of her complexion ; and the expres- 
 sion of her countenance was tender, affectionate, and confiding. 
 
 In the bow sat a being who did not share the beauty of his com- 
 panions. He bore a prodigious hunch upon his shoulders, which, 
 however, did not prevent his using his limbs with agility, and even 
 strength, as he tended the foresail, and bustled from side to side 
 with an air of the utmost coolness and indifference. His features 
 were not disagreeable, and were distinguished by that look of pert 
 shrewdness which marks the low inhabitant of a city, and vents 
 itself in vulgar cant and in ridicule of the honest and wondering 
 ignorance of rustic simplicity. 
 
 Such were the individuals whom the spirit of the tempest ap- 
 peared at this moment to hold environed by his hundred perils ; 
 and such was the manner in which they prepared to encounter 
 their destiny. 
 
 ' Mind your hand, Mr. Hardress,' said the boatman, in a care- 
 less tone ; ' we are in the tide. 3 
 
 It required the hand of an experienced helmsman to bring the 
 little vessel through the danger which he thus announced. An 
 immense overtopping billow, capped in foam, came thundering 
 downward like an avalanche upon her side. In spite of the pre- 
 cautions of Hardress, and the practised skill with which he timed 
 the motion of the wave, as one would take a ball upon the bound 
 or a hunter on the rise, the bowsprit dipped and cracked like a 
 withered sapling ; a whole ton of water was flung over the stern, 
 drenching the crew as completely as if they had been drawn 
 through the river. The boat seemed to stagger and lose her way 
 like a stricken hart, and lay for a moment weltering in the gloomy 
 chasm in which the wasted wave had left her. A low and 
 smothered scream was breaking from the female, when her eye 
 again met that of Hardress Cregan, and her lip, though pale and 
 quivering, was silent. 
 
 ' That was right well done, sir,' said Danny Mann, as the boat 
 once more cleft the breakers on the landward course. 'A minute 
 sooner or a minute later up with the hand, would put it all into 
 her.' 
 
 'A second would have done it,' said Hardress, 'but all is well 
 now. A charming night this would be,' he continued, smiling on 
 the girl, 'for beaver and feathers.' 
 
 This jest produced a short hysteric laugh in answer, which was 
 rather startling than agreeable to the person who addressed her. 
 In a few minutes after, and without any considerable disaster, the 
 vessel dropped her peak, and ran alongside the rocks on which 
 Kyrle Daly was expecting them. 
 
 ' Remain in the boat,' said Hardress, addressing the girl, while 
 he fastened the hood over her head — ' I see that talkative fellow, 
 Looby, above on the rocks. I will procure you an unoccupied 
 room, if possible, in the cottage, as a neighbour and relative of 
 
80 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Danny Mann. Endeavour to conceal your countenance, and 
 speak as little as possible. We are ruined if I should be seen 
 paying you any attention.' 
 
 ' And am I not to see you to-night again ? ' said the girl, in a 
 broken and affectionate accent. 
 
 1 My own love, I would not go to rest without taking leave of 
 you for all the world. Be satisfied,' he added, pressing her hand 
 tenderly, and patting her upturned cheek. ' You are a noble girl. 
 Go, pray — pray, and return thanks for your husband's life, as he 
 shall do for yours. I thought we should have supped in Heaven. 
 Dan ! ' he continued aloud, calling to the boatman, ' take care of 
 your sister.' 
 
 1 His. sisther ! ' echoed Lowry Looby on the rocks. c Oh, 
 murther ! is Fighting Poll of the Reeks aboord too ? Why, then, 
 he needn't bid Danny to take care of her, for she is well able to 
 do that job for herself.' 
 
 Hardress leaped out upon the shore, and was received by Kyrle 
 Daly with a warmth and delight proportioned to the anxiety 
 which he had previously experienced. 
 
 1 My dear fellow, I thought I should never have seen you on 
 your feet again. A thousand and a hundred thousand welcomes ! 
 Lowry, run to the house, and get dinner hastened. Stay ! 
 Hardress, have you any things on board?' 
 
 1 Only a small trunk and my gun. You would for ever oblige 
 me, Kyrle, by procuring a comfortable lodging, if you have no 
 room to spare, for this poor fellow of mine and his sister. He is 
 sickly, and you know he is my foster-brother.' 
 
 ' He shall be taken care of : I have a room. Come along ; you 
 are dripping wet. Lowry, take up Mr. Cregan's trunk and gun to 
 the cottage. Come along, Hardress, you will catch your death of 
 cold. Pooh ! are you afraid Fighting Poll will break her tender 
 limbs, that you look back, and watch her so closely?' 
 
 ' No, no, my dear Daly ; but I am afraid that fellow — Booby — 
 Looby — (what's his stupid name?) — will break my trunk ; he is 
 watching the woman and peering about her, instead of minding 
 what he is doing. But come along ! Well, Kyrle, how are you ? 
 I saw you all in the window to-day when I was sailing by.' 
 
 1 Yes : you edified my mother with that little feat you performed 
 at the expense of the fishermen.' 
 
 ' Ah, no ! was she looking at that, though ? I shall not be able 
 to show my face to her this month to come. Hollo ! you sir, 
 Booby, Looby, come along ! Do you remain long in the west, 
 Kyrle ? ' 
 
 ' As long as you will take a bed in the cottage with me. But 
 we will talk of this when you have changed your dress and dined. 
 You came on the very point of time. Rem acn tetigisti ,as our 
 old college tutor, Doyle, would say. Mrs. Frawley was just 
 preparing to dish me a roast duck. I bless the wind, all 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 81 
 
 boisterous as it was, that blew you on these shores, for I thought 
 I should have spent a lonesome evening, with the recollections of 
 merry old times, like so many evil familiars, to dine, and sup, and 
 sleep with me. But now that we are met again, farewell the past ! 
 The present and the future shall furnish our entertainment — after 
 we have done with the roast duck.' 
 
 'The fume of which salutes my senses at this moment with no 
 disagreeable odour, 5 said Hardress, following his friend into the 
 little hall of the cottage. ' Mrs. Frawley, as fat, and fair, and rosy 
 as ever ! Well, Mrs. Frawley, how do you and the cows get on ? 
 Has any villainous imp been making pishogues over your keelers? 
 Does the cream mount? Does the butter break? Have you got 
 the devil well out of your churn ?' 
 
 ' Oh, fie, Masther Cregan, to go spake of such a thing at all. 
 Oh, vo, a vich-o, you're drownded wet, an' that's what you are. 
 Nelly, eroo, bring hether the candle. Oh, sir, you never will get 
 over it.' 
 
 ' Never mind, Mrs. Frawley, I '11 be stout enough to dance at 
 your wedding yet' 
 
 ' My wedding, ma vourneen,' returned the buxom dairywoman, 
 in a gentle scream of surprise, not unqualified, however, by a 
 gracious smile. ' Oyeh, if you never fut a moneen till then ! 
 Make haste hether with the candle, Nelly, eroo, what are you 
 doing?' 
 
 Nelly, not altogether point device in her attire, at length 
 appeared with a light to conduct the gentlemen to their chamber ; 
 while Mrs. Frawley returned to the kitchen. This accident of the 
 stranger's arrival was of fatal consequence to three individuals in 
 the cottage ; namely, two fat chickens and a turkey-pout, upon 
 whom sentence of death was immediately pronounced and 
 executed, without more form of law than might go to the hanging 
 of a croppy. Mrs. Frawley, meantime, fulfilled the office of sheriff 
 on the occasion, ejaculating, out of a smiling reverie, while she 
 gazed listlessly on the blood of the innocent victims, 'Why then, 
 I declare, that Mr. Hardress is a mighty pleasant gentleman.' 
 
 In the meantime, Lowry Looby was executing the commission 
 he had received with regard to Mr. Cregan's trunk. Lowry, who 
 was just as fond of obtaining, as of communicating, strange 
 intelligence, had his own good reason for standing in awe of the 
 far-famed Fighting Poll of the Reeks, who was renowned in all 
 the western fairs as a fearless, whisky-drinking virago, over six 
 feet in her stocking vamps, and standing no more in awe of the 
 gallows than she might of her mother's arms. It may at once be 
 seen that a character of this description was the very last that 
 could have been personated with any success by the lovely young 
 creature who accompanied Hardress ; and, indeed, her only 
 chance of escaping detection consisted in the unobtrusiveness of 
 the attempt she made, and the care she used, in concealing her 
 
 F 
 
82 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 features. The first circumstance that excited the astonishment of 
 Lowry, as he stood bowing with his hat off, upon the rocks, while 
 Danny the Lord assisted her to land, was the comparative 
 diminutiveness of her stature, and the apparent slightness of her 
 form. 
 
 * Your sarvent, Mrs. Naughten,' he said, in a most insinuating 
 accent. ' I hope I see you well in your health, ma'am. You 
 wouldn't remember a boy of the Loobys at all, you met of a time 
 at Nelly Hewsan's wake, westwards? (Heaven rest her soul this 
 night !) That was the place where the great giving-out was, 
 surely.' 
 
 To his gentle remembrance of old merry times the female in 
 the blue cloak only answered by a slight, short curtsey, while she 
 drew the hood closer about her face, and began, though with a 
 feeble and tottering step, to ascend the rocks. 
 
 * Bread, an' — beef, an' — tay, an'— whisky, an' — turkeys, an' — 
 cakes, an' everything that the heart could like,' the officious 
 Lowry continued, following the pseudo- Amazon among the stones 
 and seaweed, and marvelling not a little at her unaccustomed 
 taciturnity. ' The Hewsans could well afford it ; they were 
 strong, snug farmers : relations o' your own, I'm thinking, ma'am. 
 Oh, vo ! sure I forgot the thrunk, and there's Mr. Hardress call- 
 ing to me. Larry Kett,' he continued, addressing the old boatman 
 before mentioned, 'will show Mrs. Naughten the way to the 
 house, while I 'm getting the thrunk out o' the boat ; an' if you 
 want a fire o' turf, or a gwal o' piatees, Mrs. Frawley will let you 
 have 'em an' welcome.' 
 
 The old boatman willingly came into terms so easy and advan- 
 tageous ; and the fair counterfeit hurried on, well pleased at the 
 exchange of companions. Lowry, in the meantime, returned to 
 the boat, and stole into conversation with Danny the Lord, whom, 
 in fear of his sneering satirical temper, he always treated with 
 nearly as much respect as if his title were not so purely a thing of 
 courtesy. Danny Mann, on the other hand, received his 
 attentions with but little complaisance ; for he looked on Lowry 
 as a foolish, troublesome fellow, whose property in words (like 
 the estate of many a young absentee) far overbalanced his dis- 
 cretion and ability in their employment. He had often told 
 Looby in confidence, 'that it would be well for him he had a 
 bigger head and a smaller mouth ' — alluding to that peculiar con- 
 formation of Lowry's upper man, with which the reader has been 
 already made acquainted. The country people (who are never at 
 a loss for a simile), when they saw this long-legged fellow follow- 
 ing the sharp-faced little hunchback from place to place, used to 
 lean on their spades, and call the attention of their companions to 
 1 the wran an' the cuckoo goin' the road.' 
 
 The ' cuckoo ' now found the ' wran ' employed in coiling up a 
 wet cable on the forecastle, while he sang in a voice that more 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 83 
 
 nearly resembled the grunting of a pig at the approach of rain 
 than the melody of the sweet songstress of the hedges above 
 named : 
 
 ' An' of all de meat dat ever was hung, 
 
 A cheek o' pork is my fancy, 
 'Tis sweet an' toothsome, when 'tis young ; 
 
 Fait, dat 's no lie, says Nancy. 
 'Twill boil in less dan half an hour, 
 
 Den with your nail you may try it, 
 'Twill taste like any cauliflower — 
 'Tis better do dat dan to fry it. 
 
 Sing re-rig-i-dig-i-dum-derom-dum.' 
 
 'How does the world use Misther Mann this evening?' was the 
 form of Lowry's first greeting, as he bent over the gunwale of the 
 stern, and laid his huge paws on the small trunk. 
 
 * As you see me, Lowry,' was the reply. 
 'A smart evening ye had of it. 5 
 
 * Purty fair, for de matter o' dat.' 
 
 'Dear knows, it's a wondther y"e worn't drownded. 'Twas 
 blowin' a harico. An' you singin' now, as if you wor comin' from 
 a jig-house, or a wake, or a weddin'. Ah, then tell me, now, 
 Misther Mann, wasn't it your thought, when you were abroad 
 that time, how long it was since you were with the priest 
 before?' 
 
 1 1 dought o' dat first, Lowry, an' I tried to say a prayer ; but it 
 was so long from me since I did de like before, dat I might as well 
 try to talk Latin or any oder book-larning. But sure if I dought 
 o' myself rightly, dere wasn't de laste fear of us, for I had a book o' 
 St. Margaret's confession in me buzzum, an' as long as I 'd have dat, 
 I knew dat if de boat was to go down under me itself, she 'd come 
 up again.' 
 
 ' Erra, no ! ' 
 
 'Iss, dear knows.' 
 
 ' I wisht I had one of 'em,' said Lowry. ' I do be often goin' in 
 boats across to Cratloe an' them places.' 
 
 'You'd have no business of it, Lowry. Dem dat's born for one 
 death has no reason to be afeerd of anoder.' 
 
 ' Gondoutha ! You 're welcome to your joke this evening. Well, 
 if I was to put my eyes upon sticks, Misther Mann, I never would 
 know your sister again.' 
 
 1 She grew a dale, I b'lieve.' 
 
 'Grew? — If she did, it's like the cow's tail, downwards. Why, 
 she isn't, to say, taller than myself now, in place o 5 bein' the head 
 an' two shoulders above me. An' she isn't at all the rattlin' girl 
 she was of ould. She didn't spake a word.' 
 
 ' An' data's a failin' dat 's new to both o' ye,' said his lordship ; 
 ' but Poll made a vow again' talkin' of a Tursday, bekeys it was of 
 a Tursday her first child died, an' dey said he was hoist away be 
 
84 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 de good people, while Poll was gossiping wid Ned Hayes, over a 
 glass at de public' 
 
 1 And that 's her raison ? ' 
 
 1 Dat 's her raison.' 
 
 ' An' in regard o' the drink ? ' 
 
 'Oh, she's greatly altered dat way, too, dough 'twas greatly 
 again' natur. A lime-burner's bag was notten to her for soakin' 
 formerly, but now she 'd take no more than a wet sponge.' 
 
 'That's great, surely. An' about the cursin' and swearin' ?' 
 
 1 Cursin' ! You'd no more find a curse after her dan you would 
 after de clargy. An' 'tisn't dat itself, but you wouldn't get a 
 crooked word outside her lips, from year's end to year's end.' 
 
 1 Why, then, it was long from her to be so mealy-mouthed when 
 I knew her. An' does she lift a hand at the fair at all now ? Oyeh, 
 what a terrible 'oman she was, comin' again' a man with her stock- 
 in' off, an' a stone in the foot of it ! ' 
 
 1 She was. Well, she wouldn't raise her hand to a chicken 
 now.' 
 
 1 That flogs cockfighting.' 
 
 ' Only, I '11 tell you in one case. She 's apt to be contrary to any 
 one dat would be comin' discoorsin' her of a Tursday at all, or 
 peepin' or spyin' about her, she 's so vexed in herself not to be able 
 to make 'em an answer. It used to be a word an' a blow wid her ; 
 but now, as she can't have de word,' 'tis de blow comes mostly first, 
 an' she didn't make e'er a vow again' dat.' 
 
 ' Shasthone ! ' exclaimed Lowry, who laid up this hint for his own 
 edification. ' Great changes, surely. Well, Misther Mann, an' will 
 you tell me now,if you plase, is your masther goin' westwards in the 
 boat to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, an' — not makin' you a short answer, Lowry — I 
 don't care. And a word more on de back o' dat again, aldough I 
 have a sort of a rattlin' regard for you, still an' all, I 'd rather be 
 takin' a noggin o' whisky, to warm de heart in me dis cold night, 
 dan listenin' to your talkin' dere. Dat I may be happy but I would, 
 an' dat 's as good as if I was after takin' all de books in Ireland of 
 it. 5 
 
 This hint put an end to the conversation for the present, and 
 Danny the Lord (who exercised over Lowry Looby an influence 
 somewhat similar to that which tied Master Matthew to the heels 
 of Bobadil) adjourned with that loquacious person to the comforts 
 of Mrs. Frawley's fireside. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 85 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 HOW THE TWO FRIENDS HOLD A LONGER CONVERSATION 
 TOGETHER THAN THE READER MAY PROBABLY APPROVE 
 
 The female in the blue cloak withstood all the recommendations 
 and entreaties of the good-natured dairywoman that she would 
 i step in, and take an air of the kitchen fire.' She pleaded extreme 
 fatigue, and requested that she might be permitted to occupy at 
 once the chamber in which she was to pass the night. Finding 
 her resolute, Mrs. Frawley insisted on having a cheerful fire lighted 
 up in the little room outside her own dormitory, which was appro- 
 priated to the fair stranger's use. It was impossible to maintain 
 her close disguise in the presence of this officious and hospitable 
 woman, whose regard for her guest was in no degree diminished 
 by a view of her person and dress. Her hair was ringing wet, but 
 her cloak had in a great measure preserved the remainder of her 
 attire, which was just a shade too elegant for a mere fiaysanne, 
 and too modest for a person claiming the rank of a gentlewoman. 
 The material, also, which was a pretty flowered cotton — ' a dawny 
 pattern,' as Mrs. Frawley declared — proclaimed a pocket alto- 
 gether at ease, and led the dairywoman to the conclusion that 
 ' the Naughtens were decent, credible people, that knew how to 
 industher, and turn and stretch a penny as far as more would 
 a shilling.' 
 
 Having supplied the counterfeit Poll with everything necessary 
 for her immediate uses, Mrs. Frawley left her to make what changes 
 she pleased in her dress, and went to look after the young gentle- 
 men's dinner, as well as to prepare some refreshment for the weary 
 Mrs. Naughten herself. 
 
 Scarcely had Mrs. Frawley departed when a soft tapping at the 
 room door announced the approach of another visitor. The lovely 
 inconnue, who was employed at the moment in arranging and dry- 
 ing her hair, felt her heart beat somewhat quickly and strongly at 
 the sound. She threw back from her temples the wavy masses of 
 gold that hung around them, and ran to the door with lips apart, 
 and a flushed and eager cheek. * It is he ! ' she exclaimed to her 
 own breast as she undid the bolt. 
 
 It was not he. The weather-worn, freckled face of the little 
 hunchback was the first object that met her eyes. Between his 
 hands he held a small trunk, the lid of which was studded with 
 brass nails, forming the letters E. O'C. 
 
 ' By a dale to do, Miss, I laid hoult o' dis,' said Danny ; c Lowry 
 said, de letters didn't stand for Mr, Hardress at all, only one of 
 
86 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 1 Thank you, Danny. Where is your master?' 
 
 ' Aten his dinner in de parlour wid Mr. Daly before a tunderen' 
 big fire.' 
 
 1 Was Lowry speaking to you ? ' 
 
 1 Did anybody ever see him oderwise ? I '11 be bail he was so.' 
 
 ' But does he know ' 
 
 ' I didn't hear him say a word about it,' replied the little lord; ' an' 
 I tink if he knew, he 'd tell.' 
 
 ' Well, Danny, will you find an opportunity of speaking to your 
 master without being observed, and tell him that I wish to see him 
 very much indeed ? I am very uneasy ; and he has not told me how 
 long we are to stay here, or where we are to go next, or anything. 
 I feel quite lonesome, Danny, for it is the first evening I have ever 
 spent alone in my life, I think.' Here the poor young creature's 
 lip quivered a little, and the water started into her eye. 
 
 1 Never fear, ma gra hu / ma grein chree hu ! ' said Danny, in a 
 soothing tone ; ' I '11 speak a word in his ear, an' he '11 come to you. 
 Dat I may never die in a frost if I wouldn't go from dis to Dublin 
 to sarve you, next to Mr. Hardress himself.' 
 
 He was as good as his word, and took an opportunity, while 
 Hardress was giving him some directions about the boat, to men- 
 tion the request of their gentle companion in the storm. The 
 young gentleman inquired the situation of her room, and bade his 
 servant say that he would not fail to visit her, if only for a few 
 minutes, before he retired to rest. It was necessary that the utmost 
 caution should be observed, to avoid awakening suspicion. 
 
 Kyrle Daly, in the meantime, was employed in manufacturing a 
 capacious bowl of whisky-punch by the parlour fireside. Instead 
 of the humble but capacious tumbler, or still more modern small 
 stone-china jug, over which you, good Irish reader, are probably 
 accustomed to solace your honest heart on a winter's evening, two 
 glasses, more than a foot in height, were displayed upon the board, 
 and seemed intended to meet the lips without the necessity of any 
 assistance from the hand. 
 
 By one of those inconsistencies in our nature on which it is idle 
 to speculate, Kyrle Daly found a difficulty in getting into conver- 
 sation with his friend upon the very subject on which, a few min- 
 utes before, he had longed for his advice and assistance. Hardress 
 appeared to be in high, noisy, and even exulting spirits, the sound 
 of which rang jarringly and harsh upon the ear of the disappointed 
 lover. The uproar of his happy heart offended the languor of his 
 young companion's mind, as the bustle of the city noon sounds 
 strange and unfamiliar on a sick man's hearing. 
 
 Neither, perhaps, is there any subject to which young men of 
 equal pretensions have a greater distaste than that of love con- 
 fidences one with another. If the tale be of a past and unhappy 
 attachment, it is wearisome and annoying ; and if it relate to a 
 present and successful passion, a sentiment of jealousy is apt to 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 87 
 
 invade the heart of the listener, while he is made to contemplate 
 a picture of happiness which, perhaps, the sternness of his own 
 destiny has allowed him to contemplate as a picture only. A 
 better test could scarcely be adopted to distinguish a sincere and 
 disinterested friendship from one of mere convenience, than a trial 
 of patience on such atopic. It is true, indeed, that the incidents 
 lately recorded afford reason to believe that Hardress Cregan was 
 not one of those forlorn beings who are made 
 
 ' to love, and not be loved again' ; 
 
 but it is certain, nevertheless, that when Kyrle Daly first mentioned 
 his having been at Castle Chute, and driving Anne to the race- 
 course, his manner was rather reserved and discouraging than 
 otherwise. 
 
 I The longer I live, 5 Kyrle said at length, with some hesitation in 
 his manner — c the longer I live in this luckless condition, and the 
 oftener I think of that excellent girl, the more deep and settled 
 is the hold which she has taken of my imagination. I wonder, 
 Hardress, how you can be so indifferent to her acquaintance. 
 Placing my own unfortunate affection altogether out of view, I can 
 scarcely imagine an enjoyment more desirable than that of culti- 
 vating the society of so amiable a creature.' 
 
 Here he drew a long sigh, and replenished the void thus 
 occasioned by having recourse to the bowl and ladle. 
 
 I I am not of the same opinion, Kyrle/ said Hardress ; c Anne 
 Chute is, unquestionably, a very fine girl, but she is too highly 
 educated for me. 5 « 
 
 I Too highly educated ! ' 
 
 ' Echo me not. The words are mine. Yes, Kyrle, I hold that 
 this system of polishing girls, ad unguem, is likely to be the 
 destruction of all that is sincere, and natural, and unaffected in 
 the sex. It is giving the mind an unwholesome preponderance 
 over the heart, occasioning what an astronomer would call an 
 occultation of feeling by the intervention of reason. 5 
 
 I I cannot imagine a case, 5 said Kyrle, ' in which the exercise of 
 reason can ever become excessive ; and there are sneerers under 
 the sun, Hardress, who will tell you that this danger is least of 
 all to be apprehended among the lovely beings of whom you are 
 speaking.' 
 
 'I think otherwise. As I prefer the works of nature to the 
 works of man, the fresh river breeze to the dusty and smoky 
 zephyr of Capel Street, the bloom on a cottage cheek to the 
 crimson japan that blazes at the Earl of Buckinghamshire's 
 drawing-rooms ; as I love a plain beefsteak before a grilled 
 attorney, 1 this excellent whisky-punch before my mother's con- 
 
 1 It is notorious that the drumstick of a goose or turkey, grilled and 
 highly spiced, was called a devil. Some elegant persons, however, who 
 
88 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 founded currant wine, and anything else that is pure and natural 
 before anything else that is adulterated and artificial ; so do I 
 love the wild hedge-flower, simplicity, before the cold and sapless 
 exotic, fashion ; so do I love the voice of affection and of nature 
 before that of finesse and affectation.' 
 
 ' Your terms are a little too hard, I think,' said Kyrle : ' elegance 
 of manner is not finesse, nor at all the opposite of simplicity ; 
 it is merely simplicity made perfect. I grant you that few, 
 very few, are successful in acquiring it ; and I dislike its ape, 
 affectation, as heartily as you do. But we find something that is 
 conventional in all classes, and I like affectation better than 
 vulgarity after all' 
 
 1 Vulgarity of manner,' said Hardress, ' is more tolerable than 
 vulgarity of mind.' 
 
 1 One is only offensive as the indication of the other, and I 
 think it not more tolerable, because I prefer ugliness masked to 
 ugliness exposed.' 
 
 ' Why now, Daly, I will meet you on tangible ground. There 
 is our friend Anne Chute, acknowledged to be the loveliest girl 
 in her circle, and one whom I remember a charming good- 
 natured little hoyden in her childhood. And see what high 
 education has done for her. She is cold and distant, even to 
 absolute frigidity, merely because she has been taught that in- 
 sensibility is allied to elegance. What was habit has become 
 nature with her ; the frost which she suffered to lie so long 
 upon the surface has at length penetrated to her affections, and 
 killed every germ of mirth, and love, and kindness, that might 
 have made her a treasure to her friends and an ornament to 
 society.' 
 
 1 Believe me, Hardress, believe me, my dear Hardress, you do 
 her wrong,' exclaimed Kyrle, with exceeding warmth. ' It is not 
 that I love Anne Chute I speak ; but because I know and esteem 
 her. If you knew her but for three days, instead of one hour, you 
 never would again pronounce so harsh a sentence. All that is 
 virtuous, all that is tender and affectionate, all that is amiable 
 and high-principled, may be met with in that admirable woman. 
 Take the pains to know her, visit her, speak of her to her friends, 
 — her dependents — to her aged mother — to any one that has 
 observed her conduct, and you will be undeceived. Why will you 
 not strive to know her better ?' 
 
 'Why, you must consider that it is not many months since I 
 returned from Dublin ; and, to say a truth, the single visit I paid 
 at Castle Chute was not calculated to tempt me to a second. 
 Considering that I was an old playfellow and a kind of cousin, 
 
 deemed that term too strong for 'ears polite,' were at the pains of looking 
 for a synonym of a milder sound, and discovered a happy substitute in the 
 word attorney, which conveys all the original force, without the coarse 
 cacophony of the other phrase. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 89 
 
 I thought Anne Chute need not have received me as if I were a 
 tax-gatherer, or a travelling dancing-master.' 
 
 ' Why, what would you have her do ? Throw her arms about 
 your neck, and kiss you, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Not exactly. You know the class of people of whom little 
 Flaccus said, Quum vitia vitant in contraria currunt, and, after 
 all, I think Anne Chute is not one of those. Her education is 
 little worth if it could not enable her to see a medium between 
 two courses so much at variance.' 
 
 * But will you allow a friend to remind you, Hardress, that you 
 are a little overapt to take exception in matters of this kind. 
 And, notwithstanding all you have been saying against the polite 
 world, I will venture to prophesy this, that when circumstances 
 shall more frequently thrust you forward on the stage, and custom 
 shall make you blind to the slight and formal insincerities that 
 grieve you at present, your ideas on fashion, and elegance, and 
 education will undergo a change. I know you, Hardress : you 
 are not yet of age. The shadow of a repulse is now to you a 
 sentence of banishment from any circle in which you suppose it 
 is offered ; but when you shall be courted, when mothers shall 
 dress their daughters at you, and daughters shall shower down 
 smiles upon your path ; when fathers shall praise your drinking, 
 and sons shall eulogise your horses, then, Hardress, look to it. 
 You will then be as loud and talkative before the whole world as 
 now in the presence of your humble friend. You will smile, and 
 smile a hundred times over at your young philosophy.' 
 
 ' Oh, " never shall sun that morrow see," ' cried Hardress, 
 throwing himself back in his chair, and raising his hands in 
 seeming deprecation. ' I perceive what you are hitting at, Kyrle,' he 
 continued, reddening a little ; * you allude to my — my — timidity — 
 bashfulness — what you will — my social cowardice. But I disclaim 
 the petty, paltry failing. The feeling that unnerves me in society 
 is as widely different from that base consciousness of inferiority, 
 or servile veneration of wealth, rank, or power, as the anger of 
 Achilles from the spite of Thersites. You may laugh, and call 
 me self-conceited, but, upon my simple honour, I speak in pure 
 sincerity. My feeling is this, my dear Kyrle. New as I was to 
 the world after leaving college (where, you know, I studied pretty 
 hard), the customs of society appeared to wear a strangeness in my 
 sight that made me a perfect and competent judge of their value. 
 Their hollowness disgusted, and their insipidity provoked me. I 
 could not join with any ease in the solemn folly of bows, and 
 becks, and wreathed smiles, that can be put on or off at pleasure. 
 The motive of the simplest forms of society stared me in the face 
 when I saw them acted before me, and if I attempted to play a 
 part among the hypocrites myself, I supposed that every eye 
 around me was equally clear-sighted, saw through the hollow 
 assumption, and despised it as sincerely in me as I had done in 
 
9 o THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 others. The consciousness of guilt was evident in my manner, 
 and I received the mortification which ensued as the just punish- 
 ment of my meanness and hypocrisy. '_ 
 
 'You do express yourself in sufficiently forcible terms when 
 you go about it,' said Daly, smiling. 'What great hypocrisy 
 or meanness there can be in remarking that it is a fine day, or 
 asking after the family of an acquaintance, even though he 
 should know that the first was merely intended to draw on a 
 conversation, and the second to show him a mark of regard.' 
 
 1 Which I did not feel.' 
 
 1 Granted. Let him perceive that never so clearly, there is still 
 an attention implied in your putting the question at all with which 
 he cannot be disobliged. It is flattering to acknowledge the 
 necessity of such a deference. And, my dear Hardress, if you 
 were never to admit of ceremony as the deputy of natural and real 
 feeling, what would become of the whole social system ? How 
 soon the mighty vessel would become a wreck ! how silent would 
 be the rich man's banquet ! how solitary the great man's 
 chambers ! how few would bow before the throne ! how lonely 
 and how desolate would be the temples of religion ! ' 
 
 ' You are the more bitter satirist of the two,' said Hardress. 
 
 ' No, no,' exclaimed Kyrle. ' I merely remind you of an 
 acknowledged fact, that when you enrol your name on the social 
 list, you pledge yourself to endure as well as to enjoy. As long as 
 ever you live, Hardress, take my word for it, you will never make 
 nor look upon a perfect world. It is such philosophy as yours that 
 goes to the making of misanthropes. The next time you go into 
 society, resolve to accept any mortifications you shall endure as a 
 punishment for your sins, and so think no more of them. This 
 indifference will become habitual, and while it does so, those 
 necessary hypocrisies of which you speak will grow familiar and 
 inoffensive.' 
 
 'I see no occasion,' said Hardress, 'to make the trial. Plain 
 human nature is enough for me. If I were to choose a companion 
 for life., I should rather hope to cull the sweet fruit of conjugal 
 happiness in the wild orchard of nature than from the bark-beds 
 and hot walls of society.' 
 
 ' I advise you, however,' said Kyrle, ' not to make the choice 
 until you have greater opportunities of observing both sides of 
 the question. Trust not to the permanence of your present feel- 
 ings nor to the practical correctness of your curious theories. It 
 would be too late, after you had linked yourself to — to — simplicity, 
 I shall call it, to discover that elegance was a good thing 
 after all.' 
 
 Hardress did not appear to relish this speech, and the conversa- 
 tion, in consequence, was discontinued for some minutes. Young 
 Cregan was indeed as incapable of calculating on his future 
 character as Kyrle Daly asserted. He was in that period of life 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 91 
 
 (the most critical perhaps of all) when the energies of the mind, 
 as well as of the frame, begin to develop themselves, and exhibit 
 in irregular outbreaks the approaching vigour and fire of man- 
 hood. A host of new ideas at this time crowd in upon the reason, 
 distinguished rather by their originality and genius than by 
 that correctness and good order which is derivable from instruction 
 or experience alone ; and it depends upon the circumstances in 
 which the young thinker is placed, whether his future character 
 shall be that of a madman or a sage. It was, perhaps, a know- 
 ledge of this inventive pride in youth, that made the Stagirite 
 assert that men should not look into philosophical works before 
 the age of five and twenty. 
 
 Hardress, however, although very sensitive, was not one of those 
 who can brood a long time over an evil feeling. ' Well, Daly,' 
 he exclaimed, starting from a reverie, ' we will each of us pursue 
 our inclinations on this subject. Leave me to the indulgence of 
 my theories, and I will wish you joy of your Anne Chute.' 
 
 ' My Anne Chute ! ' echoed Daly, sipping his punch with a sad 
 face. ' I have no lien upon that lady, as the counsellors say. She 
 may sue as a feme sole for me in any court in Christendom.' 
 
 Hardress turned on him a look of extreme surprise, in answer 
 to which Kyrle Daly furnished him with an account of his un- 
 successful suit to Anne, as also with his suspicions as to another 
 attachment. The deep feeling of disappointment under which 
 he laboured became apparent, as he proceeded in his discourse, 
 in the warmth and eagerness of his manner, the frequent com- 
 pression of his lips, and clenching of his trembling hands, the 
 dampness of his forehead, and the sparkling of his moistened 
 eyeballs. The sight of his friend in suffering turned the stream 
 of Hardress Cregan's sympathies into another channel, and he 
 employed all his eloquence and ingenuity in combating the 
 dangerous dejection which was hourly gaining upon his spirit. 
 He declared his disbelief in the idea of another attachment, and 
 recommended perseverance by every argument in his power. 
 
 ' But the state of her mind,' he continued, ' shall not remain long 
 a secret to you. They have been both (Anne and her mother) 
 invited to spend a part of the winter with us at Dinis cottage. 
 My mother is a great secret hunter, and I need only tell her 
 where the game lies to make certain that it will be hunted down. 
 Trust everything to me — for your sake I will take some pains to 
 become better known to this extraordinary girl ; and you may 
 depend upon it, if she will suffer me to mount above zero, you 
 shall not suffer in my good report.' 
 
 When the conversation had reached this juncture, the silence 
 which prevailed in the cottage showed that the night was already 
 far advanced. The punch had descended so low as to leave the 
 bowl of the ladle more than half visible ; the candles seemed to 
 meditate suicide, while the neglected snuff, gathering to a pall 
 
92 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 above the flame, threw a gloomy and flickering shadow on the 
 ceiling ; the turfen fire was a little more than a heap of pale ashes, 
 before which the drowsy household cat, in her sphynx-like atti- 
 tude, sat winking and purring her monotonous song of pleasure ; 
 the abated storm (like a true Irish storm) seemed to mourn with 
 repentant howlings over the desolating effects of its recent fury ; 
 the dog lay dreaming on the hearth ; the adjoining farm-yard was 
 silent, all but the fowl-house, where some garrulous dame partlet, 
 with female pertinacity, still maintained a kind of drowsy clucking on 
 her roost ; the natural hour of repose seemed to have produced its 
 effect upon the battling elements themselves ; the tempest had 
 folded his black wings upon the ocean, and the waters broke 
 upon the shore with a murmur of expiring passion. Within doors, 
 or without, there was no sight nor sound that did not convey a 
 hint of bedtime to the watchers. 
 
 To make this hint the stronger, Mrs. Frawley showed the disc 
 of her full-blown countenance at the door, as round as the 
 autumnal moon, and like that satellite, illuminated by a borrowed 
 light, namely, the last inch of a dipped candle which burned in 
 her hand. ' Masther Kyrle, darlin',' she exclaimed, in a tone of 
 tender remonstrance, ' won't you go to bed to-night, child ? ; Tis 
 near mornin', dear knows.' 
 
 ' Is Lowry Looby in bed ?' 
 
 'No, sir, he's waitin' to know have you any commands to 
 Cork ; he 's goin' to guide the car in the mornin' with the firkins.' 
 
 Lowry here introduced his person before that of the dairy- 
 woman, causing, however, rather a transit than an eclipse of the 
 moon of womanhood. 
 
 ' Or Misther Cregan ? ' he exclaimed ; ' maybe he 'd have some 
 commands westwards ? Because if he had, I could lave 'em at 
 the forge at the cross, above, with directions to have 'em sent 
 down to the house.' 
 
 *I have no commands,' said Hardress, 'except to say that I 
 will be at home on next Friday.' 
 
 ' And I have none whatever,' said Kyrle Daly, rising and taking 
 one of the candles. Hardress, mind you don't give me the 
 counterfeit, the slip, in the morning.' 
 
 This caution produced a hospitable battle, which ended in 
 Hardress Cregan's maintaining his purpose of departing with the 
 dawn of day. The friends then shook hands and separated for 
 the night. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 93 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 HOW LOWRY BECOMES PHILOSOPHICAL 
 
 As Lowry Looby returned to the kitchen, he was met by Nelly, 
 the housemaid, who reminded him that he would be obliged to 
 start before the potatoes could be boiled in the morning, and 
 recommended, as a preparatory measure, that he should take his 
 breakfast overnight. Secure of his indulging her in so reason- 
 able a request, she had already, under Mrs. JFrawley's favour, laid 
 on a little table before the kitchen fire the remains of the ducks 
 (so often commemorated in this narrative), a plate of ' re-heaters ' 
 (such was Nelly's term for potatoes, suffered to cool and warmed 
 again in the red turf-ashes), as also a piece of pork, four inches 
 in depth and containing no lean that was visible on a cursory 
 inspection. This last was a dish for which Nelly knew Lowry 
 Looby to entertain a fondness worthy of his ancient Irish descent. 
 Indeed, on all occasions, Nelly was observed to take an interest 
 in consulting the inclinations of this long-legged person— a kind- 
 ness upon her part which the ungrateful Lowry seemed little 
 inclined to appreciate. 
 
 The present proposal, however, harmonised so sweetly with his 
 own feelings at the moment, that he signified a speedy compli- 
 ance, and followed the nymph into her culinary retreat. The 
 kitchen presented a scene no less drowsy than the parlour. Mrs. 
 Frawley was saying her prayers by the fireside, with a string of 
 beads that hung down to the ground, now and then venting a deep 
 sigh, then ' running her godly race ' through a fit of yawning, and 
 anon casting a glance over her shoulder at the proceedings of the 
 two domestics, while every new distraction was followed by a 
 succession of more audible groans and more vehement assaults 
 with the closed hand upon her bosom. Danny Mann was sleep- 
 ing heavily on the other side of the fire, with his red woollen 
 comforter drying on his knee. In order to avoid disturbing 
 either the slumbers of the one or the devotions of the other, Nelly 
 and her swain were obliged to carry on their conversation in a low 
 whispering voice, which gave additional effect to the sleepy tone 
 of the entire scene. The shadows of the whole party, like the 
 fame of genius magnified by distance, were thrown in gigantic 
 similitude upon the surrounding walls. There Mrs. Frawley 
 dilated to the dimensions of an ogre's wife, and here Danny 
 Mann's hunch became to the original as Ossa to Knock Patrick. 
 Looby's expanded mouth showed like the opening to Avernus, 
 and the tight little Nelly herself, as she sat opposite, assumed the 
 stature of Mr. Salt's black breccia Memnon, which any reader, 
 
94 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 who is curious about Nelly's personal outline, may behold in the 
 ninth room of the British Museum. 
 
 While Lowry consoled himself with the greasy pork, swallowing 
 it with as lively a relish as if it were the green fat of a Gallipagos 
 turtle, he gave Nelly a history of the day's adventures, not 
 forgetting his own triumph at the staggeen race and the disappear- 
 ance of Eily O'Connor. Nelly was the better pleased with his 
 account of these transactions, as he thought fit to abstain in the 
 first instance from all mention of Syl Carney ; and, in speaking 
 of the ropemaker's daughter, to omit those customary eulogies 
 which he dealt forth whenever her name was brought in question. 
 Emboldeded by this circumstance, Nelly did not hesitate to throw- 
 out some plain insinuations as to the probable cause of the 
 mystery, which did not much redound to the honour of the 
 charming fugitive, and she became still more impassioned in her 
 invective after Mrs. Frawley had relieved them from the restraint 
 of her presence, and retired to her sleeping-room. 
 
 ' Often an' often I told you, Lowry, that it wasn't for you to be 
 lookin' afther a girl o' that kind, that thought herself as good as a 
 lady. Great business, indeed, a poor man o' your kind would 
 have of one like her, that would be too grand to put a leg in a 
 skeogh x to wash the potatoes, or lay a hand on the pot-hooks, to 
 sthrain 'em, if they were broke to tatthers.' 
 
 'That I may never die in sin if ever I had a thought of her, 
 Nelly, only just divartin' at Batt Coonerty's.' 
 
 ' What a show the house would be with ye,' continued Nelly, 
 still following up the matrimonial picture, ' an 5 you a hard-workin' 
 boy, obleest to be up early an' late at other people's biddin'. I '11 
 be bound that isn't the girl that would be up with the lark, an' 
 have a fire made, an' a griddle o' bread down in the mornin' before 
 you, an' you goin' a long road ; or have the hearth swep' an' your 
 supper ready, an' everythin' nate about the place for you when 
 you 'd be comin' back at night. But I believe there 's a chimcera 2 
 before the boys' eyes, that they don't know what 's good for 'em.' 
 
 1 Look ! ' exclaimed Lowry, while he broke a potato between 
 his fingers, swallowed one half at a mouthful, and tossed the crisp 
 peel upon the table ; ' that I may be happy, if she was offered to me 
 this minute, if I 'd take her. Sure I know I 'd have no more 
 business of such a girl upon my floore than I would of Miss Chute 
 herself. But there 's no reason, for all, why I wouldn't be sorry 
 for ould Mihil's throuble. He 's gone westwards, Foxy Dunat the 
 haircutter tells me, to Castle Island, to his brother, Father Ned, 
 I suppose, to get him to publish her from the altar, or somethin'. 
 They think 'tis westwards she went.' 
 
 Happening at this moment to cast his eyes upon Danny Mann, 
 Lowry perceived, with a sensation of disagreeable surprise, that 
 
 1 Basket. 2 An optical illusion. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 95 
 
 he was awake, and peering curiously upon him from below the 
 half-raised lids. The red firelight which gleamed on the eye- 
 balls gave them a peculiar and equivocal lustre, which added force 
 to their native sharpness of expression. Danny felt the ill effect 
 he had produced, and carried it off with a fit of yawning and 
 stretching, asking Lowry at the same time, with a drowsy air, if he 
 meant to go to bed at all. 
 
 'To be sure I do,' said Lowry, 'when it's pleasin' to the 
 company to part. There 's a time for all things, as they say in the 
 Readin'-made-asy.' 
 
 ' Surely, surely,' returned Danny, with a yawn ' Dear knows, den, 
 de Readin'-made-asy time is come now, for 'tis a'most mornin'.' 
 
 ' 1 always, mostly, smoke a drass before I go to bed of a night,' 
 said Lowry, turning towards the fire, and clearing the bowl of his 
 pipe, by knocking it gently against the bar of the grate ; ' I like 
 to be smokin' an' talkin' when the company is agreeable, an' I see 
 no raison for bein' in a hurry to-night above all others. Come, 
 Nelly,' he added, while he chopped up a little tobacco, and 
 pressed it into the bowl with the tip of his finger, ' come here, an' 
 sit near me, I want to be talkin' to you.' 
 
 Saying this, he took a half-burnt sod from the fire, crushed the 
 bowl into the burning portion, and after offering it in vain to 
 Danny, placed it in the corner of his mouth. He then remained 
 for some moments with his eyes half closed, drawing in the fire 
 with his breath, and coaxing it with his finger, until the vapour 
 flowed freely through the narrow tube and was emitted at 
 intervals, at the opposite corner of his mouth, in a dense and 
 spiry stream. 
 
 'An' what do you want to be saying?' said Nelly, taking her 
 seat between Lowry and the lord : ' I '11 engage you have nothin' 
 to say to me afther all' 
 
 ' Come a little nearer,' said Lowry, without changing his position. 
 
 ' Well, there, why,' returned Nelly, moving her chair a little 
 closer ; ' will that do ? ' 
 
 ' No, it won't. 'Tis a whisper I have for you. Misther Mann 
 would hear me if I told it to you where you are.' 
 
 ' Oh, a whisper ! Well, now, I 'm close enough, any way,' she 
 said, placing her chair in contact with that of Lowry. 
 
 The latter took the pipe from his mouth, and advanced his 
 face so close to that of the expectant housemaid, that she feared 
 he was about to snatch a kiss. Perhaps it was in mere curiosity to 
 satisfy herself whether in fact he could possess so much audacity, 
 that Nelly did not avoid that danger by moving her head aside ; 
 but, greatly to her surprise, and, doubtless, likewise to her satis- 
 faction, the honest man proved that he had no such insolent 
 intention. When he had attained a convenient proximity, he 
 merely parted his lips a little, and puffed a whole volume of smoke 
 into her eyes. Nelly uttered a gentle scream, and covered her face 
 
96 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 with her hands, while Danny and Lowry exchanged a broad grin 
 of satisfaction. 
 
 'Well, Lowry, 5 exclaimed the girl, with much good humour, 
 'you're the greatest rogue goin', and that's your name this night.' 
 
 Lowry continued to muse for a few moments, while he con- 
 tinued the enjoyment of his pipe. In a little time he once more 
 took it from his lips, puffed forth the last whiff, and said : 
 ' Misther Mann, they may say this and that o' the world, an' of 
 poverty, an' riches, an' humility, an' gentility, an' everythin' else 
 they like, but here's my word, ever: If I was a king upon a 
 throne this minute, an' I wanted to have a smoke for myself by 
 the fireside, why, if I was to do my best, what could I smoke but 
 one pen'orth o' tobacco in the night, afther all : and can't I have 
 that as it is, just as asy ? If I was to have a bed with down 
 feathers upon it, what could I do more than sleep there? An' 
 sure I can do that in the settle-bed above ? If I was able to buy 
 the whole market out an' out, what could I ate of it more than I 
 did to-night o' that pork upon the table? Do you see, now, Mr. 
 Mann ? do you see, Nelly ? Unless he could smoke two pipes of a 
 night, instead of one, or sleep more, or ate more without hurt, I don't 
 say what 's the advantage a king has over a poor man like myself.' 
 
 'Ah, sure, you know that's foolish talk, Lowry. Sure the king 
 could buy and sell you at the fair if .he liked.' 
 
 ' He couldn't without the jury,' returned Lowry — ' the judge an 
 jury ever. He couldn't lay a wet finger on me without the jury, 
 be course o' law. The round o' the world is as free to me as it is 
 to him, if the world be round in airnest, as they say it is.' 
 
 'Round, ayeh?' said Nelly. 
 
 ' Iss, to be sure.' 
 
 Danny Mann looked at him for a moment. ' Is it the world 
 we're walkin' on?' he asked in some surprise. 
 
 ' To be sure, what else ? ' 
 
 'Ah, don't be talkin',' returned Danny, turning his head away in 
 perfect scorn of the hypothesis. 
 
 ' Faix, I tell you no lie,' said Lowry ; ' 'tis printed in all the 
 books in Europe. They say that if it wasn't round, we 'd soon be 
 done for. We couldn't keep a hoult upon it at all, only to go 
 flyin' through the elements ; the Lord save us ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, vo, vo ! ' said Nelly ; ' well, that bates Ireland.' 
 
 ' Sure there 's more says that it isn't the sun above do be movin' 
 at all, only we goin' round it.' 
 
 ' That the sun doesn't stir ? ' 
 
 * Not a peg.' 
 
 ' Well, now you may hould your tongue, after dat,' said Danny, 
 'after wantin' to take de eyesight from us. Sure the whole world 
 sees the sun goin', anyway.' 
 
 ' I wouldn't b'lieve that,' said Nelly, ' if they were to put their 
 eyes upon sticks.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 97 
 
 c I wouldn't be so,' returned Lowry ; ' what business would a 
 poor boy o' my kind have goin' again' men that are able to write 
 books, let alone readin' 'em. But 'tis the foolishness of the 
 women,' he continued, fixing upon Nelly as the least pugnacious 
 opponent ; ' women are always for foolishness. They 'd b'lieve or 
 not b'lieve, just as they like themselves. Equal to Dan Dawley's 
 second wife : did you ever hear o' that business, Misther Mann ?' 
 
 ' Not as I know.' 
 
 ' Well, stir up the fire, Nelly, an' put down a couple o' sods, an' 
 I '11 tell it while I am finishin' my pipe, and then we'll all be off to 
 bed. Dan Dawley was married a second time to a very nice girl, 
 one Jug Minaham (he's the steward at Castle Chute, behind). 
 Well, he was out of a day at work, an' his wife was setten' alone 
 by the fire, a few weeks afther they bein' married. Now, there 
 was one o' the stones in the chimney (as it might be that stone 
 there), an' it stood out loose from the morthar a dale beyond the 
 rest. Well, she sat lookin' at it for a while, and the thought come 
 in her head, " If I had a child now," says she, " an' he was standin' 
 a-near that stone, maybe 'twould fall out and brain him on me." 
 An' with the thought o' that, she began roarin' and bawlin' equal 
 to anythin' ever you hear.' 
 
 ' Oh, then, she was a foolish girl,' said Nelly. 
 
 ' Dear knows, that was her name,' said Danny. 
 
 1 Well, her old mother heered her bawlin', an' she came in the 
 greatest hurry. "Ah ! what ails you, Jug?" says she. So Jug up 
 an' tould her her thought about the stone, an' began bawlin' worse 
 than ever. An' if she did, the mother joined her, an' such a pilliloo 
 as they raised between 'em was never known. That was well an' 
 good. Well, Dan was abroad in the potato-garden, an' he heard 
 the work goin' on in his house, cryin' equal to a funeral. " What 's 
 this about?" says Dan; "there's somebody murthered, surely." 
 So he made for the doore, an' in he walked, an' there he found the 
 pairo' ladies. "Ah ! what ails you, mother?" said he. "Jug will 
 tell you, agra," says the mother. So he looked at Jug. " Thinkin' 
 I was," says she, still crying, " that if the child was born, an' if 
 that stone there fell upon him, 'twould brain him on me." Well, 
 Dan stood for a while lookin' at her. " If the sky fell," says he, 
 "we'd catch larks. An' is that all that happened to you?" 
 "Isn't it enough?" says she again. Well, he stopped a long 
 while thinkin' in his mind, and then he reached out his hand to 
 her. " Well," says he, "that's the foolishest thing I ever knew in 
 my life, an' I '11 tell you what it is ; I never '11 take a day with you 
 from this hour, until I '11 find a woman," says he, " that's foolisher 
 than yourself." No sooner said than done : out he walked, lavin' 
 'em after him to do as they plased. Well, there was a long day 
 before him, an' he walked a dale before nightfall, an' he didn't 
 know where he'd turn to his bed and dinner. " But sure I 'm asy 
 about it," says he; "sure, while there's fools of women in the 
 
98 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 place, I '11 engage I needn't starve." Well, he called a gorsoon 
 that was going the road. " Whose farm-house," says he, "is that 
 I see over there?" "It's belongin' to a widow woman, sir," said 
 the boy. " What sort of a man was her husband?" says Dan. 
 " A small, dark man, an' wearin' top-boots," says the boy. Well 
 became Dan, he made for the house, an' axed for the lone woman. 
 She was standin' on the lawn lookin' at her cows milkin', when 
 Dan made towards her. " Well, where do you come from ? " says 
 the widow woman. " From Heaven, ma'am," says Dan, makin' a 
 bow. "From Heaven?" says she, lookin' at him with her eyes 
 open. "Yes, ma'am," says he, "for a little start. An' I seen 
 your husband there too, ma'am." " My husband, inagh ? " says 
 she, lookin' at him very knowin'. " Can you tell me what sort of 
 a man he was?" "A small, dark man," says Dan, "an' wearin' 
 top-boots." " I give in to you," says she ; " that 's the man. Come 
 this way an' tell me what did he say to you, or did he give any 
 message to me?" Well, Dan put no bounds to his tongue, just to 
 thry her. "He bid me tell you," says he, "that he's very badly 
 off for want o' victuals ; an' he 'd like to have the young grey 
 horse to be ridin' for himself, an' he 'd do as much if you could 
 send 'em to him." " Why then, I '11 do that," says the widow, 
 "for he was a good husband to me when he lived. What time 
 will you be goin' back?" "To-morrow or afther," says Dan, 
 "afther I see my people." "Well, stay here to-night," says she, 
 " an' I '11 give you somethin' to take to him in the mornin'." Well 
 became her, she brought him in, and treated him like a prince 
 that night, with music an' dancing ; an' in the mornin' she had 
 the grey horse at the doore with a bag o' flour, an' a crock o' 
 butter, an' a round o' corned beef. Well, Dan mounted the horse, 
 an' away with him home to his wife. " Well, Jug," says he, " I '11 
 take with you all my days, for, bad as you are, there's more that's 
 twice worse, an' I believe if I went farther 'tis worse an' worse I 'd 
 be gettin' to the world's end." So he up an' told 'em the whole 
 business, and they had a merry supper that night, and for weeks 
 afther, on what Dan brought home with him.' 
 
 'He was a rogue for all,' said Nelly, 'to keep the poor woman's 
 horse upon her.' 
 
 ' She deserved it- said Danny, ! an' worse. I never hear o' such 
 a fool. Well, Lowry, will you go to bed now at last?' 
 
 The question was answered in the affirmative : and Danny was 
 at the same time pressed to take a share of the sweets of the 
 table, which he resolutely refused. Soon after, the careful Nelly, 
 having made Lowry turn his head another way, ascended by a 
 ladder to a pallet, on a loft over the parlour : while Lowry and 
 the little lord rolled into the settle-bed together, the one to dream 
 of breakers, raw onions, whisky, and ' Misther Hardress ' ; the 
 other, of Foxy Dunat's mare and the black eyes of Syl Carney. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 99 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 HOW HARDRESS SPENT HIS TIME WHILE KYRLE DALY WAS 
 
 ASLEEP 
 
 All were now asleep, except the two strangers, and the silence 
 which reigned throughout the little cottage showed Hardress that 
 no ear was capable of detecting his movements. He opened his 
 room door softly, slipped his shoes from his feet, and leaving the 
 light burning on his table, trusted to the famous sixth sense of the 
 German physiologists for a chance of finding his way among the 
 chairs and tables in the dark. He reached the door without a 
 stumble, and perceived by the light, which streamed through the 
 keyhole and under the door of his friend's apartment, that she still 
 expected him. 
 
 Their meeting, though silent, was impassioned and affectionate. 
 Hardress inquired, with the tender and sedulous attention of a 
 newly-married man, whether she felt any injurious effects from 
 the storm — whether she had changed her dress, and taken some 
 refreshment — whether, in fine, her situation was in any way in- 
 convenient to her. 
 
 1 In no way at all, Mr. Hardress, as to any of these things you 
 mention, 5 she replied, in a low voice, for she was fearful of waking 
 Mrs. Frawley in the next room. ' But as to the mind ! May 
 Heaven never give you the affliction of spending two such hours 
 as I have done since I entered this room ! ' 
 
 ' My life ! why will you speak so ? What other course remained 
 for our adoption ? You know your father's temper ; he would as 
 soon have died as sanctioned a private marriage, such as ours 
 must be for some time longer. It would be absolute ruin to me if 
 my mother knew of my having contracted such an engagement 
 without consulting her wishes ; and my father, as I have before 
 told you, will act exactly as she desires. And why, now, my love, 
 will you indulge those uneasy humours ? Are you not my bride, 
 my wife, the chosen of my heart, and the future partner of my 
 fortunes? Do you really think that I would forget my little 
 angel's feelings so far as to omit anything in my power that might 
 set her mind at rest ? If you do, I must tell you that I love you 
 more than you imagine.' 
 
 'Oh, Mr. Hardress! oh, don't say that at all, sir,' said the 
 young woman, with frankness and ready warmth of manner. 
 ' Only I was just thinking, an' I sitting by the fire, what a heart- 
 break it would be to my father, if anybody put it into his head 
 that the case was worse than it is ' [here she hung down her head], 
 
ioo THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 'and no more would be wanting but just a little word on a scrap 
 o' paper to let him know that he needn't be uneasy, and that he'd 
 know all in time. 5 
 
 This suggestion seemed to jar against the young gentleman's 
 inclinations. ' If you wish/ said he, with a little earnestness of 
 voice, ' I will return with you to Garryowen to-morrow, and have 
 our marriage made public from the altar of John's Gate chapel. 
 I have no object in seeking to avoid my own ruin, greater than of 
 preventing you from sharing it. But if you will insist upon run- 
 ning the hazard — hazard? — I mean, if you are determined on 
 certainly destroying our prospects of happiness, your will shall be 
 dearer to me than fortune or friends either. If you have a father 
 to feel for, you will not forget, my love, that I have a mother whom 
 I love as tenderly, and whose feelings deserve some consideration 
 at my hands.' 
 
 The gentle girl seemed affected, but not hurt, at this speech. 
 1 Don't be angry with me,' she said, laying her hand affectionately 
 on his shoulder, ' don't be angry with me, Mr. Hardress. I know 
 I have a very bad head, and can't see into everything at once ; 
 but one word from you (and it needn't be an angry one either) is 
 enough to open my eyes. Insist, do you say, Mr. Hardress ? In- 
 deed, sir, I was never made to insist upon anything. But when a 
 thought, foolish as it is, once comes into my head, I long to speak 
 of it, to know what you will say, to know if it is wrong or right. 
 You wouldn't wish that I should keep it from you, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Never, oh, never ! Do not think of that.' 
 
 ' I never will practise it long, anyway ; for such thoughts as 
 those, if I were to hide them, would kill me before a month. But 
 keep always near me, my dear, dear Mr. Hardress, for though you 
 showed me that there is nothing very criminal in what I have done, 
 yet when you leave me alone, the reasons go out of my head, and 
 I only think of what the neighbours are saying about me this day, 
 and of what my father must feel listening to them. Don't think, 
 now, sir, that I am going to question what you tell me (for I tru-t 
 in you next to Heaven), but if I am not so much to blame, why is 
 it that my mind is not at ease ? The storm, sir— oh, that storm ! 
 When the waves rose, and the boat rocked, and the wind howled 
 about me, how my feelings changed on a sudden ! I strove to look 
 quiet before you, but my heart was leaping for fear within me. 
 When we sank down in the darkness, and rose in the light, when 
 the waves were dashin' in over the side, and the sails were dippin' 
 in the water, I thought of my father's fireside, and I was sure it was 
 the anger of the Almighty hunting the disobedient child over the 
 dark waters. I thought I never would walk the land again — and 
 how will it be, says I, if the boat breaks under us, and my father 
 is told that his daughter was washed ashore a corpse, with a blot 
 upon her name, and no one living that can clear it ? But, I give 
 thanks to Heaven ! ' the poor girl continued, clasping her hands, 
 
THE COLLEGIANS loi 
 
 and looking upward with tears in her eyes, ' that judgment has been 
 spared ; not for my own merit, I am sure, but for its own mercy.' 
 
 'And is not that a quieting remembrance, Eily?' said her 
 husband. 
 
 'Oh, that is not all,' said Eily; 'that is not the worst. Every 
 movement that I make seems to bring down the anger of Heaven, 
 since I first thought of deceiving my father. Do you remember 
 the morning of our marriage ? ' she added, with a slight shudder ; 
 ' I never can put that frightful morning out of my mind. 'Tis 
 always before my eyes. The little room inside the sacristy, and 
 the candles burning on the small table, and the grey dawn just 
 breaking through the window. We did not marry as other people 
 do, in their families or in the open daylight. We married in secret, 
 like criminals in prison, without preparation, without confession, or 
 communion, or repentance. We chose a priest that was disgraced 
 by his bishop, to give us the great sacrament for money. May 
 Heaven forgive him. How soon and how suddenly he was called 
 to judgment for that act ! ' 
 
 Hardress, who had himself been struck by the circumstance 
 last alluded to, remained silent for a moment, while his eyes were 
 fixed upon the earth. 
 
 ' Why did you go back to the chapel that time, Eily,' he said at 
 length, ' after I parted from you at the door ? ' 
 
 'Everything looked bad and disheartening,' said the young 
 woman ; ' I was just going to lift the latch of my father's door, 
 when I found that I had forgot the priest's certificate. I went 
 back to the chapel as fast as I could walk. I passed through the 
 sacristy and into the little room. The certificate was there upon 
 the table, the candles were burning, and the clergyman was sitting 
 upright in his chair — a dead man ! Oh, I can no more tell you 
 how I felt that moment than if I was dumb. I thought the world 
 was coming to an end, and that I had no more hold of life than of 
 the wind that was going by me. I ran out into the chapel and 
 strove to pray, but my blood was boiling out at my fingers' ends. 
 While I was on my knees, I heard the people running to and fro 
 in the sacristy, and I hurried out of the chapel for fear I 'd be 
 questioned.' 
 
 ' And did you go home at once ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I took a walk first to quiet my mind a little, and when I 
 did go home, I found my father was up and getting the breakfast 
 ready before me. Ah, he deserved a better daughter than Eily ! ' 
 
 ' Come, come,' said her husband kindly, ' you will be a good 
 daughter to him yet.' 
 
 'I hope so, sir,' said Eily in a mournful voice. 'There's one 
 thing, at all events : he loves me very well, and whenever I return, 
 I 'm sure of being easily forgiven.' 
 
 ' And can you find no encouragement in that ? ' Hardress said, 
 while he took her hand in his, and pressed it in a soothing 
 
102 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 manner. ' You say that you have confidence in me, and the few 
 happy weeks that we have counted since our marriage have fur- 
 nished me with no occasion for complaint on that subject. Continue 
 yet a little longer to trust in your own Hardress, and the time will 
 shortly come when you shall find that it was not bestowed in vain. 
 Come now, let me dry those sweet eyes, while I tell you shortly 
 what my plans shall be. You have heard me speak of Danny 
 Mann's sister Naughten, who lives on the side of the Purple 
 Mountain, in the Gap of Dunlough (you don't know those places 
 now, but you '11 be enchanted with them by and by). She is a 
 good-natured creature, though somewhat violent, and is, moreover, 
 entirely at my command. I have had two neat rooms fitted up for 
 you in her cottage, where you can have some books to read, a little 
 garden to amuse you, and a Kerry pony to ride over the moun- 
 tains, and see all that is to be seen about the lakes. In the mean- 
 time I will steal a visit now and then to my mother, who spends 
 the autumn in the neighbourhood. She loves me, I know, as 
 well as I love her, and that is very well. I will gradually let her 
 into my secret, and obtain her forgiveness — I am certain she will 
 not withhold it — and my father's will follow as a matter of course, 
 for he has the greatest respect for her opinions.' [If Hardress 
 had not been Barney Cregan's son, he would have given this respect 
 another name.] ' I shall then present you to my mother — she will 
 commend your modesty and gentleness to my father, who will rap 
 out an exclamation on your beauty ; we shall send for your father 
 and the priest O'Connor to the hauling-home, and then where 
 is the tongue that shall venture to wag against the fame of Eily 
 Cregan ? If such a one there be, it shall never sting again, for I 
 will cut the venom out of it with my small-sword.' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! sir. Do not speak so loud,' cried the young 
 woman, in some alarm : ' there 's one asleep in the next room.' 
 
 ' Who is it ? Mrs. Frawley ? ' 
 
 ' The fat, good old woman that got dinner ready for me.' 
 
 ' Never fear her. She is a hard-working, diligent woman, that 
 always minds the business she has in hand. It was not to lie 
 awake and make use of her ears that she got between the blankets. 
 Hark ! there is a clearer proof still that she is asleep. She must 
 be dreaming of a hunt, she imitates the horn of chase so finely. 
 Well, Eily, be ready to start for Ballybunion at sunrise in the 
 morning. You must contrive to slip down to the shore without 
 being seen by Lowry, or anybody else, if possible.' 
 
 The creaking of the bed which sustained the ponderous Mrs. 
 Frawley here startled the young and passionate, though most ill- 
 sorted pair. After a hurried good-night, Hardress returned to his 
 room just in time to escape the observation of the good dairy- 
 woman, who had been awaked out of a dream of pecks and keelers 
 and fresh-prints by the sound of voices in the stranger's room On 
 opening the door, however, she was a little astonished to observe 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 103 
 
 her lovely guest in the attitude of devotion. Deprived, by this 
 circumstance, of the opportunity of putting any awkward questions, 
 Mrs. Frawley, after yawning once or twice, and shaking her 
 shoulders as often, tumbled into bed again, and speedily re- 
 sumed the same tune upon the horn which had excited the 
 admiration of Hardress. 
 
 Reader, I desire you not to think that this speedy fit of devotion 
 was a manoeuvre of the gentle Eily. The sin, assuredly, was not 
 done with reflection. But if the case appears suspicious, go down 
 upon your knees, and pray that as (alas, the while !) it has not been 
 the first, it may be the last, instance in which religion shall be 
 made subservient to human and terrestrial purposes ! 
 
 There was a slight feeling of chagrin mingled with the happier 
 emotions of the young husband as he prepared for slumber. 
 Gifted as he was with a quick perception and keen feeling of the 
 beautiful and worthy, the passion he had conceived for the gentle 
 Eily had been as sudden as it was violent. The humility of her 
 origin, at a period when pride of birth was more considered in 
 matrimonial alliances than it is at present, might, it is true, have 
 deterred him from contravening the wishes of his friends, if the 
 impression made on his imagination had been less powerful ; but 
 his extreme youth, and the excelling beauty of his bride, were two 
 circumstances that operated powerfully in tempting him to over- 
 look all other counsels than those which love suggested. He 
 thought, nevertheless, that he acted towards Eily O'Connor with a 
 generosity which approached a species of magnanimity, in prefer- 
 ring her before the whole world and its opinions ; and perhaps, too, 
 he entertained a little philosophical vanity in the conceit that he 
 had thus evinced an independent reliance on his own mental re- 
 sources, and shown a spirit superior to the ordinary prejudices of 
 society. He felt, therefore, a little chagrined at Eily's apparent slow- 
 ness in appreciating so noble an effort, for indeed she did him the 
 justice to believe that it was a higher motive than the love of self- 
 adulation which induced him to bestow upon her his hand and his 
 affections. But the reader is yet only partially acquainted with 
 the character of Hardress, and those early circumstances which 
 fashioned it to its present state of irregular and imperfect virtue ; 
 we will, therefore, while that fiery heart lies quenched in slumber, 
 employ those hours of inaction in a brief and comprehensive view 
 of the natural qualities and acquirements of our hero. 
 
 While Hardress Cregan was yet a child, he displayed more 
 symptoms of precocious ability than might have shed a lustre on 
 the boyhood of many a celebrated genius. He obtained, even in 
 his schooldays, the soubriquet of ' Counsellor,' from his fondness 
 for discussion, and the childish eloquence which he displayed in 
 maintaining a favourite position. His father liked him for a 
 certain desperation of courage, which he was apt to discover 
 on occasions of very inadequate provocation. His mother, too, 
 
104 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 doted on him for a mother's own best reason — that he was her 
 child. Indulgent she was, even to a ruinous extent ; and proud 
 she was, when her sagacious acquaintances, after hearing her 
 relate some wonderful piece of wit in little Hardress, would 
 compress their lips, shake their heads with much emphasis, and 
 prophesy that 'that boy would shine one day or another.' His 
 generosity, too (a quality in which Mrs. Cregan was herself pre- 
 eminent), excited his mother's admiration, and proved indeed 
 that Hardress was not an ordinary child. 
 
 And yet, he was not without the peculiar selfishness of genius 
 — that selfishness which consists not in the love of getting, or 
 the love of keeping — in cupidity or avarice, but in a luxurious 
 indulgence of one's natural inclinations even to an effeminate 
 degree. His very generosity was a species of self-seeking, of that 
 vulgar quality which looks to nothing more than the gratification 
 of a suddenly awaked impulse of compassion, or, perhaps, has a 
 still meaner object for its stimulus, — the gratitude of the assisted, 
 and the fame of an open hand. If this failing were in Hardress, 
 as in Charles Surface, the result of habitual thoughtlessness and 
 dissipation, it might challenge a gentler condemnation, and 
 awaken pity rather than dislike ; but young Cregan was by no 
 means incapable of appreciating the high merit of a due self- 
 government, even in the exercise of. estimable dispositions. He 
 admired in Kyrle Daly that noble and yet unaffected firmness of 
 principle which led him, on many occasions, to impose a harsh 
 restraint upon his own feelings, when their indulgence was not 
 in accordance with his notions of justice. But Hardress Cregan, 
 with an imagination which partook much more largely of the 
 national luxuriance, and with a mind which displayed at intervals 
 bursts of energy which far surpassed the reach of his steady 
 friend, was yet the less estimable character of the two. They 
 were, nevertheless, well calculated for a lasting friendship ; for 
 Kyrle Daly liked and valued the surpassing talent of Hardress, 
 and Hardress was pleased with the even temper and easy resolu- 
 tion of his schoolfellow. 
 
 Seldom, indeed, it was, that esteem formed any portion in the 
 leading motives of Hardress Cregan's attachments. He liked for 
 liking's sake, and as long only as his humour lasted. It required 
 but a spark to set him all on fire ; but the flame was often as 
 prone to smoulder, and become extinct, as it was hasty to kindle. 
 The reader is already aware that he had formed, during his 
 boyhood, a passion for Anne Chute, who was then a mere girl, 
 and on a visit at Dinis cottage. His mother, who, from his 
 very infancy, had arranged this match within her own mind, 
 was delighted to observe the early attachment of the children, 
 and encouraged it by every means in her power. They studied, 
 played, and walked together ; and all his recollections of the 
 magnificent scenery of those romantic mountain lakes were 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 105 
 
 blended with the form, the voice, the look, and manner of his 
 childish love. The long separation, however, which ensued when 
 he was sent to school, and from thence to college, produced a 
 total alteration in his sentiments, and the mortification which his 
 pride experienced on finding himself, as he imagined, utterly 
 forgotten by her, completely banished even the wish to renew 
 their old familiar life. Still, however, the feeling with which he 
 regarded her was one rather of resentment than indifference, and 
 it was not without a secret creeping of the heart, that he witnessed 
 what he thought the successful progress of Kyrle Daly's 
 attachment. 
 
 It was under these circumstances that he. formed his present 
 hasty union with Eily O'Connor. His love for her was deep, 
 sincere, and tender. Her entire and unbounded confidence, 
 her extreme beauty, her simplicity and timid deference to his 
 wishes, made a soothing compensation to his heart for the cold- 
 ness of the haughty, though superior beauty, whose inconstancy 
 had raised his indignation. 
 
 'Yes,' said Hardress to himself, as he gathered the blankets 
 about his shoulders, and disposed himself for sleep. ' Her form 
 and disposition are perfect. Would that education had been to 
 her as kind as nature. Yet she does not want grace nor talent — 
 but that brogue ! Well, well, the materials of refinement are 
 within and around her, and it must be my task and my delight to 
 make the brilliant shine out that is yet dark in the ore. I fear 
 Kyrle Daly is, after all, correct in saying that I am not indifferent 
 to those external allurements.' [Here his eyelids drooped.] 
 'The beauties of our mountain residence will make a mighty 
 alteration in her mind, and my society will — will gradually — 
 beautiful — Anne Chute — Poll Naughten — independent ' 
 
 The ideas faded on his imagination — a cloud settled on his 
 brain — a delicious languor crept through all his limbs— he fell 
 into a profound repose. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 HOW THE FRIENDS PARTED 
 
 'Is Fighting Poll up yet, I wonder?' said Lowry Looby, as he 
 stood cracking his whip in the farm-yard, while the morning was 
 just beginning to break, and the dairy people were tying down the 
 firkins on his car. ' I 'd like to see her before I 'd go, to know 
 would she have any commands westwards. There 's no hoult 
 upon her to hinder her speaking of a Friday whatever.' 
 
lo6 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 1 Is who up ?' exclaimed a shrill voice which proceeded from the 
 grated window of the dairy. It was that of the industrious Mrs. 
 Frawley, who, as early, if not as brisk and sprightly, as the lark, 
 was already employed in setting her milk in the keelers. 
 
 'Fighting Poll of the Reeks,' replied Lowry, turning toward 
 the wire grating, through which he beheld the extensive figure of 
 the dairywoman, as neat as a bride, employed in the health- 
 giving, life-prolonging avocations. 
 
 1 Who is she, why ? ' said Mrs. Frawley. 
 
 ' Don't you know the girl that come in the boat with Mr. Cregan 
 an' slep' in the room outside you ? ' 
 
 * Oyeh ; I didn't know who you meant. The boatman's 
 handsome little sister ?' 
 
 ' Handsome, ayeh ?' 
 
 * Yes, then, handsome. She has the dawniest little nose I think 
 I ever laid my two eyes upon.' 
 
 'Why, then, 'tis a new story wid it, for a nose. Formerly, 
 when I knew it, it was more like a button musharoom than any- 
 thing else, and the colour of a boiled carrot. Good raison it had 
 for that, as the publicans could tell you.' 
 
 ' Hold you tongue, man. Is it to drink you say she used.' 
 
 ' A thrifle, I 'm tould.' 
 
 ' Eh, then, I never see one that .has less sign of it than what 
 she has.' 
 
 'She's altered lately, Danny Mann tells me. Nelly, eroo,' he 
 added, changing his tone—' Sonokur 1 to you, now, an' get me a 
 dram, for it's threatenin' to be a moist, foggy mornin', an' I 
 have a long road before me.' 
 
 Nelly was occupied in liberating a whole regiment of ducks, hens, 
 pouts, chicks, cocks, geese, and turkeys, who all came quacking, 
 clucking, whistling, chirping, crowing, cackling, and gobbling, 
 through the open fowl-house door into the yard, where they 
 remained shaking their wings on tiptoe, stretching their long 
 necks over the little pool, the surface of which was green, and 
 covered with feathers — appearing to congratulate each other on 
 their sudden liberation, and seeming evidently disposed to keep 
 all the conversation to themselves. 
 
 'What is it you say, Lowry? Choke ye for ducks, will ye let 
 nobody spake but ye'rselves ? What is it, Lowry ? ' 
 
 Lowry repeated his request, making it more intelligible amid 
 the clamour of the farm-yard, by using a significant gesture. He 
 imitated the action of one who fills a glass and drinks it. He 
 then laid his hand upon his heart and shook his head, as if to 
 intimate the comforts that would be produced about that region 
 by performing in reality what he only mocked at present. 
 
 Nelly understood him as well as if he had spoken volumes, 
 
 1 A good husband. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 107 
 
 Commissioned by Mrs. Frawley, she supplied him with a bottle 
 of spirits and a glass, with the use of which, let us do Lowry 
 the justice to say, there was not a man in the barony better 
 acquainted. 
 
 While he dashed from his eyes the tears which were produced 
 by the sharpness of the stimulus, he heard footsteps behind him, 
 and, looking round, beheld Danny the Lord and the soi-disant 
 Mrs. Naughten, still muffled in her blue cloak and hood, and 
 occupying a retired position near the kitchen door. 
 
 1 1 '11 tell you what it is, Nelly,' said Lowry, with a knowing 
 wink to the soubrette, ' Poll Naughten lives very convanient 
 on the Cork road, or not far from it, an' I do be often goin' that 
 way of a lonesome night. I'll make a friend o' Poll before she 
 leaves this, so as that she '11 be glad to see me another time. I '11 
 go over and offer her a dhram. That I may be blest but I 
 will.' 
 
 So saying, and hiding the bottle and glass under the skirt of 
 his coat, he moved towards the formidable heroine of the 
 mountains with many respectful bows, and a smile of the most 
 winning cordiality. 
 
 'A fine moist mornin', Mrs. Naughten. I hope you feel no 
 fatague afther the night, ma'am. Your sarvant, Misther Mann. I 
 hope you didn't feel us in the yard, ma'am ; I sthrove to keep 
 'em quiet o' purpose. 'Tisn't goen' ye are so airly, Misther 
 Mann?' 
 
 Danny, who felt all the importance of directing Lowry Looby's 
 attention from his fair charge, could find no means so effectual as 
 that of acknowledging the existence of a mystery, and admitting 
 him into a pretended confidence. Advancing, therefore, a few 
 steps to meet him, he put on a most serious countenance, and laid 
 his finger warily along his nose. 
 
 1 What 's the matther ? 5 whispered Lowry, bending down in the 
 eagerness of curiosity. 
 
 Danny the Lord repeated the action, with the addition of a 
 cautionary frown. 
 
 'Can't she talk of a Friday either?' said Lowry, much amazed. 
 1 1 understand, Misther Mann. Trust me for a bare life. A nod 
 is as good as a wink to a blind horse.' 
 
 ' Or an ass eider,' muttered the hunchback as he turned away. 
 
 _ ' But, Misther Mann,' cried Lowry, laying his immense claw upon 
 
 his lordship's shoulder, ' listen hether. The mornen' will be smart 
 
 enough, and maybe I 'd betther offer her a dhram, and she goen' 
 
 upon the wather ? ' 
 
 He strode past the lord, and was close to the muffled fair one, 
 when Danny pulled him back by the skirt. 
 
 ' Didn't I tell you before,' said he, ' dat Poll never drank ? ' 
 
 ( Iss, of a Thursday, you said.' 
 
 1 Or a Friday, or any day. Oh, den, oh, den, Lowry ! ' 
 
io8 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 'Well, I meant no harm. Maybe you'd have no vow yourself 
 on the head of it, anyway, sir ?' And he displayed the bottle. 
 
 ' Dere are tree kinds of oats, Lowry,' responded Danny Mann, 
 as he twined his bony fingers fondly around the neck of the 
 bottle : ' dere are tree kind of oats dat are forbidden to be tuk as 
 unlawful. Dey are false oats, rash oats, and unjust oats. 'Now, 
 do you see me, Lowry,' he continued, as he filled his glass, ' if I 
 made a vow o' dat kind, it would be an unjust oat, for it would be 
 traitin' myself very bad, a poor boy dat 's night an 5 day at sech 
 cold work as mine, an' it would be a rash oat, Lowry, for — ' 
 here he tossed off the spirits — ' I 'm blest but it wouldn't be long 
 before I 'd make it a false oat. 5 
 
 Lowry was greatly shocked at this unprincipled speech. 
 'That's a nate youth,' he said privately to Nelly. That's a nice 
 pet, not judging him. If that lad doesn't see the inside of the 
 Stone Jug for some bad business one time or another, I '11 give 
 you lave to say black is the white of my eye. If the gallows isn't 
 wrote upon his face, there's no mait in mutton. Well, good 
 mornen' to you, Nelly, I see my load is ready. I have everything 
 now, I suppose, Mrs. Frawley. Whup, get up here, you old 
 garron ! Good mornen' to you, Mrs. Naughten, an' a fair wind 
 after you. Good mornen', Misther Mann.' He cracked his whip, 
 tucked the skirt of his riding-coat under his arm, as usual, threw 
 his little head back, and followed the car out of the yard, singing, 
 in a pleasant, contented key : 
 
 'Don't you remember the time I gave you my heart, 
 You solemnly swore from me you never would part ? 
 But your mind 's like the ocean, 
 
 Each notion 
 Has now taken flight, 
 And left me bemoaning the loss of the red-haired man's wife." 
 
 Kyrle Daly and his young friend were meanwhile exchanging a 
 farewell upon the little gravel plot before the front door. 
 
 ' Come, come, go in out of the air,' said Hardress ; ' you shall 
 not come down to the shore in that slight dress. Remember 
 what I have told you, and sustain your spirits. Before another 
 month shall pass, I pledge myself to become master, for your 
 sake, of Anne Chute's secret. 
 
 'And to honour it?' said Kyrle, smiling as he gave him his 
 hand. 
 
 'According to its value,' replied Hardress, tossing his head. 
 'Good-bye ; I see Danny Mann and his sister coming round, and 
 we must not lose the morning's tide.' 
 
 They shook hands and parted. 
 
 It was one of those still and heavy mornings which are peculiar 
 to the close of summer in this climate. The surface of the waters 
 was perfectly still, and a light wreath of mist steamed upward 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 109 
 
 from the centre of the channel, so as to veil from their sight the 
 opposite shores of Clare. This mist, ere long, became a dense 
 and blinding fog, that lasted until noon, and, together with the 
 breathless calm that lay upon the land and water, prevented their 
 reaching Ballybunion until sunset. In one of those caverns 
 which are hollowed out of the cliffs on this shore, the traveller 
 may discern the remains of an artificial chamber. It was used at 
 the period of which we write as a kind of wareroom for contra- 
 band goods ; a species of traffic which was freely engaged in by 
 nearly all the middling gentry and small farmers along the coast. 
 A subterraneous passage, faced with dry stone-work, opened into 
 the interior of the country ; and the chamber itself, from constant 
 use, had become perfectly dry and habitable. In this place 
 Hardress proposed to Eily that they should remain and take some 
 refreshment, while Danny the Lord was despatched to secure a 
 better lodging for the night at some retired farm-house in the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 A small canvas-built canoe, summoned from the interior of the 
 cave by a whistle from the lord, was employed to convey them 
 from the pleasure-boat into the gloomy porch of this natural 
 subterrain. Before the fragile skiff had glided into the darkness, 
 Eily turned her head to catch a parting look at the descending 
 sun. The scene which met her gaze would have appeared 
 striking, even to an accustomed eye ; and to one like hers, 
 acquainted only with the smoky splendour of a city sunset, it was 
 grand and imposing in the extreme. Before her lay the gigantic 
 portals of the Shannon, through which the mighty river glided 
 forth with a majestic calmness, to mingle with the wide and wave- 
 less ocean that spread beyond and around them. On her right 
 arose the clifted shores of Clare, over which the broad ball of 
 day, although some minutes hidden from her sight, seemed yet, 
 by refraction, to hold his golden circlet suspended amid a broken 
 and brilliant mass' of vapours. Eily kept her eyes fixed in 
 admiration on the dilated orb, until a turn in the cave concealed 
 the opening from her view, and she could only see the stream of 
 light behind, as it struck on the jagged and broken walls of the 
 orifice, and danced upon the surface of the agitated waters. 
 
 The place to her seemed terrible. The hollow sound of the 
 boatman's voice, the loud plash of the oars, and the rippling of the 
 water against the vessel's prow, reverberating through the vaulted 
 chambers, the impenetrable darkness into which they seemed to 
 plunge headlong, and reckless of danger or impediment, all 
 united, constituted a scene so new to the simple Eily, that she 
 grasped close the arm of her husband, and held her breath for 
 some moments, as if in expectation of some sudden and terrific 
 encounter. In a little time the boatman rested on his oars, and 
 a voice from the interior of the cave was heard to exclaim in 
 Irish : * Is it himself?' 
 
no THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 * It is,' said the boatman, in the same language. ' Light up the 
 fire at once, and put down a few of the fresh herrings. The lady 
 is hungry.' 
 
 'You will join for the first time, Eily,' said Hardress, 'in a 
 fisherman's supper. Well, Larry, had you much luck last night ? ' 
 
 ' Poor enough, masther,' said the same oracular voice, which 
 Eily now recognised as that of the man to whose escort she had 
 been entrusted by Lowry Looby on the previous evening. 'We 
 left Misther Daly's point as soon as ever the wind fell, and come 
 down as far as Kilcordane, thinking we might come across the 
 skull ; but, though we were out all night, we took only five 
 hundhert, more or less. A' why don't you light up the fire, 
 Phaudrigh ? And 'twasn't that the herrings didn't come into the 
 river either, for when the moon shone out we saw the skull to the 
 westward, making a curl on the waters, as close an' thick as 
 if you threw a shovelful o' gravel in a pond.' 
 
 The fire now blazed suddenly upward, revealing the interior of 
 the apartment before alluded to, and the figure of the rough old 
 boatman and his boy. The latter was stooping forward on his 
 hands and kindling the fire with his breath, while Larry Kett 
 himself was rinsing a small metal pot at the water side. The 
 effect of the smoky and subterraneous light upon uncouth and 
 grisly figures, and on the rude excavation itself, impressed the 
 timid Eily with a new and agitating sensation, too nearly allied to 
 fear to leave her mind at ease. 
 
 In a few minutes she was seated on a small keg near the fire, 
 while Hardress hurried the men who were preparing dinner. 
 Larry Kett was not so proficient in the science of gastronomy as 
 the celebrated Louis of Crockford's, and yet it is to be questioned 
 whether the culinary preparations of the latter were ever 
 despatched with more eagerness and satisfaction. Eily, indeed, 
 only ate a heroine's proportion ; but she wondered at the voracity 
 of the boatmen, one of whom placing a raw onion on an unpeeled 
 potato, swallowed both at a mouthful, almost without employing 
 a single masticatory action. 
 
 Danny Mann, in the meantime, was occupied in procuring a 
 more eligible lodging for the night. He returned when they 
 had concluded their unceremonious meal, to say that he had been 
 successful in procuring two rooms in the house of ' a little 'oman 
 dat kep a private bottle between that and Beale.' 
 
 'A private bottle!' exclaimed Hardress; 'what do you mean 
 by a private bottle ? ' 
 
 ' I mean,' replied the little lord, ' dat she sell as good a drop as 
 if she paid licence for it ; a ting she never was fool enough to do.' 
 
 ' Where does she live ? ' 
 
 ' Close to de road above. She told me — ' [here he drew Har- 
 dress aside] 'when I axed her, dat Myles of de Ponies, an' de 
 master, an' a deal o' gentlemen, went de road westwards yesterday, 
 
THE COLLEGIANS in 
 
 an' dat Phil Naughten (Poll's Phil) was in Beale waiten' for you 
 dese two days with the horse an' jauntin-car.' 
 
 1 1 am glad to hear it. Step over there to-night, and tell him to 
 be at the door before daybreak to-morrow morning. Tell him I 
 will double his fare if he uses diligence.' 
 
 ' Why, din, indeed/ said Danny, ' I '11 tell him notin' o' de sort. 
 'Twould be de same case wit him still, for he's a boy dat if you 
 gave him England, Ireland, an' Scotland for an estate, he'd ax de 
 Isle o' Man for a kitchen garden.' 
 
 'Well, well, do as you please about it, Danny, but have him on 
 the spot. That fellow,' he continued, speaking to Eily as he 
 conducted her out of the cavern, 'that fellow is so impudent 
 sometimes, that nothing but the recollection of his fidelity and the 
 honesty of his motive, keeps my hand at rest. He is my foster- 
 brother, and, you may perceive, with the exception of one defor- 
 mity, a well-looking man.' 
 
 ' I never observed anything but the hunch,' said Eily. 
 
 'For which,' added Hardress, with a slight change in his 
 countenance, ' he has to thank his master.' 
 
 ' You, Mr. Hardress ? ' 
 
 ' Even so, Eily. When we were both children, that young 
 fellow was my constant companion. Familiarity produced a 
 feeling of equality, on which he presumed so far as to offer a rude- 
 ness to a little relative of mine, a Miss Chute, who was on a visit 
 at my mother's. She complained to me, and my vengeance was 
 summary. I met him at the head of the kitchen stairs, and 
 without even the ceremony of a single question or preparatory 
 speech, I seized him by the collar, and hurled him with desperate 
 force to the bottom of the flight. He was unable to rise as soon 
 as I expected, and, on examination, it was discovered that an 
 injury had been done to the spine, which, notwithstanding all the 
 exertions that were employed to repair it, had its result in his 
 present deformity.' 
 
 ' It was shocking,' said Eily, with much simplicity of feeling. 
 ' No wonder you should be kind to him.' 
 
 ' If I were a mere block/ said Hardress, ' I could not but be 
 affected by the good nature and kindly feeling which the poor 
 fellow showed on the occasion, and, indeed, down to the present 
 moment. It seemed to be the sole aim and study of his life to 
 satisfy me that he entertained not even a sentiment of regret for 
 what had happened, and his attachment ever since has been the 
 attachment of a zealot. I know he cannot but feel that his 
 prospects in life have been made dark and lonely by that 
 accident ; and yet he is congratulating himself, whenever an 
 opportunity occurs, on his good fortune in being provided with a 
 constant service, as if (poor fellow !) that were any compensation 
 to him. I have been alarmed to observe that he sometimes 
 attaches even a profane importance to his master's wishes, and 
 
ii2 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 seems to care but little what laws he may transgress when his 
 object is the gratification of my inclinations. I say, I am alarmed 
 on this subject, because I have taken frequent occasion to remark 
 that this injury to his spine has in some degree affected his head, 
 and left him less able to discern the impropriety of such a line of 
 conduct than people of sounder minds.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 HOW HARDRESS LEARNED A LITTLE SECRET FROM A DYING 
 HUNTSMAN 
 
 Notwithstanding the message which Hardress Cregan sent by 
 Lowry Looby, it was more than a week before he visited his 
 parents at their Killarney residence. Several days were occupied 
 in seeing Eily pleasantly situated in her wild cottage in the Gap, 
 and a still greater number in enjoying with her the pleasures of an 
 autumnal sojourn amid these scenes of mystery, enchantment, and 
 romance. To a mind that is perfectly at freedom, Killarney forms 
 in itself a congeries of Elysian raptures ; but to a fond bride and 
 bridegroom ! — the Heaven, to which its mountains rear their 
 naked heads in awful reverence, alone can furnish a superior 
 happiness. 
 
 After taking an affectionate leave of his beautiful wife, and 
 assuring her that his absence should not be extended beyond the 
 following day, Hardress Cregan mounted one of Phil Naughten's 
 rough-coated ponies, and set off for Dinis cottage. It is not 
 situated (as its name might seem to import) on the sweet little 
 island which is so called, but far apart, near the ruined Church of 
 Aghadoe, commanding a distant view of the lower lake and the 
 lofty and wooded Toomies. 
 
 The sun had gone down before he left the wild and rocky glen 
 in which was situated the cottage of his bride. It was, as we 
 have already apprised the reader, the first time Hardress had 
 visited the lake since his return from college, and the scenery 
 now, to his matured and well-regulated taste, had not only the 
 effect of novelty, but it was likewise invested with the hallow- 
 ing and romantic charm of youthful association. The stillness so 
 characteristic of majesty, which reigned throughout the gigantic 
 labyrinth of mountain, cliff, and valley, through which he rode ; 
 the parting gleam of sunshine that brightened the ever-moving 
 mists on the summit of the lofty peaks by which he was sur- 
 rounded ; the solitary appearance of the many nameless lakes 
 that slept in black repose in the centre of the mighty chasm ; the' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 113 
 
 echo of his horse's hoofs against the stony road; the voice of a 
 goatherd's boy as he drove homeward, from the summit of a 
 heath-clad mountain, his troublesome and adventurous charge ; 
 the lonely twitter of the kirkeen dhra, or little water-hen, as it flew 
 from rock to rock on the margin of the broken stream — these, and 
 other long-forgotten sights and sounds, awakened at the same 
 instant the consciousness of present and the memory of past 
 enjoyments, and gradually lifted his thoughts to that condition of 
 calm enthusiasm and fulness of soul which constitutes one of the 
 highest pleasures of a meditative mind. He did not fail to recall 
 at this moment the memory of his childish attachment, and could 
 not avoid a feeling of regret at the unpleasing change that 
 education had produced in the character of his first, though not 
 his dearest love. 
 
 This feeling became still more deep and oppressive as he 
 approached the cottage of his father. Every object that he be- 
 held—the lawn, the grove, the stream, the hedge, the stile— all 
 brought to mind some sweet remembrance of his boyhood. The 
 childish form of Anne Chute still seemed to meet him with her 
 bright and careless smile at every turn in the path, or to fly before 
 him over the shorn meadow, as of old ; while the wild and merry 
 peal of infant laughter seemed still to ring upon his hearing. 
 'Dear little being!' he exclaimed, as he rode into the cottage 
 avenue, ' the burning springs of Gluver, I thought, might sooner 
 have been frozen than the current of that once warm and kindly 
 heart ; but like those burning springs, it is only in the season of 
 coldness and neglect that fountain can resume its native warmth. 
 It is the fervour of universal homage and adulation that strikes it 
 cold and pulseless in its channels.' 
 
 The window of the dining-parlour alone was lighted up, and 
 Hardress was informed, in answer to his inquiries, that the ladies, 
 Mrs. Cregan and' Miss Chute, were gone to a grand ball in the 
 neighbourhood. Mr. Cregan, with two other gentlemen, were 
 drinking in the dining-room, and, as he might gather from the 
 tumultuous nature of their conversation, and the occasional shouts 
 of ecstatic enjoyment, and bursts of laughter which rang through 
 the house, already pretty far advanced in the bacchanalian 
 ceremonies of the night. The voices he recognised besides his 
 father's were those of Hepton Connolly and Mr. Creagh the 
 duellist. 
 
 Feeling no inclination to join the revellers, Hardress ordered 
 candles in the drawing-room, and prepared to spend a quiet 
 evening by himself. He had scarcely, however, taken his seat on 
 the straight-backed sofa, when his retirement was invaded by old 
 Nancy, the kitchen-maid, who came to tell him that poor Dalton, 
 the huntsman, was ' a'most off,' in the little green room, and that 
 when he heard Mr. Hardress had arrived, he begged of all things 
 to see him before he'd go. ' He never was himself rightly, a'ra 
 
114 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 gal,' said old Nancy, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, 
 'since the masther sold the hounds and took to the cockfighting.' 
 Hardress started up and followed her. ' Poor fellow ! ' he 
 exclaimed as he went along, ' Poor Dalton ! And is that breath, 
 that wound so many merry blasts upon the mountain, so soon 
 to be extinguished? I remember the time when I thought a 
 monarch on his throne a less enviable being than our stout hunts- 
 man, seated on his keen-eyed steed, in his scarlet frock and cap, 
 with his hounds, like painted courtiers, thronging and baying 
 round his horse's hoofs, and his horn hanging silent at his waist. 
 Poor fellow ! Every beagle in the pack was his familiar acquaint- 
 ance, and was as jealous of his chirp or his whistle, as my cousin 
 Anne's admirers might be of a smile or secret whisper. How 
 often has he carried me before him on his saddle-bow, and taught 
 me the true fox-hunting cry ! How often at evening has he held 
 me between his knees, and excited my young ambition with tales 
 of hunts hard run, and neck-or-nothing leaps ; of double ditches, 
 cleared by an almost miraculous dexterity ; of drawing, yearning, 
 challenging, hunting mute, hunting change, and hunting counter ! 
 And now the poor fellow must wind his last recheat, and carry his 
 own old bones to earth at length ! never again to awaken the 
 echoes of the mountain lakes — never again beneath the shadow of 
 those immemorial woods that clothe, their lofty shores : 
 
 "JEve ciere viros, Mar tern ue accendere cantu !" 
 
 The fox may come from kennel, and the red-deer slumber on his 
 lair, for their mighty enemy is now himself at bay.' 
 
 While these reflections passed through the mind of Hardress, 
 old Nancy conducted him as far as the door of the huntsman's 
 room, where he paused for a moment on hearing the voice of one 
 singing inside. It was that of the worn-out huntsman himself, 
 who was humming over a few verses of a favourite ballad. The 
 lines which caught the ear of Hardress were the following : 
 
 ' Ah, huntsman dear, I '11 be your friend, 
 
 If you let me go till morning ; 
 Don't call your hounds for one half hour, 
 
 Nor neither sound your horn ; 
 For indeed I 'm tired from yesterday's hunt, 
 
 I can neither run nor walk well, 
 Till I go to Rock-hill amongst my friends, 
 Where I was bred and born. 
 Tally ho the fox ! 
 Tally ho the fox ! 
 Tally ho the fox, a collauneen, 
 Tally ho the fox ! 
 Over hills and rocks, 
 And chase him on till morning.' 
 
 * He cannot be so very ill,' said Hardress, looking at the old 
 woman, ' when his spirits will permit him to sing so merrily.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 115 
 
 * Oyeh, Heaven help you, agra ! ' replied Nancy : ' I believe if 
 he was at death's doore this moment, he'd have that song on his 
 tongue still.' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! ' said Hardress, raising his hand, ' he is begin- 
 ning again.' 
 
 The ballad was taken up, after a heavy fit of coughing, in the 
 same strain : 
 
 ' I locked him up an' I fed him well, 
 
 An' I gave him victuals of all kinds ; 
 But I declare to you, sir, when he got loose, 
 
 He ate a fat goose in the morning. 
 So now kneel down an' say your prayers, 
 
 For you '11 surely die this morning. 
 " Ah, sir," says the fox, " I never pray, 
 For my father he bred me a quaker." 
 Tally ho the fox ! 
 Tally ho the ' 
 
 Hardress here opened the door and cut short the refrain. 
 
 The huntsman turned his face to the door as he heard the 
 handle turn. It was that of a middle-aged man in the very last 
 stage of pulmonary consumption. A red night-cap was pushed 
 back from his wasted and sunken temples, and a flush like the 
 bloom of a withered pippin played in the hollow of his fleshless 
 cheek. 
 
 ' Cead millia fealtha ! My heart warms to see you, my own 
 Masther Hardress,' exclaimed the huntsman, reaching him a 
 skeleton hand from beneath the brown quilt, ' I can die in peace 
 now, as I see you again in health. These ten days back they 're 
 telling me you're coming an' coming, until I began to think at 
 last that you wouldn't come until I was gone.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to see you in this condition, Dalton. How did you 
 get the attack ? ' 
 
 ' Out of a could I think I got it first, sir. When the masther 
 sold the hounds — (Ah, Masther Hardress ! to think of his parting 
 them dogs, an' giving up that fine, manly exercise, for a paltry 
 parcel o' cocks an' hens I) but when he sold them an' took to the 
 cockfighting, my heart felt as low an' as lonesome as if I lost all 
 belonging to me ! To please the masther, I turned my hand to 
 the cocks, an' used to go every morning to the hounds' kennel, 
 where the birds were kept, to give 'em food an' water ; but I could 
 never warm to the birds. Ah, what is a cockfight, Masther 
 Hardress, in comparison of a well-rode hunt among the mountains, 
 with your horse flying under you like a fairy, an' the cry o' the 
 hounds like an organ out before you, an' the ground fleeting like 
 a dream on all sides o' you, an' ah ! what 's the use o' talking ! ' 
 Here he lay back on his pillow with a look of sudden pain and 
 sorrow that cut Hardress to the heart. 
 
 After a few moments, he again turned a ghastly eye on 
 
n6 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Hardress, and said in a faint voice : ' I used to go down by the 
 lake in the evening to hear the stags belling in the wood ; an' in 
 the morning I 'd be up with the first light to blow a call on the 
 top o' the hill, as I used to do to comfort the dogs ; an' then I 'd 
 miss their cry, an' I 'd stop listenin' to the aychoes o' the horn 
 among the mountains, till my heart would sink as low as my ould 
 boots. An' bad boots they wor, too ; signs on, I got wet in 'em ; 
 an' themselves an' the could morning air, an' the want o' the horse 
 exercise, I believe, an' everything, brought on this fit. Is the 
 misthress at home, sir?' he added, after struggling through a 
 severe fit of oppression. 
 
 1 No, she is at a ball with Miss Chute.' 
 
 1 Good luck to them both, wherever they are. That 's the way 
 o' the world. Some in health, an' some in sickness ; some 
 dancing, and more dying.' 
 
 Here he raised himself on his elbow, and after casting a haggard 
 glance around, as if to be assured that what he had to say could 
 not be overheard, he leaned forward towards Hardress, and 
 whispered : ' I know one in this house, Masther Hardress, that 
 loves you well.' 
 
 The young gentleman looked a little surprised. 
 
 * Indeed I do,' continued the dying huntsman, ' one, too, that 
 deserves a better fortune than to love any one without a return. 
 One that was kind to me in my sickness, and that I 'd like to see 
 happy before I 'd leave the world, if it was Heaven's will.' 
 
 During this conversation, both speakers had been frequently 
 rendered inaudible by occasional bursts of laughter and shouts of 
 bacchanalian mirth from the dining-room. At this moment and 
 before the young gentleman could select any mode of inquiry into 
 the particulars of the singular communication above mentioned, 
 the door was opened, and the face of old Nancy appeared, bearing 
 on its smoke-dried features a mingled expression of perplexity and 
 sorrow. 
 
 * Dalton, a'ra gal ! ' she exclaimed, ' don't blame me for what 
 I 'm going to say to you, for it is my tongue, an' not my wish nor 
 my heart, that speaks it. The masther and the gentlemen sent 
 me in to you, an' bid me tell you, for the sake of old times, to 
 give them one fox-huntin' screech before you go.' 
 
 The old huntsman fixed his brilliant but sickly eyes on the 
 messenger, while a flush that might have been the indication of 
 anger or of grief flickered like a decaying light upon his brow. 
 At length he said : ' An' did the masther send that message by 
 you, Nancy?' 
 
 'He did, Dalton, indeed. Ayeh, the gentlemen must be 
 excused.' 
 
 1 True for you, Nancy,' said the huntsman after a long pause ; 
 then, raising his head, with a smile of seeming pleasure, he con- 
 tinued : ' Why, then, I 'm glad to see the masther hasn't forgot 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 117 
 
 the dogs entirely. Go to him, Nancy, an' tell him that I 'm glad 
 to hear that he has so much o' the sport left in him still. And that 
 it is kind father for him to have a feeling for his huntsman, an' I 
 thank him. Tell him, Nancy, to send me in one good glass o' 
 parliament punch, an' I '11 give him such a cry as he never heard in 
 a cock-pit, anyway.' 
 
 The punch was brought, and, in spite of the remonstrances of 
 Hardress, drained to the bottom. The old huntsman then sat 
 erect in the bed, and letting his head back, indulged in one pro- 
 longed 'hoicks !' that made the phials jingle on the table, and 
 frightened the sparrows from their roosts beneath the thatch. It 
 was echoed by the jolly company in the dining-parlour, chorussed by 
 a howling from all the dogs in the yard, and answered by a general 
 clamour from the fowl-house. 'Another! Another! Hoicks!' 
 resounded through the house. But the poor consumptive was not 
 in a condition to gratify the revellers. When Hardress looked 
 down upon him next, the pillow appeared dark with blood, and the 
 cheek of the sufferer had lost even the unhealthy bloom, that had 
 so long masked the miner Death in his work of snug destruction. 
 A singular brilliancy fixed itself upon his eyeballs, his lips were 
 dragged backward, blue and cold, and with an expression of dull 
 and general pain — his teeth — but wherefore linger on such a 
 picture ? — it is better let the curtain fall. 
 
 Hardress Cregan felt less indignation at this circumstance than 
 he might have done if it had occurred at the present day ; but yet 
 he was indignant. He entered the dining-parlour to remonstrate, 
 with a frame that trembled with passion. 
 
 ' And pray, Hardress,' said Hepton Connolly, as he emptied the 
 ladle into his glass, and turned on him an eye whose steadiness, 
 to say the least, was equivocal ; ' pray, now, Hardress, is poor 
 Dalton really dead ? ' 
 
 ' He is, sir. I have already said it.' 
 
 1 No offence, my boy. I only asked, because if he be, it is a sure 
 sign — sipping his punch and winking at Cregan with the confident 
 air of one who is about to say a right good thing— it is a sign that 
 he never will die again.' 
 
 There was a loud laugh at Hardress, which confused him as 
 much as if he had been discomfited by a far superior wit. So true 
 it is, that the influence, and not the capacity, of an opponent, 
 renders him chiefly formidable, and that, at least, a fair half of the 
 sum of human motive may be placed to the account of vanity. 
 
 Hardress could think of nothing that was very witty to say in 
 reply, and as the occasion hardly warranted a slap on the face, 
 his proud spirit was compelled to remain passive. Unwilling, 
 however, to leave the company while the laugh continued against 
 him, he called for a glass and sat down amongst them. 
 
n8 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 HOW THE GENTLEMEN SPENT THE EVENING, WHICH PROVED 
 RATHER WARMER THAN HARDRESS EXPECTED 
 
 ' Peace ! ' said Hepton Connolly, with a face of drunken serious- 
 ness, 'peace to the manes of poor Dalton. 5 
 
 1 Amen, with all my heart ! ' exclaimed Mr. Cregan, ' although 
 the cocks are well rid of him. But a better horseman never backed 
 a hunter.' 
 
 ' I drink him, 5 said Hyland Creagh, 'although I seldom care to 
 toast a man who dies in his bed.' 
 
 'That's all trash and braggery, Creagh,' cried Connolly; 'we'll 
 have you yet upon the flat of your back, and roaring for a priest 
 into the bargain.' 
 
 ' Upon my honour as a gentleman, I am serious,' said Creagh. 
 ' They may talk of the field of battle and bloody breaches, forlorn 
 hopes and hollow squares, and such stuff, but what is the glory of 
 a soldier after all ! To drag through the fatigues of a whole 
 campaign, with its concomitants of night-watches, marches in 
 marshes, and bivouacs in rainy weather, and with no brighter pros- 
 pect at the year's end than that of making one among half a million 
 of fighting fellows who are shot on a heap like larks ; and even 
 then you meet, not hand to hand, but cloud to cloud, moving about 
 in a flock, and waiting your turn to take your allowance of cold lead, 
 and fill a pit with your neighbours. Glory ! What glory is there 
 in figuring in small types among a list of killed and wounded ? the 
 utmost distinction that a poor sub. can ever hope for. Why, a 
 coward is no more ball-proof than a gallant fellow, and both may 
 often shine together upon the same list. No— my ambition should 
 have a higher aim. While I live, let my life be that of a fearless 
 fellow ; and when I die, let my epitaph be found in a handsome 
 paragraph, under the head of "Domestic Intelligence," in the 
 county journal. "Affair of Honour? — Yesterday morning at five 
 o'clock — meeting took place — Hyland Creagh, Esquire, attended 
 by Blank, Esquire — and Captain Blank, attended by Blank, Esquire 
 — regret to state — Mr. Creagh — third fire — mortally wounded — 
 borne from the ground. The affair, we understand, originated in 
 a dispute respecting a lovely and accomplished young lady, cele- 
 brated as a reigning toast in that quarter. 5 " 
 
 ' And grand-niece, we understand,' added Hardress, laughing, 
 'to the unhappy gentleman whose fate we have just recorded.' 
 
 There was a laugh at Creagh. 
 
 ■ Nay, my young friend, 5 he said, adjusting his ruffles with the 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 119 
 
 air of a Chesterfield, ' the journal that shall mention that circum- 
 stance must be dated many years hence.' 
 
 ' Adad, not so far off neither, Creagh,' exclaimed Mr. Cregan ; 
 1 and if you were to go out to-morrow morning, I should not like 
 to see you go posting to. the devil upon such a mission as 
 that.' 
 
 ' Talking of the devil,' said Hepton Connolly, ' did you hear, 
 Creagh, that the priest is to have us all upon the altar next Sunday, 
 on account of that little squib we had in the mountains the day of 
 the races ? ' 
 
 'It may be,' said Creagh, with a supercilious smile; i mais ce 
 riest pas mon affaire. I have not the honour to belong to his 
 communion.' 
 
 1 Oh,' cried Mr. Cregan, { true enough. You belong to the 
 genteel religion.' 
 
 ' There you have the whip hand of me,' said Connolly, ' for I am 
 a Papist. Well, Creagh, not meaning to impugn your gallantry 
 now, I say this : a Papist, to fight a duel, requires and possesses 
 the courage of a Protestant ten times over.' 
 
 'Pray, will you oblige me with a reason for that pleasant 
 speech ? ' 
 
 "Tis as clear as this glass. A Protestant is allowed a wide 
 discretionary range on most ethical, as well as theological, points 
 of opinion. A poor Papist has none. The Council of Trent, in 
 its twenty-fifth session (I have it from the* Bishop), excommuni- 
 cates all duellists, and calls the practice an invention of the devil. 
 And what can I say against it ? I know something of the common 
 law, and the rights of things, persons, and so forth, but the can- 
 onical code to me is a fountain sealed. 'Tis something deeper than 
 a cause before the petty sessions. 'Tis easier to come at Black- 
 stone, or even Coke upon Littleton himself, than at Manochius or 
 St. Augustine.' - 
 
 ' Well, but how you run on ! You were talking about the courage 
 of a Protestant and Catholic' 
 
 ' I say a Papist must be the braver man, for, in addition to his 
 chance of being shot through the brains on a frosty morning in this 
 world, it is no joke to be damned everlastingly in the next.' 
 
 ' That never struck me before/ exclaimed Cregan. 
 
 'And if it had,' said Creagh, ' I confess I do not see what great 
 disadvantage the reflection could have produced to our friend 
 Connolly, for he knew that, whether he was to be shot yesterday 
 in a duel, or physicked out of the world twenty years hence, that 
 little matter of the other life will be arranged in precisely the same 
 manner.' 
 
 ' As much as to say,' replied Connolly, ' that now or then the 
 devil is sure of his bargain,' 
 
 ' My idea precisely, but infinitely better expressed.' 
 
 'Very good, Creagh. I suppose it was out of a filial affection 
 
120 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 for the sooty old gentleman you took so much pains to send me to 
 him the other morning. 5 
 
 ' You placed your honour in my hands, and I would have seen 
 you raked fore and aft fifty times rather than let the pledge be 
 tarnished. If you did go to the devil, it was my business to see 
 that you met him with clean hands.' 
 
 1 1 feel indebted to you, Creagh.' 
 
 1 1 have seen a dozen shots exchanged on a lighter quarrel. I 
 was present myself at the duel between Hickman and Leake, on a 
 somewhat similar dispute. They fired fourteen shots each, and 
 when their ammunition was exhausted, actually remained on the 
 ground until the seconds could fetch a new supply from the 
 nearest market town.' 
 
 ' And what use did they make of it when it came ? ' 
 
 * Give me time, and you shall hear. 'Twas Hickman's fire, and 
 he put his lead an inch above Leake's right hip (as pretty a shot 
 as ever I saw in my life). Leake was not killed though, and he 
 stood to his ground like a man. I never will forget the ghastly 
 look he gave me (I was his second) when he asked whether the 
 laws of the duello would allow a wounded man a chair. I was 
 confident they did, so long as he kept his feet upon the sod, and I 
 said so. Well, the chair was brought. He took his seat somewhat 
 in this manner, grasping the orifice of the wound closely with his 
 disengaged hand.' [Here the speaker moved his chair some feet 
 from the table, in order to enact the scene with greater freedom.] 
 ' There was a fatal steadiness in every motion. I saw Hickman's 
 eye wink, and not without a cause. It winked again, and never 
 opened after. The roof of his skull was literally blown away.' 
 
 ' And the other fellow ? ' 
 
 * The other gentleman fell from his chair a corpse at the same 
 moment, after uttering a sentiment of savage satisfaction, too 
 horrible, too blasphemous to think of, much less to repeat.' 
 
 'They were a murderous pair of ruffians,' said Hardress, 'and 
 ought to have been impaled upon a cross-road.' 
 
 'One of them,' observed Hyland Creagh, sipping his punch — 
 ' one of them was a cousin of mine.' 
 
 ' Oh ! and, therefore, utteny blameless, of course,' said Har- 
 dress, with an ironical laugh. 
 
 4 1 don't know,' said Creagh. ' I confess I think it a hard word 
 to apply to a gentleman, who is unfortunate enough to die in 
 defence of his honour.' 
 
 ' Honour ! ' exclaimed Hardress, with indignant zeal (for though 
 he was no great devotee, he had yet some gleams of half-religious 
 virtue shining through his character). ' Call you that honour ? 
 I say a duellist is a murderer, and worthy of the gallows, and I 
 will prove it. The question lies in the justice or injustice of the 
 mode of reparation. That cannot be a just one which subjects 
 the aggressor and aggrieved to precisely the same punishment. If 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 121 
 
 the duellist be the injured party, he is a suicide ; and if the 
 inflicter of the wrong, he is a murderer. 5 
 
 ' Ay, Hardress, 5 said his father ; ' but there are cases ' 
 
 'Oh, I know what you mean, sir. Fine, delicate, thin-spun 
 modes of insult, that draw on heavier assaults, and leave both 
 parties labouring under the sense of injury. But they are 
 murderers still. If I filled a seat in the legislature, do you think 
 I would give my voice in favour of a law that made it a capital 
 offence to call a man a scoundrel in punishment ? And shall I 
 dare to inflict with my own hand in the streets that which I would 
 shudder to see committed by the hangman ? ' 
 
 1 But if public war be justifiable,' said Connolly, ' why should not 
 private ? ' 
 
 ' Ay,' exclaimed Hardress, * I see you have got that aphorism 
 of Johnson's, the fat moralist, to support you ; but I say shame 
 upon the recreant, for as mean and guilty a compliance with the 
 prejudices of the world as ever parasite betrayed. I stigmatise it 
 as a wilful sin, for how can I esteem the author of Rasselas a 
 fool?' 
 
 * Very hardly,' said Creagh ; ' and pray, what is your counter- 
 argument ? ' 
 
 ' This : Public war is never (when justifiable) a quarrel for 
 sounds and conventual notions of honour ; public war is at best a 
 social evil, and cannot be embraced without the full concurrence 
 of society, expressed by its constituted authorities, and obtained 
 only in obedience to the necessity of the case. But to private 
 war society has given no formal sanction, nor does it derive any 
 advantage from the practice.' 
 
 'Upon my word,' said Creagh, 'you have some very curious 
 ideas.' 
 
 ' Well, Hardress,' exclaimed Connolly, ' if you have a mind to 
 carry those notions into practice, I should recommend you to try 
 it in some other country besides Ireland; you will never go 
 through with it in this.' 
 
 ' In every company, and on every soil,' said Hardress, ' I will 
 avow my sentiments. I never will fight a duel ; and I will 
 proclaim my purpose in the ears of all the duellists on earth.' 
 
 ' But society, young gentleman ' 
 
 ' I bid society defiance — at least that reckless, godless, heartless 
 crew, to whom you wrongfully apply the form. The greater 
 portion of those who bow down before this bloody error is com- 
 posed of slaves and cowards, who are afraid to make their own 
 conviction the guide of their conduct : 
 
 ' ' Letting I dare not wait upon I would, 
 Like the poor cat i' the adage." ' 
 
 ' I am sure,' said Creagh, ' I had rather shoot a man for doubt- 
 ing my word than for taking my purse.' 
 
122 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 'Because you are as proud as Lucifer,' exclaimed Hardress. 
 'Who but the great father of all injustice would say that he 
 deserved to be shot for calling you a (it is an unpleasant word, to 
 be sure)— a liar?' 
 
 ' But he does more ; he actually does strike at my life and 
 property, for I lose both friends and fair repute, if I suffer such an 
 insult to pass unnoticed.' 
 
 In answer to this plea, Hardress made a speech, of which 
 (as the newspapers say) we regret that our space does not 
 allow us to offer more than a mere outline. He contended that 
 no consequences could justify a man in sacrificing his own 
 persuasion of what was right to the error of his friends. The 
 more general this error was, the more criminal it became to 
 increase the number of its victims. The question was not, 
 whether society would disown or receive the passive gentleman, 
 but whether society was in the wrong or in the right ; and if the 
 former, then he was bound to adopt the cause of justice at every 
 hazard. He drew the usual distinction between moral and 
 animal courage, and painted with force and feeling the heroism of 
 a brave man encountering alone the torrent of general opinion, 
 and taking more wounds upon his spirit than ever Horatius 
 Codes risked upon his person. He quoted the celebrated 
 passage of the faithful seraph in Milton, alluded to the Athenian 
 manners, and told the well-known story of Lucian Anacharsis, all 
 which tended considerably more to exhaust the patience than to 
 convince the understanding of his hearers. 
 
 ' Finally,' said he, ' I denounce the system of private war, 
 because it is the offspring of a barbarous pride. It was a barbar- 
 ous pride that first suggested the expedient, and it is an in- 
 tolerable pride that still sustains it. Talk of public war ! The 
 world could not exist, if nation were to take up the sword against 
 nation upon a point of honour, such as will call out for blood 
 between man and man. The very word means pride. It is a 
 measureless, bloody pride, that demands a reparation so excessive 
 for every slight offence. Take any single quarrel of them all, and 
 dissect its motive, and you will find every portion of it stained 
 with pride, the child of selfishness — pride, the sin of the first 
 devil — pride, the poor pitiful creature of folly and ignorance 
 — pride, the ' 
 
 ' Oh, trash and stufi, man,' exclaimed Connolly, losing patience ; 
 ' if you are going to preach a sermon, choose another time for it. 
 Come, Creagh, send the bowl this way, and let us drink. Here, 
 young gentleman, stop spouting, and give us a toast. You'll 
 make a fool of yourself, Hardress, if you talk in that manner 
 among gentlemen.' 
 
 Without making any answer to this speech (which, however, he 
 felt a little difficulty in digesting), Hardress proposed the health 
 and future fame of young Kyrle Daly. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 123 
 
 { With all my heart,' exclaimed both his father and Connolly. 
 
 ' 1 '11 not drink it,' said Creagh, putting from him his glass. 
 
 Hardress was just as proud (to borrow his own simile) as 
 Lucifer himself, and, probably, it was on this account he held the 
 quality so cheap. It must be admitted, likewise, that his 
 ambitious love of singularity formed but too considerable a part 
 of his motive in the line of argument which he had followed up ; 
 and he was by no means prepared to perform the heroic part 
 which he had described with so much enthusiasm. Least of all 
 could he be expected to do so at the present moment ; for while 
 he was speaking he had also been drinking, and the warmth of 
 dispute, increased by the excitement of strong drink, left his 
 reason still less at freedom than it might have been under the 
 dominion of an ordinary passion, He insisted upon Creagh's 
 drinking his toast. 
 
 1 1 shall not drink it,' said Creagh ; ' I consider him as an 
 impertinent puppy.' 
 
 \ He is my friend,' said Hardress. 
 
 'Oh, then, of course,' said Fireball, with an ironical smile, 
 evidently intended as a retort, ' he is utterly blameless.' 
 
 To use a vulgar but forcible expression, the blood of Hardress 
 was now completely up. He set his teeth for a moment, and then 
 discharged the contents of his own glass at the face of the 
 offender. The fire-eater, who, from long experience, was able to 
 anticipate this proceeding, evaded by a rapid motion the degrad- 
 ing missile, and then quietly resuming his seat, * Be prepared, sir,' 
 he said, ' to answer this in the morning.' 
 
 1 1 am ready now,' exclaimed Hardress. ' Connolly, lend me your 
 sword, and be my friend. Father, do you second that gentleman, 
 and you will oblige me.' 
 
 Mr. Barnaby Cregan rose to interfere ; but in doing so, he 
 betrayed a secret which had till that moment lain with himself ; 
 he was the first who fell. 
 
 ' No, no swords,' said Connolly ; ' there are a pretty pair of 
 pistols over the chimney-piece. Let them decide the quarrel.' 
 
 It was so agreed. Hardress and Creagh took their places in 
 the two corners of the room, upon the understanding that both 
 were to approach step by step, and fire when they pleased. 
 Hepton Connolly took his place out of harm's way in a distant 
 corner, while Cregan crept along the floor, muttering, in an 
 indistinct tone : ' Drunk ? ay, but not dead drunk. I call no 
 man dead drunk while he lies on the high road, with sense 
 enough to roll out of the way when a carriage is driving towards 
 him.' 
 
 Hardress fired after having made two paces. Creagh, who was 
 unhurt, reserved his shot until he put the pistol up to the head 
 of his opponent. Hardress never flinched, although he really 
 believed that Creagh was about to shoot him. 
 
124 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 1 Come,' said he loudly, ' fire your shot, and have done with it. 
 I would have met you at the end of a handkerchief upon my 
 friend's quarrel.' 
 
 Hyland Creagh, after enjoying for a moment the advantage he 
 possessed, uncocked his pistol, and laid it on the table. 
 
 ' Hardress,' said he, ' you are a brave fellow. I believe I was 
 wrong. I ask your pardon, and am ready to drink your toast.' 
 
 1 Oh, well,' said Hardress, with a laugh, ' if that be the case, I 
 cannot, of course, think of pursuing the affair any further.' And 
 he reached his hand to his opponent with the air of one who 
 was exercising rather than receiving a kindness. 
 
 The company once more resumed their places at the table 
 somewhat sobered by this incident, which, though not unusual at 
 the period, was yet calculated to excite a little serious feeling. 
 It was not long, however, before they made amends for what was 
 lost in the way of intoxication. The immense blue jug which 
 stood inside the fender, was replenished to the brim, and the 
 bowl flew round more rapidly than ever. Creagh told stories of 
 the Hell-fire Club in the sweating and pinking days. Connolly 
 overflowed with anecdotes of attorneys outdone, of plates well 
 won, of bailiffs maimed and beaten; and Cregan, whose tongue 
 was the last member of his frame that became accessory to the sin 
 of intoxication, filled up his share in the conversation with 
 accounts of cocks and of ghosts, in the appearance of which last 
 he was a firm though not a fearful believer. Hardress remained 
 with the company until the sound of a vehicle drawing up at the 
 hall-door announced the return of his mother and cousin. He 
 then left the room and hurried to his own apartment, in order 
 to avoid meeting them under circumstances which he well sup- 
 posed were not calculated to create any impression in his own 
 favour. 
 
 We cannot better illustrate the habits of the period than by 
 transcribing an observation made in Mr. Cregan's kitchen at the 
 moment of the dispute above detailed. Old Nancy was preparing 
 the mould candles for poor Dalton's wake when she heard the 
 shot fired in the dining-parlour. 
 
 ' Run in to the gentlemen, Mike, eroo,' she exclaimed, without 
 even laying aside the candle, which she was paring with a knife, 
 in order to make it fit the socket more exactly. ' I lay my life 
 the gentlemen are fighting a jewel.' 
 
 1 It can't be a jewel,' said Mike, the servant boy, who was 
 courting slumber in a low chair before the blazing fire. i It can't 
 be a jewel, when there was only one shot.' 
 
 ' But it isn't far from 'em, I '11 be bail, till they '11 fire another, if 
 they do not be hindered ; for 'tis shot for shot with 'em. Run 
 in, eroo.' 
 
 The servant boy stretched his limbs out lazily, and rubbed his 
 eyes. 'Well,' said he, 'fair play all the world over. If one fired. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 125 
 
 you wouldn't have the other put up with it, without havin' his 
 fair revinge ?' 
 
 1 But maybe one of 'em is kilt already ! ' observed Nancy. 
 
 1 E'then, d'ye hear this ? Sure you know well, that if there 
 was anybody shot, the master would ring the bell.' 
 
 This observation was conclusive. Old Nancy proceeded with 
 her gloomy toil in silence, and the persuasive Mike, letting his 
 head hang back from his shoulders, and crossing his hands upon 
 his lap, slept soundly on, undisturbed by any idle conjectures on 
 the cause of the noise which they had heard. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 HOW HARDRESS MET AN OLD FRIEND AND MADE A NEW ONE 
 
 Fancy restored the dreaming Hardress to the society of his 
 beloved Eily. He sat by her side once more, quieting, with the 
 caresses of a boyish fondness, her still recurring anxieties, and 
 comforting her apprehensions by endeavouring to make her share 
 his own steady anticipation of his mother's favour and forgiveness. 
 This hope, on his own part, it must be acknowledged, was much 
 stronger in his sleeping than his waking moments ; for it was 
 extraordinary how different his feeling on that subject became 
 after he had reached his home, and when the moment of dis- 
 closure drew near. His extreme youth, all ruined as he was by 
 over-indulgence, made him regard his mother with a degree of 
 reverence that approached to fear ; and as he seldom loved to 
 submit when once aroused to contest, so he was usually careful to 
 avoid, as much as possible, any occasion for the exercise of his 
 hereditary perseverance. The influence of his parent, however, 
 consisted not so much in her parental authority as in the mastery 
 which she held over his filial affections, which partook of the 
 intensity that distinguished his entire character. Mrs. Cregan 
 governed both her husband and her son; but the means which 
 she employed in moulding each to her own wishes were widely 
 different. In her arguments with the former it was her usual 
 practice to begin with an entreaty and end with a command. On 
 the contrary, when she sought to work upon the inclinations of 
 Hardress, she opened with a command and ended with an 
 entreaty. It, was, indeed, as Hardress had frequently ex- 
 perienced, a difficult task to withstand her instances, when she 
 had recourse to the latter expedient. Mrs. Cregan possessed all 
 the national warmth of temperament and liveliness of feeling. 
 Like all naturally generous people, whose virtue is rather the 
 
126 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 offspring of a kindly heart than a well-regulated understanding, 
 Mrs. Cregan was not more boundless in her bounty than in her 
 exaction of gratitude. She not only looked for gratitude from 
 those whom she had obliged, but was so exorbitant as to imagine 
 that all those likewise, whom she really wished to serve, should 
 return her an equal degree of kindness, and actually evince as 
 lively a sense of obligation as if her wishes in their favour had 
 been deeds. Alas ! in this selfish world we are told that real benefits 
 are frequently forgotten by the receiver, and sometimes repaid 
 by cold unkindness or monstrous hostility. It is no wonder, 
 then, that Mrs. Cregan should have sometimes found people slow 
 to appreciate the value of her vain desires. 
 
 While Hardress was still murmuring some sentiment of 
 passionate admiration in the ear of his visionary bride, he was 
 awakened by the pressure of a light finger on his shoulder. 
 He looked up and beheld a lady in a broad-leafed beaver hat and 
 ball dress, standing by his bed-side, and smiling down upon 
 him with an air of affection and reproof. Her countenance, 
 though it had already acquired, in a slight degree, that hardness 
 of outline which marks the approach of the first matronal years, 
 was striking, and even beautiful in its character. The forehead 
 was high and commanding, the eye of a dark hazel, well opened, 
 and tender and rapid in its expression. The entire face had that 
 length of feature which painters employ in their representation of 
 the tragic muse, and the character of the individual had given to 
 this natural conformation a depth of feeling which was calculated 
 to make a strong and even a gloomy impression on the imagination 
 of the beholder. Her person likewise partook of this imposing 
 character, and was displayed to some advantage by her dress, 
 the richness of which was perfectly adapted to her lofty and 
 regal air. It consisted of a beautiful poplin, a stomacher set off 
 with small brilliants, and a rich figured silk petticoat, which was 
 fully displayed in front. The skirt of the gown parted and fell 
 back from either side, while a small hoop, occupying the position 
 of the modern Vestris, imparted to this interesting portion of the 
 figure a degree of fashionable slimness and elegance. An amber 
 necklace, some enormous brooches, and rings containing locks 
 of hair, the bequests of three preceding generations, completed 
 the decorations of her person. 
 
 1 You are a pretty truant,' she said, ' to absent yourself for a 
 whole fortnight together, and at a time, too, when I had brought 
 a charming friend to make your acquaintance. You are a pretty 
 truant. And immediately on your return, instead of showing 
 any affectionate anxiety to compensate for your inattention, you 
 run off to your sleeping-chamber, and oblige your foolish mother 
 to come and seek you. 
 
 ' My trim, mother, would have hardly become your drawing- 
 room.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 127 
 
 c Or looked to advantage in the eyes of my lovely visitor ? ' 
 
 1 Upon my word, mother, I had not a thought of her. I should 
 feel as little inclined to appear wanting in respect to you as to 
 any visitor to whom you could introduce me.' 
 
 1 Respect ! ' echoed Mrs. Cregan, while she laid the light away 
 upon the dressing-table (in such a position that it could shine 
 full and bright upon the features of her son), and took a chair 
 near his bed-side. 'Respect is fond of going well-dressed, I 
 grant you ; but there is another feeling, Hardress, that is far more 
 sensitive and exquisite on points of this nature, a feeling much 
 more lively and anxious than any that a poor fond mother can 
 expect. Do not interrupt me ; I am not so unreasonable as to 
 desire that the course of human nature should be inverted for 
 my sake. But I have a question to ask you. Have you any 
 engagement during the next month that will prevent your 
 spending it with us ? If you have, and if it be not a very weighty 
 one, break it off as politely as you can. You owe some little 
 attention to your cousin, and I think you ought to pay it.' 
 
 Hardress looked displeased at this, and muttered something 
 about his inability to see in what way this obligation had been 
 laid upon him. 
 
 ' If you feel no disposition to show a kindness to your old 
 playfellow,' said his mother, endeavouring to suppress her 
 vexation, ' you are, of course, at liberty to act as you please. You, 
 Hardress, in your own person, owe nothing to the Chutes, unless 
 you except their general claim as near relatives of mine.' 
 
 1 They could not, my dear mother, possess a stronger. But this 
 is a sudden change. While I was in Dublin, I thought that both 
 you and my father had broken off the intercourse that subsisted 
 between the families, and lived altogether within yourselves.' 
 
 ' It was a foolish coldness that had arisen between your aunt 
 and myself, on account of some free, some very free, expressions 
 she had used with regard to your father. But when she fell ill, and 
 my poor darling Anne was left to struggle, unassisted, beneath 
 the weight of occupation that was thrown thus suddenly upon her 
 hands, my self-respect gave way to my love for them both. I 
 drove to Castle Chute, and divided with Anne the cares of nurse- 
 tending and housekeeping, until my dear Hetty's health was 
 in some degree restored. About a fortnight since, by the force 
 of incessant letter-writing, and the employment of her mother's 
 influence, I obtained Anne's very reluctant consent to spend a 
 month at Killarney. Now, my dear Hardress, you must do me a 
 kindness. I have no female friend of your cousin's age whose 
 society might afford her a constant source of enjoyment, and, in 
 spite of all my efforts to procure her amusement, I cannot but 
 observe that she has been more frequently dull than merry since her 
 arrival. Now, you can prevent this if you please. You must remain 
 at home while she is with us, entertain her while I am occupied, 
 
128 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 walk with her, dance with her, be her beau. If she were a 
 stranger, hospitality alone would call for those attentions, and I 
 think, under the circumstances, your own good feeling will teach 
 you that she ought not to be neglected.' 
 
 * My dear mother, do not say another word upon the subject. 
 It will be necessary for me to go from home sometimes ; but I 
 can engage to spend a great portion of the month as you desire. 
 Send for a dancing-master to-morrow morning. I am but an 
 awkward fellow at best, but I will do all that is in my power.' 
 
 1 You will breakfast with us, then, to-morrow morning, and come 
 on a laking party? It was for the purpose of making you 
 promise I disturbed your rest at this hour ; for I knew there 
 was no calculating in what part of Munster one might find you 
 after sunrise.' 
 
 ' How far do you go ? ' 
 
 ' Only to Innisfallen.' 
 
 'Ah ! dear, dear Innisfallen! I will be with you, certainly, 
 mother. Ah, dear Innisfallen ! Mother, do you think that Anne 
 
 remembers the time when Lady K invited us to take a cold 
 
 dinner in Saint Finian's oratory? It is one of the sweetest days 
 that ever brightened my recollection. I think I can still see that 
 excellent lady laying her hand upon Anne Chute's shoulder, and 
 telling her that she should be the little princess of this fairy isle. 
 Dear Innisfallen ! If I were but to tell you, mother, how many 
 a mournful hour that single happy one has cost me ! ' 
 
 'Tell me of no such thing, my boy. Look forward, and not 
 back. Reserve the enjoyment of your recollections until you are 
 no longer capable of present and actual happiness. And do not 
 think, Hardress, that you make so extraordinary a sacrifice in 
 undertaking this pretty office. There is many a fine gentleman 
 in Killarney who would gladly forego a whole season's sport for 
 the privilege of acting such a part for a single day. I cannot 
 describe to you the sensation that your cousin has produced 
 since her arrival. Her beauty, her talents, her elegance, and her 
 accomplishments are the subject of conversation in every circle. 
 You will acquire a greater brilliance as the satellite of such a 
 planet than if you were to move for ages in your own solitary 
 orbit. But if I were to say all that I desire, you would not sleep 
 to-night ; so I shall reserve it to a moment of greater leisure. 
 Good-night, Hardress, and sleep soundly, for the cockswain is 
 to be at the door before nine.' 
 
 Mrs. Cregan was well acquainted with the character of her son. 
 The distinction of attending on so celebrated a beauty as his 
 cousin, was one to which his vanity could never be indifferent, 
 and nothing could be more agreeable to his pride than to find it 
 thus forced upon him, without any effort of his own to seek it. 
 To be thus, out of pure kindness, and much against his own. 
 declared wishes, placed in a situation which was so generally 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 129 
 
 envied ! — to obtain, likewise (and these were the only motives 
 that Hardress would acknowledge to his own mind), to obtain an 
 opportunity of softening his mother's prejudices against the time 
 of avowal, and of forwarding the interests of his friend, Kyrle 
 Daly, in another quarter ; all these advantages were sufficient 
 to compensate to his pride for the chance of some mortifying 
 awkwardness, which might occur through his long neglect of, and 
 contempt for, the habitual forms of society. 
 
 * And of all the places in the world,' thought Hardress, ' Killarney 
 is the scene for such a debut as this. There is such an everlast- 
 ing fund of conversation. The very store of commonplace 
 remarks is inexhaustible. If it rains, one can talk of the 
 Killarney showers, and tell the story of Mr, Fox ; and if the sun 
 shines it must shine upon more wonders than a hundred tongues, 
 as nimble as those of Fame herself, could tell. The teasing of 
 the guides, the lies of the boatmen, the legends of the lakes, the 
 English arrivals, the echoes, the optical illusions, the mists, the 
 mountains. If I were as dull as Otter, 1 I could be as talkative as 
 the barber in the Arabian Nights on such a subject, and yet with- 
 out the necessity of burthening my tongue with more than a 
 sentence at a time.' 
 
 Notwithstanding these encouraging reflections, Hardress, next 
 morning, experienced many a struggle with his false shame before 
 he left his chamber to encounter his mother's charming visitor. 
 What was peculiar in the social timidity of this young gentleman 
 lay in the circumstance that it could scarcely ever be perceived in 
 society. His excessive pride prevented his often incurring the 
 danger of a mortifying repression, and it could hardly be inferred 
 from his reserved, and at the same time dignified demeanour, 
 whether his silence were the effect of ill-temper, stupidity, or 
 bashfulness. Few, indeed, ever thought of attributing it to that 
 lofty philosophical principle to which he himself pretended ; and 
 there was but one in addition to Kyrle Daly,, of all his acquaint- 
 ances, on whom it did not produce an unfavourable impression. 
 
 After having been summoned half a dozen times to the break- 
 fast parlour, and delaying each time to indulge in a fresh peep at 
 the mirror to adjust his hair, which had now too much and now 
 too little powder ; to alter the disposition of his shirt frill, and 
 consummate the tying of his cravat, Hardress descended to the 
 parlour, where, to his surprise, he found his cousin seated alone. 
 She was simply dressed, and her hair, according to the fashion of 
 unmarried ladies at the period, fell down in black and shining 
 ringlets on her neck. A plain necklace of the famous black oak 
 of the lakes, and a Maltese cross, formed from the hoof of the red 
 deer, constituted the principal decorations of her person. There 
 was a consciousness, and even a distress, in the manner of their 
 
 1 A character in Ben Jonson's Epiccene. 
 
130 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 meeting. A womanly reserve and delicacy made Anne unwilling 
 to affect an intimacy that might not be met as she could desire ; 
 and his never-failing pride prevented Hardress from seeming to 
 desire a favour that he had reason to suppose might not be 
 granted him. 
 
 Accordingly, the great store of conversation which he had been 
 preparing the night before, now, to his astonishment, utterly 
 deserted him, and he discovered that subject is an acquisition of 
 little use, while it is unassisted by mutual confidence and good- 
 will among the interlocutors. Nothing was effective, nothing 
 told ; and when Mrs. Cregan entered the parlour, she lifted her 
 hands in wonder, to see her fair visitor seated by the fire, and 
 reading some silly novel of the day (which happened to lie near 
 her), while Hardress affected to amuse himself with Creagh's dog 
 Pincher at the window, and said repeatedly within his own heart, 
 'Ah, Eily ! you are worth this fine lady a hundred times over !' 
 
 'Anne! Hardress! My lady, and my gentleman! Upon my 
 word, Hardress, you ought to be proud of your gallantry. On 
 the very first morning of your return, I find you seated at the 
 distance of half a room from your old playfellow, and allowing 
 her to look for entertainment in a stupid book ! But, perhaps, you 
 do not know each other. Oh ! then it is my duty to apologise 
 for being out of the way. Miss Chute, this is Mr. Hardress 
 Cregan ; Mr. Hardress Cregan, this is Miss Chute.' And she 
 went through a mock introduction in the formal manner of the 
 day. 
 
 The lady and gentleman each muttered something in reply. 
 
 c We have spoken, ma'am,' said Hardress. ' We have spoken, 
 ma'am ! ' echoed Mrs. Cregan. ' Sir, your most obedient servant ! 
 You have made a wonderful effort, and shown a great deal of 
 condescension ! You have spoken ? You have done everything 
 that a gentleman of so much dignity and consequence was called 
 upon to do, and you will not move a single footstep farther. But, 
 perhaps/ she added, glancing at Anne, ' perhaps I am dealing un- 
 justly here. Perhaps the will to hear, and not the will to say, 
 was wanted. If the fault lay with the listener, Hardress, speak. 
 It is the only defence that I will think of admitting.' 
 
 'Except that the listener might not be worth the trial,' said 
 Anne, in the same tone of liveliness, not unmingled with pique ; 
 ' I don't know how he can enter such a plea as that.' 
 
 'Oh, Hardress ! Oh, fie, Hardress ! There's a charge from a 
 lady.' 
 
 * I can assure you,' said Hardress, a little confused, yet not dis- 
 pleased with the manner in which his cousin took up the subject, 
 ' I am not conscious of having deserved any such accusation. If 
 you call upon me for a defence, I can only find it in a simple 
 recrimination. Anne has been so distant to me ever since my 
 return from Dublin that I was afraid I had offended her.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 131 
 
 'Very fair, sir; a very reasonable plea, indeed. Well, Miss 
 Chute,' continued Mrs. Cregan, turning round with an air of mock 
 gravity to her young visitor, * why have you been so distant to my 
 son since his return as to make him suppose he had offended 
 you ? ' And she stood with her hands expanded before her, in 
 the attitude of one who looks for an explanation. 
 
 ' Offended me ! ' said Anne. ' I must have been exceedingly 
 unreasonable, indeed, if I had quarrelled with anything that was 
 said or done by Hardress, for I am sure he never once allowed 
 me the opportunity.' 
 
 * Oh ! oh ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Cregan, clasping her hands and 
 bursting into a fit of laughter ; 'you grow more severe. If I were 
 a young gentleman, I should sink down with shame after such an 
 imputation as that.' 
 
 Hardress found himself suddenly entrapped in a scene of 
 coquetry. ' Might not one do better, mother,' he said, running 
 lightly across the room, and taking a seat close by the side of his 
 cousin — 'might not one do better by endeavouring to amend?' 
 
 ' But it is too late, sir,' said Anne, affecting to move away ; 
 'my aunt Cregan is right, and I am offended with you. Don't sit 
 so near, if you please. The truth is, I have made up my mind 
 not to like you at all, and I never will change it, you may be 
 certain.' 
 
 'That is too hard, Anne. We are old friends, you should 
 remember. What can I have done to make you so inveterate ? ' 
 
 ' That 's right, Hardress,' said Mrs. Cregan, who had now taken 
 her place at the breakfast-table ; ' do not be discouraged by her. 
 Give her no peace until she is your friend. But in the meantime 
 come to breakfast. The cockswain has been waiting this half 
 hour.' 
 
 The same scene of coquetry was continued during the morning. 
 Hardress, who was no, less delighted than surprised at this change 
 of manner in his lovely cousin, assumed the part of a duteous 
 knight, endeavouring, by the most assiduous attentions, to con- 
 ciliate the favour of his offended ' ladye ' ; and Anne maintained 
 with a playful dignity the inexorable coldness and reserve which 
 was the prerogative of the sex in those days of chivalry and sound 
 sense. 'We hate those,' says Bruyere, 'who tremble with pride ; 
 but a smile is sufficient to reconcile us.' In proportion to the 
 chagrin which the fancied coldness of his fair cousin had 
 occasioned to the quick-hearted Hardress, was the pleasure which 
 he received from this unexpected and intimate turn of manner. 
 And now it was, moreover, that he became capable of doing 
 justice to the real character of the young lady. No longer 
 embarrassed by the feeling of strangeness and apprehension 
 which had kept her spirits back on their first meeting, Anne now 
 assumed to him that ease and liveliness of manner with which 
 she was accustomed to fascinate her more familiar acquaintances. 
 
132 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 He was astonished, even to a degree of consternation, at the 
 extent both of her talents and her knowledge. On general 
 subjects, he found with extreme and almost humiliating surprise, 
 that her information very nearly approached his own ; and in a 
 graceful and unostentatious application of that knowledge to 
 familiar subjects, she possessed the customary female superiority. 
 
 We will not intrude so far upon the peculiar province of the 
 guide-books as to furnish any detail of the enchanting scenery 
 through which our party travelled in the course of the forenoon. 
 Every new sight that he beheld, every new hour that he spent in 
 the society of his cousin, assisted in disabusing his mind of the 
 prejudice which he had conceived against her, and supplying its 
 place by a feeling of strong kindness. It happened, likewise, that 
 in the course of the day many circumstances occurred to render 
 him well satisfied with the company of his new associates. The 
 disposition to please and be pleased was general amongst them ; 
 and Hardress was flattered by the degree of attention which he 
 received, not only from his own party, but from his mother's 
 fashionable acquaintances to whom he was introduced in passing. 
 Life, spirit, courtliness of manner, and kindness of feeling, 
 governed the tone of conversation throughout the day; and 
 Hardress bore his part in quality of host with a degree of success 
 and effect that was a matter of astonishment to himself. One or 
 two of the younger ladies only were heard to say that Mr. Cregan 
 was a little inattentive, and that he seemed to imagine there was 
 not another lady of the party besides Miss Chute ; but it is 
 suspected that even those pretty murmurers were by no means 
 the least sensible of the merit of the person whom they censured. 
 When the evening drew near, and the party left the island for 
 home, Hardress was once more surprised to find, that although 
 he had been speaking for nearly half the day, he had not once 
 found it necessary to make allusion to the Killarney showers, the 
 optical deceptions, or the story of Charles James Fox. 
 
 When he parted from the merry circle, in order to fulfil his 
 promise to Eily, a feeling of blank regret fell suddenly upon his 
 heart, like that which is experienced by a boy when the curtain 
 falls at the close of the first theatrical spectacle which he has ever 
 witnessed. His mother, who knew him too well to press any 
 inquiry into the nature of his present engagement, had found no 
 great difficulty in making him promise to return on the next day, 
 in order to be present at a ball, which she was about to give at the 
 cottage. The regret which Anne manifested at his departure (to 
 her an unexpected movement), and the cordial pleasure with which 
 she heard of his intention to return on the next morning, inspired 
 him with a feeling of happiness which he had not hitherto experi- 
 enced since his childhood. 
 
 The next time he thought of Anne and Eily at the same moment, 
 the conjunction was not so unfavourable to the former as it had 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 133 
 
 been in the morning. ' There is no estimating the advantage,' he 
 said within his own mind, 'which the society of so accomplished 
 a girl as that must produce on the mind and habits of my dear 
 little Eily. I wish they were already friends. My poor little love ! 
 how much she has to learn before she can assume with comfort to 
 herself the place for which I have designed her. But women are 
 imitative creatures. They can more readily adapt themselves to 
 the tone of any new society than we, who boast a firmer and less 
 ductile nature ; and Eily will find an additional facility in the good 
 nature and active kindness of Anne Chute. I wish from my -heart 
 they were already friends. 5 
 
 As he finished this reflection, he turned his pony off the Gap 
 road, upon the crags which led to the cottage of Phil Naughten. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 HOW HARDRESS HAD A STRANGE DREAM OF EILY 
 
 The burst of rapture and affection with which he was received 
 by Eily banished for the moment every other feeling from the 
 mind of the young husband. Her eyes sparkled and her coun- 
 tenance brightened at his entrance with the innocent delight of a 
 child. Her colour changed, and her whole frame was agitated by a 
 passion of joy, which Hardress could scarcely have anticipated if his 
 absence had been prolonged to a much more considerable time. 
 He could not avoid feeling that Eily was as far beyond his cousin 
 in gentleness of feeling, in ready confidence, and winning simplicity 
 of manner, as she was excelled by the latter in dignity of mind and 
 of demeanour, in elegant knowledge, and in correctness of taste. 
 
 They stood at the open door, Eily being yet encircled by the 
 arm of her husband, and gazing on his face, while the expression of 
 rapture that had illumined the countenance of both, faded gradu- 
 ally away into a look of calm and settled joy. On a sudden their 
 ears were startled by a hoarse, husky, and yet piercing voice, which 
 seemed to proceed from a crag that sheltered the cottage on the 
 left side. Looking upward, Hardress beheld a woman standing 
 on the turf, whose gesture and appearance showed her to be one 
 of a race of viragos who are now less numerous in the country parts 
 of Ireland than they were some twenty years since. Her face and 
 hair announced a Spanish origin ; her dress consisted of a brown 
 stuff garment, fastened up the back with a row of brass buttons, 
 and a muslin cap and ribbon, considerably injured by the effect of 
 long possession. An old drab jock, soiled and stained by many a 
 roll in the puddle of the mountain fairs, was superadded, and in 
 Jier right hand she grasped a short, heavy oak stick, which, if one 
 
134 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 might judge by the constant use she made of it in enforcing her 
 gestures, was as necessary to her discourse as the famous thread 
 of Lord Chesterfield's orator. Her eyes were bloodshot from 
 watching and intemperance ; and the same causes, joined to a 
 habitual violence of temper, had given to her thin, red, and streaky 
 countenance a sudden and formidable turn of expression. 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! my children ! my two fine, clever children, are ye 
 there ? Oh, the luck o' me that it wasn't a lad like you I married ; 
 a clever boy with the red blood running under his yellow skin, 
 like that sun over behind the clouds, instead of the mane, 
 withered disciple that calls my house his home this day. Look 
 at the beauty of him ! Look at the beauty of him ! I might 
 have been a lady if I liked. Oh, the luck o' me ! the luck o' me ! 
 Five tall young men, every one of 'em a patthern for a faction, and 
 all, all dead in their graves, down, down ; an' no one left but that 
 picthur o' misery, that calls himself my husband. If it wasn't for 
 the whisky,' she added, while she came down the crags and stood 
 before the pair, 'my heart would break with the thoughts of it. 
 Five tall young men, brothers every one, an' they to die, an' he to 
 live ! Wouldn't it kill the Danes to think of it ! Five tall young 
 men ! Gi' me the price o' the whisky.' 
 
 1 Indeed I will not, Poll. You have had enough already.' 
 
 ' No, nor half ! ' shouted the amazon. ' A dhram is enough, but 
 two dhrams isn't half enough, an' I had only two. Coax him, ma 
 chree, ma lanuv^ to gi' me the price o' the whisky.' 
 
 Eily, who stood in great terror of this virago, turned a sup- 
 plicating glance on Hardress. 
 
 'Your young mistress,' said the latter, 'would not become a par- 
 ticipator in the sin of your drunkenness.' 
 
 1 My misthress ! The ropemaker's daughter ! My mistress ! 
 Eily-na-thiadarucha ! Welcome from Gallow's Green, my 
 misthress ! The poor silly crathur ! Is it because I call you, 
 with the blood of all your fathers in your veins, a gentleman, my 
 masther, that I 'd call her a lady, and my misthress ? Gi' me the 
 price o' the whisky ! ' 
 
 1 I shall not, Poll. Go back.' 
 
 ' Gi' me the price o' the whisky or I '11 tear the crooked eyes 
 out o' your yellow face ! Gi' me it, I tell you, or I'll give my 
 misthress more kicks than ha'pence the next time I catch her 
 alone in the house, an' you away coortin' and divartin' at Killarney.' 
 
 ' Cool yourself, Poll, or I '11 make you cool.' 
 
 ' You a gentleman ! There isn't a noggin o' genteel blood in the 
 veins o' your whole seed, breed, an' generation. You have a heart ! 
 you stingy, bone-polishing, tawny-faced, beggarly, mane-spirited 
 mohawk, that hadn't the spirit to choose between poverty an' dignity ! 
 You a gentleman ! The highest and the finest in the land was 
 open to you, an' you hadn't the courage to stand up to your fortune. 
 You a heart ! Except a lady was to come an' coort you of her- 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 135 
 
 self, sorrow chance she 'd ever have o' you or you of her. An' signs 
 on, see what a misthress you brought over us ! I wondher you 
 had the courage to spake to her itself. While others looked up, 
 you looked down. I often seen a worm turn to a butterfly, but I 
 never heard of a butterfly turning to a worm in my life before. 
 You a heart ! I'll lay a noggin, if the docthors open you when ye 
 die, they won't find such a thing as a heart in your whole yellow 
 carcass, only a could gizzard, like the turkey's.' 
 
 Hardress turned pale with anger at this coarse but bitter satire. 
 * Do stop her mouth, my dear Hardress,' murmured Eily, whose 
 total want of pride rendered her almost incapable of resentment. 
 ' Do silence her. That woman makes me afraid for my very life.' 
 
 * Never entertain the least apprehension on that subject, Eily. 
 There is one key to the good will of Fighting Poll, by which you 
 may be always certain of keeping your place in her affections. It 
 is whisky. Keep her in whisky, and you keep her faithful. 
 Nor need you ever fear to be outpurchased ; for Poll has just 
 good principle enough to prefer a little whisky with honesty to 
 a great deal obtained as the wages of treason. Well, Poll,' he 
 continued, turning to that amazon, 'you are too many for me. 
 Here is half a crown to drink my health, and be a good girl. 5 
 
 ' Half a crown ! ' shouted the woman, catching the glittering 
 coin as Hardress sent it twirling through the air. * I knew you 
 were your father's son for all ! I knew 'tis o' purpose you were. I 
 knew you had the nature in you after all ! Ha ! here comes Phil 
 and Danny at last. Come, sthrip, now, Phil ! Sthrip off the coat 
 at once, an' let us see if M'Donough laid the horsewhip over 
 your shoulders to-day.' 
 
 The man only returned her a surly glance in answer to this speech. 
 
 1 What M'Donough is this, Phil?' said Hardress ; 'what horse- 
 whipping do you speak of, Poll ? ' 
 
 ' 1 5 11 tell you, sir,' returned Phil. ' He is our landlord, and the 
 owner of all the land about you, as far as you can see, an' farther. 
 He lives about a mile away from us, an' is noted for being a good 
 landlord to all, far an' near. Only there 's one fashion he has, 
 and that 's a throublesome one to some of his people. As he gives 
 all manner of lases at a raisonable rent himself, he wishes that 
 his land should be sublet raisonable also, which makes him very 
 conthrairy whenever there does be any complaints of hard usage 
 from the under-tenants. I '11 tell you his plan when he finds any- 
 thing o' the sort afther his head-tenants. He doesn't drive 'em 
 nor be hard upon 'em, nor ax for the arrears, nor one ha'p'orth, 
 only sends his sarvant-boy down to their house with a little whip- 
 handle, about so big, that's as well known upon his estate as the 
 landlord's own face. Well, the sarvant-boy comes in, as it might 
 be to my cabin there (if he had anything again' me), an' without 
 ever saying one word, he walks into the middle o' the floore, an' 
 lays the whip-handle upon the table, and walks out again without 
 
136 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ever sayin' one word. Very well ; the tenant knows, when he 
 sees the whip, that he must carry it up to his landlord next 
 morning, as sure as he has a head upon his shoulders ; an' take 
 it from me, there 's many lads among 'em have no great welcome 
 for the sight of it. Well, up they go to the great house, an 5 there 
 they ax for the masther, an' they carry the whip-handle into his 
 parlour, where he locks the door upon 'em, an, if they can't well 
 account for what they done, he makes 'em sthrip, and begins 
 flaking 'em with a horse whip until their backs is all one grishkin ; 
 an' then he tells 'em to go about their business, an' let him hear 
 no more complaints in future. I thought it was a ghost I seen 
 myself, last night, when I found the whip-handle on my own 
 table. But I made all clear when I seen the masther.' 
 
 'That is pushing his authority to a feudal extent/ said Hardress. 
 
 ' A what, sir ? ' asked Phil, looking puzzled. 
 
 ' Nothing, Phil, nothing. Poll, go in now, and get supper ready 
 in your mistress's room.' 
 
 'Let Phil get it,' returned the amazon; ' I want to step over to 
 the village for a pound o' candles.' 
 
 'A pound o' candles !' echoed her helpmate, with sneering 
 emphasis. 
 
 ' Iss, what else,' exclaimed Poll, grasping her baton, and looking 
 back on him with a menacing gesture. 
 
 'You know best what else yourself,' said the husband; 'we all 
 know what sort o' candles it is you 're going for. I lay my life 
 you're afther gettin' money from the masther. But away with 
 you, don't think I want to stop you. Your absence is better 
 company than your presence any day in the year.' So saying he 
 preceded our hero and heroine into the cottage, muttering, in a 
 low voice, a popular distich : 
 
 ' Joy be with you, if you never come back, 
 Dead or alive, or o' horseback.' 
 
 In the course of this evening Eily remarked that her husband, 
 though affectionate as she could desire, was more silent and 
 abstracted than she had ever seen him, and that he more frequently 
 spoke in correction of some little breach of etiquette, or inelegance 
 of manner, than in those terms of eloquent praise and fondness 
 which he was accustomed to lavish upon her. One advantage, 
 however, of Eily's want of penetration was, that the demon of 
 suspicion never disturbed the quiet of her soul ; and it required 
 the utmost and the most convincing evidence of falsehood to shake 
 the generous and illimitable confidence which she reposed in any 
 person who was once established in her affections. While she 
 felt, therefore, some little pain on her husband's account, she 
 never experienced the slightest trouble on her own. She en- 
 deavoured with cheerfulness to adapt herself to his wishes, and 
 though in this she could not become immediately successful, he 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 137 
 
 would have owned a rigid temper, indeed, if it had not been 
 softened by the submissive sweetness of her demeanour. 
 
 And Hardress was softened, though not satisfied, by her gentle 
 efforts. He observed on this evening a much more considerable 
 number of those unpleasing blemishes than he had on any other, 
 and the memory of them pursued him even into his midnight 
 slumbers, where fancy, as usual, augmented their effects upon his 
 mind. He dreamed that the hour had come in which he was to 
 introduce his bride to his rich and fashionable acquaintances, and 
 that a large company had assembled at his mother's cottage to 
 honour the occasion. Nothing, however, could exceed the bash- 
 fulness, the awkwardness, and the homeliness of speech and accent 
 with which the ropemaker's daughter received their compliments ; 
 and to complete the climax of his chagrin, on happening to look 
 round upon her during dinner, he saw her in the act of peeling a 
 potato with her fingers ! This phantom haunted him for half the 
 night. He dreamed moreover, that when he reasoned with her 
 on this subject, she answered him with a degree of pert vulgarity 
 and impatience which was in 'discordant harmony' with her 
 shyness before strangers, and which made him angry at heart 
 and miserable in mind. 
 
 The dreams of passion are always vivid, distinct, and deeply 
 impressive. The feeling of anger and annoyance remained on 
 the mind of Hardress even after he awoke ; and, although he 
 never failed to correct and dispel the sensation, whenever it arose, 
 yet throughout the whole of the following morning, a strong and 
 disagreeable association was awakened whenever he looked upon 
 Eily. 
 
 Before he again left her, Hardress explained the nature of his 
 present position with respect to his mother, and informed his 
 wife of the necessity which existed for spending a considerable 
 portion of the month which was to come at his father's cottage. 
 Eily heard this announcement with pain and grief, but without 
 remonstrance. She cried like a child at parting with him ; and 
 after he had ridden away, remained leaning against the jamb of 
 the door with her moistened handkerchief placed against her 
 cheek in an attitude of musing sorrow. He had promised to 
 return on the second day after, but how was she to live over the 
 long, long interval ? A lonesomeness of heart that was in mourn- 
 ful accordance with the mighty solitudes in which she dwelt, fell 
 down and abode upon her spirit. 
 
 On that night Hardress was one of the gayest revellers at his 
 mother's ball. Anne Chute, who was, beyond all competition, the 
 star of the evening, favoured him with a marked and cordial dis- 
 tinction. The flattering deference with which he was received by 
 all with whom he entered into conversation during the night, 
 surprised him into ease and fluency ; and the success of his own 
 eloquence made him in love with his auditory. When it is con- 
 
i 3 8 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 sidered that this was the very first ball he had ever witnessed 
 since his boyhood, and that his life, in the interim, had been the 
 life of a recluse, its effect upon his mind will cease to be a matter 
 of surprise. The richness of the dresses — the liveliness of the 
 mus i c — the beauty of the fair dancers — the gaiety of their young 
 partners — the air of elegant mirth that filled the whole apartment 
 — produced a new and delicious sensation of happiness in the 
 susceptible temper of Hardress. Our feelings are so much under 
 the government of our habits, that a modern English family, in 
 the same rank, might have denied the praise of comfort to that 
 which, in the unaccustomed eyes of Hardress, wore the warmer 
 hue of luxury ; for he lived at a time when Irish gentlemen fostered 
 a more substantial pride than at present, when appearances were 
 comparatively but little consulted, and the master of a mansion 
 cared not how rude was the interior, or how ruinous the exterior 
 of his dwelling, provided he could always maintain a loaded larder 
 and a noisy board. The scene around him was not less enervating 
 to the mind of our hero because the chairs which the company 
 used were of plain oak, and the light from the large glass lustre 
 fell upon the coarse unpapered walls, whose only ornament con- 
 sisted of the cross-barred lines drawn with the trowel in the rough 
 grey mortar. Many of those who are accustomed to scenes of 
 elegant dissipation, might not readily give credence to the effect 
 which was wrought upon his feelings by circumstances of com- 
 paratively little import. The perfumed air of the room, the 
 loftiness of the ceiling, the festooning of the drapery above the 
 windows, the occasional pauses and changes in the music, all con- 
 tributed to raise his mind into a condition of peculiar and exquisite 
 enthusiasm, which made it susceptible of deep, dangerous, and 
 indelible impressions. The wisdom of religion, in prescribing a 
 strict and constant government of the senses, could not be more 
 apparent than on an occasion like this, when their influence upon 
 the reason became almost as potent and absorbing as that of 
 an internal passion. 
 
 In the midst of this gaiety of heart and topping fulness of mind, 
 a circumstance occurred to throw it into a more disturbed and 
 serious, but scarcely less delightful condition. The intervals in 
 the dancing were filled up by songs from the company, and Anne 
 Chute, in her turn, was called on for her contribution of melody. 
 Hardress was leaning over her chair, and looking at the music- 
 book, which she was turning over leaf after leaf, as if in search 
 of some suitable piece for the occasion. 
 
 1 Ah, this will do, I think,' said Anne, pausing at a manuscript 
 song, which was adapted to an old air, and running a rapid pre- 
 lude along the keys of the instrument. The letters H. C. were 
 written at the top of the page, and Hardress felt a glow like fire 
 upon his brow the instant he beheld them. He drew back a little 
 out of the light, and listened with an almost painful emotion to 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 139 
 
 the song, which the fair performer executed with an ease and 
 feeling that gave to the words an effect beyond that to which they 
 might themselves have pretended. They were the following : 
 
 1 
 
 A place in thy memory, dearest, 
 
 Is all that I claim ; 
 To pause and look back when thou hearest 
 
 The sound of my name. 
 Another may woo thee, nearer, 
 
 Another may win and wear ; 
 I care not though he be dearer, 
 
 If I am remembered there. 
 
 11 
 Remember me — not as a lover 
 
 Whose hope was crossed, 
 Whose bosom can never recover 
 
 The light it has lost — 
 As the young bride remembers the mother 
 
 She loves, though she never may see- 
 As a sister remembers a brother, 
 
 Oh, dearest ! remember me. 
 
 in 
 Could I be thy true lover, dearest, 
 
 Couldst thou smile on me, 
 I would be the fondest and nearest 
 
 That ever loved thee ! 
 But a cloud on my pathway is glooming, 
 
 That never must burst upon thine, . 
 And Heaven, that made thee all blooming, 
 
 Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 
 
 iv 
 Remember me, then ! — Oh ! remember, 
 
 My calm, light love ; 
 Though bleak as the blasts of November 
 
 My life may prove. 
 That life will, though lonely, be sweet, 
 
 If its brightest enjoyment should be 
 A smile and kind word when we meet, 
 
 And a place in thy memory. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 HOW HARDRESS MET A STRANGE TRIAL 
 
 1 Mother, can you tell me why Anne Chute appears so abstracted 
 and so reserved in her manner these few days past ? Is she ill ? 
 Is she out of spirits? Is she annoyed at anything?' 
 
140 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Hardress Cregan, who spoke this speech, was resting with his 
 arm on the sash of one of the cottage windows. Mrs. Cregan was 
 standing at a table in the centre of the room, arranging several 
 small packages of plate, glass, and china, which had been borrowed 
 from various neighbours on occasion of the ball. At a little dis- 
 tance stood old Nancy in her blue cloak and hood, awaiting the 
 commands of her mistress, who, as she proceeded with her 
 occupation, glanced, at intervals, a sharp and inquiring eye at her 
 son. 
 
 1 Here, Nancy, take this china to Mrs. Geogheghan, with my 
 compliments, and tell her that I 'm very much obliged to her ; and 
 for your life, you horrible old creature, take care and not break 
 them.' 
 
 ' Oyeh, murther ! Is it I ? Fake 'em sure that I won't, so.' 
 
 'And tell Mike, as you are going downstairs, to come hither. 
 I want to send him with those spoons to Miss Macarthy.' 
 
 ' Mike isn't come back yet, ma'am, since he wint over with the 
 three-branch candlestick to Mrs. Crasbie.' 
 
 ' He is a very long time away, then.' 
 
 ' Can you tell me, mother,' said Hardress, after in vain expecting 
 an answer to his former queries — ' can you tell me, mother, if 
 Anne Chute has had any unpleasing news from home lately ? ' 
 
 ' Well, Nancy,' continued Mrs. Cregan, appearing not to have 
 heard her son, 'run away with your parcel, and deliver your 
 message as you have been told, and hurry back again, for I have 
 three more places to send you to before dinner.' 
 
 ' Allilu ! my ould bones will be fairly wore from undher me with 
 the dint of thrallivantin,' muttered Nancy, as she left the room. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Hardress, my dear — were you not speaking ? 
 My attention is so occupied by these affairs that I have not a 
 head for anything besides. This is one of the annoyances pro- 
 duced by your father's improvidence. He will not purchase those 
 things, and I am obliged to borrow them, and to invite their 
 owners into the bargain. I should not mind the borrowing but for 
 that, as they are, generally speaking, very inferior in quality to the 
 article they lend me. In my thoughts the latter always occupy so 
 much more important a place than their possessors, that in sending 
 a note of invitation to Mrs. Crosbie (or Crasbie, as Nancy calls 
 her) the other day, I was on the point of writing " Mrs. Cregan 
 presents her compliments to the three-branched candlestick." 
 But were you not speaking tome?' 
 
 ' I merely asked you, mother, if you knew the cause of the 
 change which has lately appeared in Anne Chute's manner, and 
 which I have observed more especially since the night of the 
 ball.' 
 
 ' I do,' said Mrs. Cregan. 
 
 Hardress turned his face round, and looked as if he expected 
 to hear more. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 141 
 
 ' But before I inform you,' continued Mrs. Cregan, ' you must 
 answer me one question. What do you think of Anne Chute ?' 
 
 1 Think of her, mother ? ' 
 
 * Think of her, mother ! You echo me, like Iago in the play. 
 I hope it is not that you have got any such monster in your 
 thoughts as may not meet the light.' 
 
 Hardress shook his head with a smile of deep meaning. 
 ' Indeed, mother,' he said, ' it is far otherwise. I am ashamed to 
 trust my lips with my opinion of Anne Chute. She is, in truth, 
 a fascinating girl. If I were to tell you, in the simplest language, 
 all that I think and all that I feel in her favour, you would say 
 that you had found out a mad son in Hardress. She is, indeed, 
 an incomparable young woman.' 
 
 'A girl,' said his mother, who heard this speech with evident 
 satisfaction — ' a girl who is far too amiable to become the 
 victim of disappointed feelings.' 
 
 1 Of disappointed feelings ! ' 
 
 ' Another echo ! Why, you seem to have caught the mocking 
 spirit from the lakes. I tell you she is within the danger of such 
 an event' 
 
 ' How is that, mother ?' 
 
 1 Close the door, and I will tell you. I see you have remarked 
 the increasing alteration in her manner. If I should entrust you 
 with a lady's secret, do you think you know how to venerate 
 it?' 
 
 ' Why so, mother ? ' 
 
 'Ah, that's a safe answer. Well, I think I may trust you 
 without requiring a pledge. Anne Chute has met with the usual 
 fate of young ladies at her age : she is deep in love.' 
 
 Hardress felt the hot blood gather upon his breath when he 
 heard these words. ' You are jesting, mother,' he said at length, 
 and with a forced smile. 
 
 It is a sad jest for poor Anne, however,' said Mrs. Cregan, 
 with much seriousness. ' She is completely caught, indeed. I 
 never saw a girl so much in love in my life.' 
 
 ' He is a happy fellow,' said Hardress, after a pause, and in a 
 deep voice ; 'he is either a very stupid or a very happy fellow 
 whom Anne Chute distinguishes with her regard. And happy 
 he must be, for a stupid lover could never press so wearily 
 upon the remembrance of such a girl. He is a very happy 
 fellow.' 
 
 ' And yet, to look at him, you would suppose he was neither 
 the one nor the other,' said his mother. 
 
 'What is his name?' 
 
 ' Can you not guess ? ' 
 
 The name of Kyrle Daly rose to the lips of Hardress, but from 
 some undefinable cause he was unable to pronounce it. ' Guess ? ' 
 he repeated ; ' not I. Captain Gibson ? ' 
 
142 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' Pooh ! what an opinion you have formed of Anne, if you 
 suppose her to be one of those susceptible misses to whom the 
 proximity of a red coat, in country quarters, is an affair of fatal 
 consequence.' 
 
 'Kyrle Daly, then?' 
 
 ' Poor Kyrle — no. But that I think she has already chosen 
 better, I could wish it were he, poor fellow ! But you do not 
 seem inclined to pay your cousin a compliment this morning. Do 
 you not think you guess a little below her worth ? ' 
 
 ' Not in Kyrle Daly. He is a lover for a queen ; he is my true 
 friend? 5 
 
 'That,' said his mother with emphasis, 'might be some 
 recommendation.' 
 
 Hardress gazed on her, as if altogether at a loss. 
 
 ' Well, have you already come to a stand ? ' said Mrs. Cregan. 
 'Then I believe I shall not insist on you exposing your own 
 dulness any longer. Come hither, Hardress, and sit near me.' 
 
 The young gentleman took a chair at his mother's side, and 
 awaited her further speech with increasing interest. 
 
 'Hardress,' she said, 'I have a claim, independent of my 
 natural right, to your obedience, and I must insist, in this one 
 instance at least, on its not being contested. Listen to me. I 
 have now an object in view, to the .accomplishment of which I 
 look forward with a passionate interest, for it has no other aim 
 than the completion of your happiness — a concern, my beloved 
 boy, which has always sat closest to my heart, even from your 
 childhood. I have no child but you. My other little babes are 
 with their Maker. I have none left but you, and I think I feel 
 my heart yearn towards you with all the love which, if those 
 angels had not flown from me, would have been divided amongst 
 them.' 
 
 She paused, affected, and Hardress lowered his face in deep 
 and grateful emotion. 
 
 'It is, I think, but reasonable, therefore,' Mrs. Cregan con- 
 tinued, ' to desire your concurrence in a project which has your 
 own happiness only for its object. Are you really so dull of 
 perception as not to be aware of the impression you have made 
 on the affections of Anne Chute ? ' 
 
 'That I — I have made?' exclaimed Hardress, with a confusion 
 and even a wildness in his manner which looked like a compound 
 of joy and terror. 'That I — did you say, mother?' 
 
 ' That you have made,' repeated his mother. ' It is true, 
 indeed, Hardress. She loves you. This fascinating girl loves 
 you long and deeply. This incomparable young woman, with 
 whose praises you dare not trust your tongue, is pining for your 
 love in the silence of her chamber. This beautiful and gifted 
 creature, who is the wonder of all who see and the love of all who 
 know her, is ready to pour forth her spirit at your feet in a 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 143 
 
 murmur of expiring fondness. Use your fortunes. The world 
 smiles brightly on you. I say again, Anne Chute is long, deeply, 
 and devotedly your own.' 
 
 Hardress drank in every accent of this poisonous speech with 
 that fatal relish which is felt by the infatuated Eastern for his 
 draught of stilling tincture. While he lay back in his chair, 
 however, to enjoy the full and swelling rapture of his triumph, a 
 horrid remembrance suddenly darted through his brain, and 
 made him start from his chair as if he had received a blow. 
 
 1 Mother,' said he, ' you are deceived in this. It is not, it 
 cannot be, the fact. I see the object' of which you speak, and I 
 am sure your own anxiety for its accomplishment has led you to 
 miscalculate. My own surmises are not in unison with yours.' 
 
 ' My dear child,' replied his mother, ' I have a far better 
 authority than surmise for what I say. Do you think, my love, 
 that I would run the hazard of disturbing your peace without an 
 absolute assurance of the truth of my statement? I have an 
 authority that ought to satisfy the most distrustful lover ; and I 
 will be guilty of a breach of confidence, in order to set your mind 
 at rest, for I am certain of your honour. It is the confession, 
 the reluctant and hardly-won confession, of my darling Anne 
 herself.' 
 
 Again the revulsion of frightful rapture rushed through the 
 frame of the listener, and made him resume his chair in 
 silence. 
 
 * When we came here first,' continued Mrs. Cregan, * I could 
 perceive that there was a secret, although I was far from suspect- 
 ing its nature. The first glimpse of light that broke upon the 
 mystery was produced by accident. You remember poor Dalton, 
 our old huntsman ? I happened to speak to Anne of his attach- 
 ment to you, and could at once observe that her interest for the 
 man was ardently awakened.' 
 
 4 1 remember, I remember like a dream,' said Hardress, raising 
 his finger in a manner of one endeavouring to strengthen an 
 indistinct recollection. ' Poor Dalton told me Anne had been 
 kind to him. Anne ! No, no,' he added with much confusion, 
 'he named no one. He said a person in this house had been 
 kind to him. I was prevented from inquiring farther.' 
 
 1 That person,' said Mrs. Cregan, ' was Anne Chute. From 
 the moment of that conversation my eyes were opened, and I 
 felt like one who has suddenly discovered the principle of an 
 intricate and complicated system. I saw it in her silence while 
 your arrival was delayed — I saw it on the morning of your meet- 
 ing — I saw it throughout that day — I saw it in her dissembled 
 grief, in her dissembled joy. Poor, dear girl. ! I saw it in the 
 almost childlike happiness that sparkled in her eyes when you 
 came near us, and in the sudden gloom that followed your depar- 
 ture. For shame, my child ! Why are you so dull of perception ? 
 
144 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Have you eyes? Have you ears? Have you a brain to com- 
 prehend, or a heart to estimate your good fortune ? It should 
 have been your part, not mine, to draw that dear acknowledg- 
 ment from the lips of Anne last night.' 
 
 To this observation, Hardress replied only by a low moan, 
 which had in it an expression of deep pain. ' How, mother,' he 
 at length asked in a hoarse tone, ' by what management did you 
 draw this secret from her ? ' 
 
 ' By a simple process. By making it worth her while to give 
 me her confidence. By telling her what I have long since 
 perceived, though it may possibly have escaped your own obser- 
 vation, that her passion was not unrequited — that you were as 
 deeply in love with her as she with you.' 
 
 1 Me ! me in love S You could not, you would not, surely, 
 mother, speak with so much rashness,' exclaimed Hardress, in 
 evident alarm. 
 
 * Why ? do you not love her, then ?' 
 ' Love her, mother ? ' 
 
 * I see you have not yet done with the echoes !' 
 
 * I love her as a cousin should love a cousin — nothing more.' 
 
 * Ay ; but she is no cousin of yours. Come ! it must be either 
 more or less. What shall I say ?' 
 
 * Neither. It is in that light I have always looked upon Anne. 
 I could not love her less. I would not, dare not, love her 
 more.' 
 
 ' Dare not ! You have got a strange vocabulary for a lover. 
 What do you mean by "dare not"? What mighty daring is 
 requisite to enable a young man to fall in love with a young lady, 
 of whose affection he is already certain ? The daring that is 
 necessary for wedlock is an old bachelor's sneer, which should 
 never be heard on lips that are ruddy with the blood of less than 
 forty summers. Why dare you not love Anne Chute ? ' 
 
 ' Because, by doing so, I should break my faith to another.' 
 
 Mrs. Cregan fixed her eyes on him, as if somewhat stunned. 
 ' What do you say, Hardress ? ' she murmured, just above her 
 breath. 
 
 'I say, mother, that my heart and faith are both already 
 pledged to another, and that I must not break my engagement' 
 
 * Do you speak seriously ? ' 
 
 ' I could not jest on this subject, if I were so inclined.' 
 'And dare you tell me this?' Mrs. Cregan exclaimed, starting 
 up from her seat, with a sudden fierceness of manner. 'You 
 have no daring ! You dare not love the love that I have chosen 
 for you, and you dare tell me to my face of such a boldness as 
 this ! But dare me not too far, I warn you, Hardress. You will 
 not find it safe.' 
 
 ' I dare tell the truth when I am called on,' replied Hardress, 
 who never respected his mother so little as in her moments of 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 145 
 
 passion and authority, 'in all places, and at all hazards, even 
 including that of incurring my mother's displeasure.' 
 
 ' Listen to me, Hardress,' said his mother, returning to her seat, 
 and endeavouring to suppress her anger — ' it is better we should 
 fully understand each other.' 
 
 1 It is, mother ; and I cannot choose a better time to be explicit 
 than the present. I was wrong, very wrong, in not taking an 
 earlier opportunity of explaining to you the circumstances in 
 which I stand. But it is better even now than later. Mother,' he 
 continued, moving near to her, and taking her hand between his, 
 with a deprecating tenderness of manner, 'forgive your own 
 Hardress ! I have already fixed my affections, and pledged 
 myself to another.' 
 
 Mrs. Cregan pressed her handkerchief against her face, and 
 leaned forward on the table, which position she maintained 
 during the dialogue which followed. 
 
 'And who is that other?' she asked, with a calmness that 
 astonished her son. ' Is she superior to Anne Chute in rank or 
 fortune ? ' 
 
 ' Far otherwise, mother.' 
 
 ' In talent, then, or manner?' 
 
 ' Still far beneath my cousin.' 
 
 ' In what, then, consists the motive of preference, for I am at a 
 loss?' 
 
 ' In everything that relates to acquirement,' said Hardress, ' she 
 is not even to be compared to Anne Chute. It is in virtue alone, 
 and in gentleness of disposition, that she can pretend to an 
 equality. I once believed her lovelier, but I was prejudiced.' 
 
 Mrs. Cregan now raised her head, and showed, by the change 
 in her appearance, what passionate struggles she had been 
 endeavouring to overcome. The veins had started out upon her 
 forehead, a dull fire shone in her eyes, and one dark tress of hair, 
 uncurled by dampness and agitation, was swept across her 
 temples. ' Poor, low-born, silly, and vulgar ! ' she repeated, with 
 an air of perplexity and suppressed anger. Then, assuming an 
 attitude of easy dignity, and forcing a smile, she said : ' Oh, my 
 dear Hardress, you must be jesting, for I am sure you could not 
 make such a choice as you describe.' 
 
 'If it is a misfortune,' replied Hardress, ' I must only summon 
 up all my philosophy, mother, for there is no escaping it.' 
 
 Mrs. Cregan again pressed her hand upon her brow for some 
 moments, and then said : ' Well, Hardress, let us conduct this 
 discussion calmly. I have got a violent shooting in my head, and 
 cannot say so much as 1 desire. But listen to me as I have done 
 to you. My honour is pledged to your cousin for the truth of 
 what I have told her. I have made her certain that her wishes 
 shall be accomplished, and I will not have my child's heart 
 broken. If you are serious, Hardress, you have acted a most 
 
 K 
 
i 4 6 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 dishonourable part. Your conduct to Anne Chute would have 
 deceived — it has deceived — the most unbiassed amongst your 
 acquaintances. You have paid her attentions which no honour- 
 able man could offer, while he entertained only a feeling of 
 indifference towards their object.' 
 
 ' Mother ! mother ! how can you make such a charge as that ? 
 Was it not entirely, and reluctantly, in compliance with your own 
 injunctions that I did so? 5 
 
 ' Ay,' replied Mrs. Cregan, a little struck, ' but I was not then 
 aware of your position. Why did you not then inform me of all 
 this ? Let the consequences, sir, of your duplicity fall on your 
 own head, not on my poor girl's, nor mine. 1 could not have be- 
 lieved you capable of such a meanness. Had you then discovered 
 all, it would have been in time for the safety of your cousin's 
 happiness and for my own honour — for that, too, is staked in the 
 issue. What, sir ! Is your vanity so egregious that, for its gratifi- 
 cation merely, you would interfere with a young girl's prospects 
 in life, by filling up the place at her side to which others, equal in 
 merit and more sincere in their intentions, might have aspired ? 
 Is not that consideration alone (putting aside the keener dis- 
 appointment to which you have subjected her) enough to make 
 your conduct appear hideous ? ' 
 
 The truth and justice of this speech left Hardress without a 
 word. 
 
 'You are already contracted at every fireside in Kerry and 
 Limerick also,' continued his mother ; ' and I am determined that 
 there shall be no whispering about my own sweet Anne. You 
 must perform the promise that your conduct has given.' 
 
 1 And my engagement ?' 
 
 1 Break it off ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Cregan, with a burst of anger, 
 scarcely modified by her feeling of decorum. c If you have been 
 base enough to make a double pledge, and if there must be 
 a victim, I am resolved it shall not be Anne Chute. I must not 
 have to reproach myself with having bound her for the sacrifice. 
 Now take your choice. I tell you, I had rather die — nay, I had 
 rather see you in your coffin, than matched below your rank. 
 You are yet unable to cater for your own happiness, and you 
 would assuredly lay up a fund of misery for all your coming years. 
 Now take your choice. If you wed as I desire, you shall have all 
 the happiness that rank, and wealth, and honour, and domestic 
 affection can secure you. If against my wish — if you resist me, 
 enjoy your vulgar taste, and add to it all the wretchedness that 
 extreme poverty can furnish ; for, whether I live or die (as, 
 indeed, I shall be careless on that subject henceforward), you never 
 shall possess a guinea of your inheritance. So take your choice.' 
 
 'It is already made,' said Hardress, rising with a mournful 
 dignity, and moving towards the door. ' My fortunes are already 
 decided, whatever way my inclinations move. Farewell then, 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 147 
 
 mother. I am grateful to you for all your former kindness, but it 
 is impossible that I can please you in this. As to the poverty 
 with which you intend to punish me, I can face that consequence 
 without much anxiety, after I have ventured to incur the hazard 
 of your anger.' 
 
 He was already at the door, when his mother recalled him with 
 a softened voice. ' Hardress,' she said, with tears in her eyes, ' I 
 mistake my heart entirely. It cannot afford to lose a son so 
 easily. Come hither, and sit by me, my own beloved boy. You 
 know not, Hardress, how I have loved and love you. Why will 
 you anger me, my child ? I never angered you, even when you 
 were an infant at my bosom. I never denied you anything in all 
 my life. I never gave you a hard word or look, since you were a 
 child in my arms. What have I done to you, Hardress ? Even 
 supposing that I have acted with any rashness in this, why will 
 you insist on my suffering for it?' 
 
 1 My dear mother ' 
 
 4 If you knew how I have loved you, Hardress ; but you can 
 never know it, for it was shown most frequently and fondly when 
 you were incapable of acknowledging or appreciating it. If you 
 knew how disinterestedly I have watched and laboured for your 
 happiness, even from your boyhood, you would not so calmly 
 resign your mind to the idea of such a separation. Come, 
 Hardress, we must yet be friends. I do not press you for an 
 immediate answer; but tell me you will think of it, and think 
 more kindly. Bid me but smile on Anne when I meet her next. 
 Nay, don't look troubled : I shall not speak to her until I have 
 your answer; I will only smile upon her. That's my darling 
 Hardress.' 
 
 1 But, mother ' 
 
 ' Not one word more. At least, Hardress, my wishes are worth 
 a little consideration. Look there ! ' she suddenly exclaimed, 
 laying her hand on the arm of her son, and pointing through the 
 open window ; 'is that not worth a little consideration ?' 
 
 Hardress looked in that direction, and beheld a sight which 
 might have proved dangerous to the resolution of a more self- 
 regulated spirit. It was the figure of his cousin standing under 
 the shade of a lofty arbutus (a tree which acknowledges Killarney 
 alone, of all our northern possessions, for its natal region). A few 
 streaks of the golden sunshine streamed in upon her figure 
 through the boughs, and quivered over the involutions of her 
 drapery. She was without a bonnet, and her short black ringlets, 
 blown loose about her rather pale and careful countenance, gave 
 it somewhat of the character of an Ariadne or a Penthesilea. 
 She walked towards the house, and every motion of her frame 
 seemed instinct with a natural intelligence. Hardress could not 
 (without a nobler effort than he would use) remove his eyes from 
 this beautiful vision, until a turn in the gravel-walk concealed it 
 
14.8 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 from his view, and it disappeared among the foliage, as a lustrous 
 star is lost in a mass of autumnal clouds. 
 
 * Mother,' said Hardress, ' I will think on what you have said. 
 May Heaven defend and guide me ! I am a miserable wretch, 
 but I will think of it. Oh, mother, my dear mother, if I had con- 
 fided in you, or you in me ! Why have we been thus secret to 
 each other ? But pardon me ! It is I alone that am deserving of 
 that reproach, for you were contriving for my happiness only. 
 Happiness ! What a vain word that is ! I never shall be happy 
 more. Never, indeed ! I have destroyed my fortunes.' 
 
 1 Hush, boy, I hear Anne's foot upon the lobby. I told her you 
 would walk with her to-day.' 
 
 1 Me walk with her ! ' said Hardress, with a shudder. ' No, no, 
 I cannot, mother ; it would be wrong— I dare not, indeed.' 
 
 1 Dare not, again,' said Mrs. Cregan, smiling. * Come, come, 
 forget this conversation for the present, and consider it again at 
 your leisure.' 
 
 * I will think of it,' repeated the young man, with some wildness 
 of manner. ' May Heaven defend and guide me ! I am a wretch 
 already.' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! ' said his mother, who did not attach too much 
 importance to these exclamations of mental distress; 'you must 
 not let your mistress hear you praying in that way, or she will 
 suppose she has frightened you.' 
 
 1 My mistress, mother !' 
 
 c Pooh, pooh ! your cousin, then. Don't look so terrified. 
 Well, Hardress, I am obliged to you.' 
 
 ' Ay, mother, but don't be misled by ' 
 
 ' Oh, be in no pain for that. I understand you perfectly. 
 Remain here, and I will send your cousin to you in a few minutes.' 
 
 It would have at once put an end to all discussion on this 
 subject, if Hardress had informed his mother that he was in fact 
 already married. He was aware of this, and yet he could not tell 
 her that it was so. It was not that he feared her anger, for that 
 he had already dared. He knew that he was called on in honour, 
 in justice, and in conscience, to make his parent aware of the full 
 extent of his position, and yet he shunned the avowal as he would 
 have done a sentence of despair. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 HOW THE TEMPTATION OF HARDRESS PROCEEDED 
 
 During the few weeks that followed the conversation just detailed, 
 Eily perceived a rapid and fearful change in the temper and 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 149 
 
 appearance of her husband. His visits were fewer and shorter 
 than before, and when he did come, his manner was restrained 
 and cautious in an extraordinary degree. His eye looked troubled, 
 his voice was deep and broken, his cheek grew pale and fleshless, 
 and a gloomy air, which might be supposed the mingled result of 
 discontent and dissipation, appeared in all his person. He no 
 longer conversed with that noisy frankness and gaiety in which he 
 was accustomed to indulge in all societies where he felt perfectly 
 at ease. To Eily he spoke sometimes with coldness and impatience, 
 and very often with a wild affection that had in it as much of grief 
 as of tenderness. To the other inmates of the cottage he was 
 altogether reserved and haughty, and even his own boatman 
 seldom cared to tempt him into a conversation. Sometimes Eily 
 was inclined to think that he had escaped from some unpleasing 
 scenes at home, his demeanour during the evening was so abstracted 
 and so full of care. On other occasions, when he came to her cottage 
 late at night, she was shocked to discover about him the appear- 
 ance of a riotous indulgence. Born and educated as she was in 
 the Ireland of the eighteenth century, this circumstance would not 
 have much disturbed the mind of our heroine, but that it became 
 gradually more frequent of occurrence, and seemed rather to 
 indicate a voluntary habit than that necessity to which even sober 
 people were often subjected, when they mingled in the society of 
 Irish country gentlemen of that period. Eily thus experienced 
 for the first time, and with an aching spirit, one of the keenest 
 anxieties of married life. 
 
 'Hardress,' she said to him one morning when he was pre- 
 paring to depart, after an interval of gloomy silence, long unbroken, 
 ' I won't let you go among those fine ladies any more, if you be 
 thinking of them always when you come to me again. 5 
 
 Her husband started like one conscience-struck, and looked 
 sharply round upon her. 
 
 'What do you mean?' he said, with a slight contraction of the 
 brows. 
 
 1 Just what I say, then,' said Eily, smiling and nodding her head 
 with a pretty affectation of authority. ' Those fine ladies musn't 
 take you from Eily. And I '11 tell you another thing, Hardress, 
 Whisper.' She laid her hand on his shoulder, raised herself on 
 tiptoe and murmured in his ear : ' I '11 not let you among the fine 
 gentlemen either, if that 's the teaching they give you.' 
 
 ' What teaching ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, you know yourself,' Eily continued, nodding and smiling ; 
 ' it is a teaching that you would never learn from Eily, if you spent 
 the evenings with her as you used to do in the beginning. Do 
 you know is there e'er a priest living in this neighbourhood ? ' 
 
 1 Why do you ask ? ' 
 
 'Because I have something to tell him that lies upon my 
 conscience.' 
 
150 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 'And would you not confess your failings to an affectionate 
 friend, Eily, as well as to a holier director ? ' 
 
 ' I would, 5 said Eily, bending on him a look of piercing sweetness, 
 * if I thought he would forgive me afterwards as readily.' 
 
 'Provided always that you are a true penitent,' returned 
 Hardress, reaching her his hand. 
 
 ' There is little fear of that,' said Eily. ' It would be well for me, 
 Hardress, if I could as easily be penitent for heavier sins.' 
 
 After a moment's deep thought, Eily resumed her playful manner, 
 and placing both her hands in the still expanded one of her husband, 
 she continued: 'Well, then, sir, I'll tell you what's troubling 
 me : I 'm afraid I 'm going wrong entirely this time back. I got 
 married, sir, a couple o' months ago, to one Mr. Hardress Cregan, 
 a very nice gentleman that I 'm very fond of.' 
 
 ' Too fond, perhaps.' 
 
 ' I 'm afraid so, rightly speaking, although I hope he doesn't 
 think so. But he told me when he brought me down to Killarney, 
 that he was going to speak to his friends ' [the brow of the listener 
 darkened], ' and to ask their forgiveness for himself and Eily. And 
 there 's nearly two months now, since I came, and what I have to 
 charge myself with, sir, is, that I am too fond of my husband, 
 and that I don't like to vex him by speaking about it, as may be it 
 would be my duty to do. And, besides, I don't keep my husband to 
 proper order at all. I let him stop out sometimes for many days 
 together, and then I 'm very angry with him, but when he comes, 
 I 'm so foolish and so glad to see him that I can't look cross, or 
 speak a hard word, if I was to get all Ireland for it. And more than 
 that, again ; I 'm not at all sure how he spends his time, while he 
 is out, and I don't ever question him properly about it. I know 
 there are a great many handsome young ladies where he goes to, 
 and a deal of gentlemen that are very pleasant company after 
 dinner ; for, indeed, my husband is often more merry than wise, 
 when he comes home to me late at night, and still Eily says 
 nothing. And, besides all this, I think my husband has some- 
 thing weighing upon his mind, and I don't make him tell it to 
 me, as a good wife ought to do ; and I like to have a friend's 
 advice, as you're good enough to offer it, sir, to know what I 'd do. 
 What do you think about him, sir ? Do you think any of the 
 ladies has taken his fancy ? Or do you think he 's growing tired 
 of Eily ? Or that he doesn't think so much of her now that he 
 knows her better? What would you advise me to do ? ' 
 
 ! I am rather at a loss,' said Hardress,with some bitterness in his 
 accent ; ' it is so difficult to advise a jealous person.' 
 
 'Jealous !' exclaimed Eily, with a slight blush. 'Ah, now I'm 
 sorry I came to you at all, for I see you know nothing about me, 
 since you think that's the way. I see now that you don't know 
 how to advise me at all, and I '11 leave you there. What would I 
 be jealous of?' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 151 
 
 •Why, of those handsome young ladies that your husband 
 visits. 5 
 
 'Ah, if I was jealous that way,' said Eily, with a keen and 
 serious smile, ' that isn't the way I 'd show it.' 
 
 * How, then, Eily ? ' 
 
 'Why, first of all, I wouldn't as much as think of such a thing 
 without the greatest reason in the world, without being down- 
 right sure of it, and if I got that reason, nobody would ever 
 know 
 there, and stretch upon the bed, and die.' 
 
 ' Why, that 's what many a brutal husband, in such a case, would 
 exactly desire.' 
 
 ' So itself,' said Eily, with a flushed and kindling cheek ; so it- 
 self. I wouldn't be long in his way, I '11 engage.' 
 
 ' Well, then,' Hardress said, rising and addressing her with a 
 severe solemnity of manner, 'my advice to you is this. As long 
 as you live, never presume to inquire into your husband's secrets, 
 nor affect an influence which he never will admit. And if you 
 wish to avoid that great reason for jealousy, of which you stand 
 in fear, avoid suffering the slightest suspicions to appear ; for men 
 are stubborn beings, and when such suspicions are wantonly set 
 afloat, they find the temptation to furnish them with a cause 
 almost irresistible.' 
 
 ' Well, Hardress,' said Eily, ' you are angry with me, after all. 
 Didn't you say you would forgive me ? Oh, then, I '11 engage I 'd 
 be very sorry to say anything, if I thought you 'd be this way.' 
 
 ' I am not angry,' said Hardress, in a tone of vexation. ' I do 
 forgive you,' he added, in an accent of sharp reproof ; ' I spoke 
 entirely for your own sake.' 
 
 1 And wouldn't Hardress allow his own Eily her little joke ? 
 
 'Joke ! ' exclaimed Hardress, bursting into a sudden fit of passion 
 which made his eyes water and his limbs shake as if they would 
 have sunk beneath him. ' Am 1 become the subject of your mirth ? 
 Day after day my brain is verging nearer and nearer to utter mad- 
 ness, and do you jest on that ? Do you see this cheek ? You count 
 more hollows there than when I met you first, and does that make 
 you merry ? Give me your hand ! Do you feel how that heart 
 beats? Is that a subject, Eily, for joke or jest? Do you think 
 this face turns thin and yellow for nothing ? There are a thousand 
 and a thousand horrid thoughts and temptations burning within 
 me daily, and eating my flesh away by inches. The devil is 
 laughing at me, and Eily joins him.' 
 
 ' Oh, Hardress — Hardress ! ' 
 
 'Yes ! — you have the best right to laugh, for you are the gainer. 
 Curse on you ! Curse on your beauty — curse on my own folly — 
 for I have been undone by both ! Let go my knees ! Let go my 
 arm ! I hate you ! Take the truth, I '11 not be poisoned with it. I 
 am sick of you, you have disgusted me ! I will ease my heart by 
 
152 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 telling you the whole. If I seek the society of other women it is 
 because I find not among them your meanness and vulgarity. If 
 I get drunk and make myself the beast you say, it is in the hope 
 to forget the iron chain that binds me to you. 5 
 
 'Oh, Hardress,' shrieked the affrighted girl, 'you are not in 
 earnest now?' 
 
 ' I am ; I do not joke !' her husband exclaimed, with a hoarse 
 vehemence. ' Let go my knees ! You are sure enough of me. I 
 am bound to you too firmly.' 
 
 1 Oh, my dear Hardress ! Oh, my own husband, listen to me ! 
 hear your own Eily for one moment ! Oh, my poor father ! ' 
 
 'Ha!' 
 
 ' It slipped from me ! Forgive me ! I know I am to blame, I am 
 greatly to blame, dear Hardress, but forgive me ! I left my home 
 and all for you — oh, do not cast me off! I will do anything to 
 please you — I never will open my lips again — only say you did 
 not mean all that ! Oh, Heaven ! ' she continued, throwing her 
 head back, and looking upward with expanded mouth and eyes, 
 while she maintained her kneeling posture and clasped her 
 husband's feet. ' Merciful Heaven, direct him ! Oh, Hardress, 
 think how far I am from home ! Think of all you promised me, 
 and how 1 believed you ! Stay with me for a while at any rate ! 
 Do not ' 
 
 On a sudden, while Hardress was still struggling to free himself 
 from her arms, without doing her violence, Eily felt a swimming in 
 her head and a cloud upon her sight. The next instant she was 
 motionless. 
 
 The first face she beheld, on recovering from her insensibility, 
 was that of Poll Naughten, who was seated in a low chair, and 
 supporting Eily's head against her knees, while she was striking 
 her in the open palm with a prodigious violence. 
 
 'Ah, there she dhraws the breath,' said Fighting Poll. 'Oh, 
 wirra, missiz, what brought you out on your face and hands on 
 the middle of the floore, that way ? ' 
 
 Eily muttered some unmeaning answer, and remained for some 
 minutes struggling with the consciousness of some undefined 
 horror. Looking around, at length, and missing the figure of 
 Hardress, she lay back once more, and burst into a fit of 
 hysterical weeping. Phil Naughten, who was smoking a short pipe 
 by the fireside, said something in Irish to his wife, to which the 
 latter replied in the same language, and then turning to Eily, 
 said : ' Will you take a dhrop of anything, a-chree ?' 
 
 Eily raised her hand in dissent. 
 
 ' Will you come in, and take a stretch on the bed, then ? ' 
 
 To this Eily answered in the affirmative, and walked, with the 
 assistance of her hostess, into her sleeping chamber. Here she 
 lay during the remainder of the day, the curtain suffered to fall so 
 as to keep the broad sunshine from her aching eyes and head. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 153 
 
 Her reflections, however, on the frightful and sudden alteration 
 which had taken place in her condition were cut short, ere long, 
 by a sleep of that sound and dreamless nature which usually 
 supervenes after an excess of passionate excitement or anxiety. 
 
 In the meantime Hardress hurried along the Gap road with 
 the speed of one who desires to counteract, by extreme bodily 
 exertion, the turbulence of an uneasy spirit. As he passed the 
 lonely little bridge, which crosses the stream above the Black 
 Lake, his attention was suddenly arrested by the sound of a 
 familiar voice which appeared to reach him from the clouds. 
 Looking over his shoulder to the summit of the Purple Mountain, 
 he beheld Danny Mann, nearly a thousand feet above him, moving 
 towards the immense pile of loose stones (from the hue of which 
 the mountain has derived its name), and driving before him a 
 small herd of goats, the property of his brother-in-law. Turning 
 off the road, Hardress commenced the ascent of this toilsome 
 eminence — partly because the difficulty afforded a relief to his 
 spirits, and partly because he wished to converse with his 
 dependent. 
 
 Although the day was fine, and sometimes cheered with 
 sunshine near the base of the mountain, its summit was wrapped 
 in mist, and wet with incessant showers. The scenery around 
 was solitary, gigantic, and sternly barren. The figure of some 
 wonder-hunting tourist, with a guide-boy bearing his portfolio and 
 umbrella, appeared at long intervals, among the lesser undulations 
 of the mountain-side, and the long road which traversed the 
 gloomy valley dwindled to the width of a meadow foot-path. On 
 the opposite side of the enormous ravine, the grey and misty 
 Reeks still raised their crumbling summits far above him. 
 Masses of white mist gathered in sullen congress between their 
 peaks, and, sometimes floating upward in large volumes, were 
 borne majestically onward, catching a thousand tints of gold 
 and purple from the declining sun. Sometimes a trailing 
 shower of mingled mist and rain would sweep across the inter- 
 vening chasm, like the sheeted spectre of a giant, and present 
 to the eye of the spectator that appearance which supplied the 
 imagination of Ossian with its romantic images. The mighty 
 gorge itself, at one end, appeared to be lost and divided amid a 
 host of mountains tossed together in provoking gloom and misery. 
 Lower down, it opened upon a wide and cultivated champaign, 
 which at this altitude presented the resemblance of a rich mosaic 
 of a thousand colours, and afforded a bright contrast to the 
 barren shrubless gloom of the solitary vale itself. As Hardress 
 approached the summit, this scene of grandeur and of beauty was 
 shut out from his view by the intervening mist, which left nothing 
 visible but the peak on which he stood, and which looked like a 
 barren islet in a sea of vapour. Above him was a blue sky, 
 broken up with masses of cloud, against which the rays of the 
 
154 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 sun were refracted, with various effect, according to their degrees 
 of density and altitude. Occasionally, as Hardress pressed on- 
 ward through the heath, a heavy grouse would spring up at his 
 feet, challenge, and wheel to the other side of the mountain. 
 Sometimes, also, as he looked downward, a passing gust of wind 
 would draw aside the misty veil that lay between him and the 
 world, and cause the picture once more to open on his sight. 
 
 His attendant now met and greeted him as usual. 'It's well 
 for you, Masther Hardress, dat hasn't a flock o' goats to be 
 huntin' after dis mornin' ; my heart is broke from 'em, dat } s what 
 it is. We turn 'em out in de mornin', an' dough dey have plenty 
 to ait below dere, dey never stop till dey go to de top o' the 
 mountain, nothin' less would do for 'em ; like many o' the 
 Christians demselves, dey '11 be mountin' always, even when 'tis 
 no good for 'em.' 
 
 'I have no remedy,' said Hardress, musing, ' and yet the thought 
 of enduring such a fate is intolerable.' 
 
 ' What a fine day this would be for the water, master ? ' con- 
 tinued his servant. 'You don't ever care to take a sail now, 
 sir?' 
 
 'Oh, Kyrle, Kyrle Daly, what a prophetic truth was in your 
 words 1 Giddy, headlong wretch that I have been ! I wish that 
 my feet had grown to my mother's hearth when I first thought of 
 evading her control and marrying without her sanction.' He 
 paused in a mood of bitter retrospection. ' I '11 not endure it,' 
 he again exclaimed, starting from his reverie ; ' it shall not be 
 without recall. I will not, because I cannot. Monster ! monster 
 that I am 1 Wed one, and woo another ! Both now are cheated ! 
 Which shall be the victim ? ' 
 
 The devil was at his ear, and whispered, ' Be not uneasy ; 
 hundreds have done the same before you.' 
 
 ' Firm as dat mountain stands, an' as it stood dis hundred, ay, 
 dis tousand year, maybe,' continued Danny Mann, 'still an' all, 
 to look up dat way at dem great loose stones, dat look as if dey 
 were shovelled up above us by some joyants or great people of 
 ould, a body would tink it hardly safe to stand here onder 'em, in 
 dread dey'd come tumblin' down, maybe, an' make smidereens 
 of him, bless the mark ! Wouldn't he now, Master Hardress ?' 
 
 The person so addressed turned his eyes mechanically in the 
 same direction. A kind of desperate satisfaction was visible 
 on his features, as the idea of insecurity which his servant sug- 
 gested became impressed upon his mind. The latter perceived 
 and understood its expression on the instant. 
 
 'Dere's something troublin' you, Master Hardress : dat I see 
 plain enough. An' 'tisn't now, nor to-day, nor 'isterday, I seen it 
 aider. Is dere any ting Danny Mann can do to sarve you?' If 
 dere be, say de word dis moment, an' I '11 be bail he '11 do it before 
 long/ 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 155 
 
 1 Danny,' said Hardress after a pause, ' I am troubled. I was 
 a fool, Danny, when I refused to listen to your advice upon one 
 occasion.' 
 
 ' And dat was de time when I tould you not to go again' de 
 missiz, an' to have no call to Eily O'Connor.' 
 
 • It was.' 
 
 * I tought it would be dis way. I tought, all along, dat Eily 
 was no wife for you, Master Hardress. It was not in nature she 
 could be ; a poor man's daughter, widout money, or manners, 
 or book-larnen', or one ha'p'ortV I told you dat, Master Hardress, 
 but you wouldn't hear me by any means, and dis is de way of 
 it now.' 
 
 'Well, well, 'tis done, 'tis done,' said Hardress, with sullen 
 impatience ; ' I was to blame, and I am suffering for it.' 
 
 ' Does she know herself de trouble she is to you ? ' 
 
 ' I could not keep it from her. I did not know myself how 
 utterly my dislike had prevailed within me, until the occasion 
 arose for giving it utterance, and then it came forth at once like a 
 torrent. I told her what I felt ; that I hated, that I was sick of 
 her. I could not stop my tongue. My heart struck me for the 
 base unkindness, the ungrateful ruffianism of my speech, and yet 
 I could not stop my tongue. I have made her miserable, and I 
 am myself accursed. What is there to be done ? Have you 
 only skill to prevent mischief? Have you none to remedy ? ' 
 
 Danny took thought for a moment. ' Sorrow trouble would I 
 ever give myself about her,' he said at last, 'only send her home 
 packin' to her fader, an' give her no tanks.' 
 
 'And with what face should I appear before my honourable 
 friends, when that old -ropemaker should come to demand 
 redress for his insulted child, and to claim her husband's promise? 
 Should I send Eily home to earn for myself the reputation of a 
 faithless villain ? ' 
 
 ' I never tought o' dat,' said Danny, nodding his head. ' Dat 's 
 a horse of anoder colour. Why, then, I '11 tell you what I 'd do. 
 Pay her passage out to Quabec, and put her aboord of a three- 
 master without ever sayin' a word to anybody. I '11 tell you what 
 it is, Master Hardress. Do by her as you do by dat glove you 
 have on your hand. Make it come off as it come on, and if it fits 
 too tight, take de knife to it.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' Only gi' me the word, as I said before, an' I '11 engage Eily 
 O'Connor will never trouble you any more. Don't ax me any 
 questions at all, only, if you're agreeable, take off dat glove an' 
 give it to me for a token. Dat '11 be enough ; leave de rest to 
 Danny.' 
 
 A doubtful, horrible sensation of fear and anxiety gathered upon 
 the heart of the listener, and held him for a minute fixed in 
 breathless agitation. He gazed upon the face of his servant 
 
156 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 with an expression of gaping terror, as if he stood in the presence 
 of the arch-tempter himself. At length, walking up to him, he 
 laid his open hand upon his neck, and then drawing his fingers 
 close, until the fellow's face was purple with blood, he shook him 
 as if he would have shaken his joints out of their sockets. 
 
 ' Villain ! ' he exclaimed, with a hoarseness and vehemence 
 of tone which gave an appalling depth to his expressions. 
 1 Dangerous villain and tempter ! If you ever dare again to 
 utter a word, or meditate a thought of violence towards that 
 unhappy creature, I will tear you limb from limb between my hands.' 
 
 1 Oh, murder, Master Hardress ! Dat the hands may stick to 
 me, sir, if I tought a ha'p'ort' o' harm ! ' 
 
 * Do you mark me well, now ? I am quite in earnest. Respect 
 her as you would the highest lady in the land. Do as she 
 commands you without murmuring. If I hear her say (and I 
 will question her upon it) that you have leered one glance of 
 those blood-longing eyes upon her, it shall be their last look in 
 this world.' 
 
 ' Oh, vo ! Dat I may never die in sin, Master Hardress, if ' 
 
 * Begone ! I am glad you have opened my eyes. I tread more 
 safely now. My heart is lighter. Yet that I should have endured 
 to be so tempted ! Fellow, I doubt you for worse than you 
 appear. We are here alone ; the world, the busy world is hid 
 beneath us, and we stand here alone in the eye of the open 
 Heaven, and without roof or wall to screen us, even in fancy, from 
 the downright reproach of the beholding angels. None but the 
 haughty and insulting Lucifer himself could think of daring 
 Providence upon the threshold of His own region. But be ye 
 fiend or mortal, I defy and dare you ; I repel your bloody tempta- 
 tion. I tell you, fiend or mortal, that my soul abhors your speech 
 and gesture both. I may be wretched and impious ; I may send up 
 to Heaven a cry of discontent and murmuring ; the cry of blood 
 shall never leave this earth for me. Blood ! Whose blood ? 
 Hers ? Great Heaven ! Great Heaven defend me ! ' He covered 
 his face with his hands, and bent down for a moment in dreadful 
 agitation ; then suddenly starting up, and waving his hands rapidly, 
 he continued : ' Away, away at once, and quit my sight. I have 
 chosen my doom. My heart may burn for years within my breast, 
 if I can find no other way to soothe it. I know how to endure. I 
 am wholly ignorant of guilt like this. Once more,' he added, 
 clenching his fist, and shaking it towards his startled dependent, 
 { once more I warn you, mind my words and obey them.' 
 
 So saying, he hurried down the hill, and was hid in the ascend- 
 ing mist, while his affrighted servant remained gaping after him 
 and muttering mechanically such asseverations as, £ Dat I may 
 never sin, Master Hardress ! dat de head may go to the grave 
 wid me ! Dat I may be happy ! Dat de hands may stick to me, 
 if I tought any harm ! ' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 157 
 
 More than half of the frantic speech of Hardress, it may be 
 readily imagined, was wholly unintelligible to Danny, who 
 followed him down the mountain, half crazy with terror, and not 
 a little choked into the bargain. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 HOW AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR ARRIVED IN EILY'S COTTAGE 
 
 Towards nightfall Eily awoke with that confused and strange 
 feeling which a person experiences who has slept at an unaccus- 
 tomed hour. The sun had already set ; but the red and faintly 
 lustrous shadow of the window, which was thrown on the opposite 
 wall, showed that his refracted light was yet strong and bright 
 on the horizon. While she lay back, endeavouring to recall 
 the circumstances which brought her into her present situation, 
 a voice assailed her ear which made her start in sudden alarm 
 from her reclining posture. It was that of a person singing, in 
 a low voice, outside her window, the following words : 
 
 ' As I roved out on a fine summer morning, 
 
 A-speculating most curiously, 
 To my surprise, I soon espied 
 
 A charming fair one approaching me. 
 I stood awhile ' 
 
 Here the melodist knocked gently at the door of the cottage. 
 
 ' I stood awhile- in deep meditation, 
 
 Contemplating what I should do ; 
 Till, at length, recruiting all my sensation, 
 I thus accosted the fair Golleen rue.' 1 
 
 At the close of the verse, which was prolonged by the customary 
 nasal twang, the singer knocked a little more loudly with the 
 knuckle of his forefinger : 
 
 'Oh, was I Hecthor, that noble victhor, 
 Who died a victim to the Grecian skill ; 
 
 Or was I a Paris, whoase deeds were vaarious, 
 As an arbithraator on Ida's hill, 
 
 I 'd roam through Asia, likewise Arabia, 
 Or Pennsylvania : ' 
 
 Here he knocked again. 
 
 ' Or Pennsylvania, looking for you, 
 Through the burning ragions, like famed Orphesus, 
 For one embrace of you, Colleen rue.' 
 
 1 Red-haired girl. 
 
158 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 * I am ruined ! I am undone !' thought Eily, as she listened in 
 deep distress and fear; 'my father has found me out, and they 
 are all come to look for me. Oh, Hardress ! Hardress !' 
 
 * They 're all dead or dhraming here, I believe, 5 said the 
 singer : ' I 'm in fine luck, if I have to go down the ould gap 
 again afther nightfall.' Stimulated by this reflection, he turned 
 his back to the door, and began kicking against it with his heel, 
 while he continued his song : 
 
 ' And are you Aurora, or the goddess Flora, 
 
 Or Eutherpasia, or fair Vanus bright, 
 Or Helen fair, beyond compare, 
 
 Whoam Paris stole from the Grecian's sight ? 
 Thou fairest creature, how you 've inslaved me ! 
 
 I 'm intoxicated by Cupid's clue, 
 Whoase golden notes and infatuations 
 
 Have deranged my ideas for you, Colleen rue.' 
 
 Here the same air was taken up by a shrill and broken female 
 voice, at a little distance from the house, and in the words 
 which follow : 
 
 'Sir, I pray, be aisy, and do not tease me 
 
 With your false praises most jestingly ; 
 Your golden notes and insiniwayshuns 
 
 Are vaunting speeches, decaiving me.' 
 I am not Aurora, nor the goddess Flora, 
 
 But a rural female to all men's view, 
 Who 's here condoling my situation, 
 
 And my appellation is the Colleen rue.' 
 
 ' You 're not Aurora ! ' muttered the first voice. ' Wisha, dear 
 knows, it isn't aisy to conthradict you. They'd be the dhroll 
 Auroras an' Floras, if that 's the figure they cut. Ah, Mrs. 
 Naughten ! ' he added, raising and changing his voice as the 
 shadow of the female figure crossed the window of Eily's apart- 
 ment, ' How are you this evening, ma'am ? I hope you got well 
 over your voyage that morning?' 
 
 'What voyage? Who is it I have there at all?' said Poll, in 
 a tone of surprise. ' Oh, Lowry Looby ! Oh, ma-gra-hu ! how 
 is every inch of you, Lowry? It raises the very cockles o' my 
 heart to see you.' 
 
 'Purty well, indeed, as for the health, Mrs. Naughten, we're 
 obleest to you.' 
 
 1 Oh, vo, vo ! An' what brought you into this part of the world, 
 Lowry ? It 's a long time since you an' I met.' 
 
 "Tis as good as two months, a'most, I b'lieve.' 
 
 ' Two months, eroo ? 'Tis six years if it 's a day.' 
 
 * Oh, iss, for good ; but I mane the time we met in the cottage 
 behind at the dairy-farm, the night o' the great storm, when ye 
 were near being all lost in the boat, if it wasn't the will o' 
 Heaven.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 159 
 
 1 The dairy-farm ! lost in the boat ! I don't know what is it you 're 
 talkin' about at all, man. But come in, come in, Lowry, and take 
 a sate. Stop, here 's Phil. Phil, eroo, this is Lowry Looby, that 
 you heerd me talk of being a friend o' the Hewsans formerly.' 
 
 Thus introduced, Phil and Lowry both took off their hats, and 
 bowed repeatedly with a most courteous profundity of obeisance. 
 The door was then opened, and a polite contest arose as to the 
 right of precedence between the gentlemen, which was finally 
 decided in favour of Lowry, as the visitor. 
 
 'Well, Lowry, what news eastwards?' was the next question. 
 
 ' Oh, then, nothing sthrange, Mrs. Naughten. I was twice by 
 this way since I seen you that night. Coming from Cork I was 
 to-day, when I thought I 'd step over and see how you wor afther 
 the voyage. I left the horse an' car over in Mr. Cregan's yard.' 
 
 ' I believe your 're lost with the hunger. Phil, stir yourself, an' 
 put down something for supper.' 
 
 ' Don't hurry yourself on my account,' said Lowry, affecting an 
 indifference which he did not feel ; * I took something at Mr. 
 Cregan's. I saw Masther Hardress there in the parlour windee, 
 playin' chests (I think it is they called it) with Miss Anne Chute. 
 Oh, murder, that's a darling, a beautiful lady ! Her laugh is like 
 music. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! To see the smile of her, though, an' 
 she looking at him. It flogged the world ! Mike, the boy they 
 have there, an' old Nancy, told me she 's greatly taken with the 
 young masther.' 
 
 1 Why, then, she may as well throw her cap at him.' 
 
 * Why so, eroo ? ' 
 
 ' Oh — for raisons.' 
 
 'There's one thing Mike told me, an' I 'm sure I wonder I 
 never heerd a word of it before ; that there was some talks of 
 herself and my young masther, Mr. Kyrle Daly. I know he used 
 to be going there of an odd time, but I never heard anything that 
 way. There's a dale that's looking afther her, Mike tells me. 
 Whoever gets her, they say, he '11 have as much jewels to fight 
 as will keep him going for the first quarther, anyway.' 
 
 ' Thago bragh] said Phil, tossing his head ; that 's what bothers 
 the gentlemen. Jewels, jewels, always.' 
 
 ' Jewels always, then, just as you say, Misther Naughten,' said 
 Lowry. 'It's what ruins 'em, body and soul. At every hand's 
 turn, nothing but a jewel ! Let there be a conthrairy look, and 
 pistols is the word at once.' 
 
 ' An' if a poor boy is reflected upon, an' goes to a fair to thry it 
 out with an innocent little kippen, " Oh, the savages ! " the gentle- 
 men cry at once; "oh, the blood-thirsty villyans !" And they '11 
 go themselves and shoot one another like dogs, for less raison.' 
 
 ' It's thrue for you,' returned Lowry. ' Sure, 'twould be a 
 blessing for a man to be aiting a dhry piatee from morning till 
 night, an' to have quietness. I'll tell you what it is, Misther 
 
160 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Naughten, I spake for myself : of all things going, I wouldn't like 
 to be a born gentleman. They 're never out o' trouble, this way 
 or that way. If they 're not fighting, they have more things upon 
 their mind than would bother a dozen poor men ; an' if they go 
 divarting, ten to one they have a jewel before the day is over. 
 Sure, if it was a thing two gentlemen axed a lady to dance, an' 
 she gave in to one of 'em, the other should challenge him for to go 
 fighting ! Sure that flogs Europe ! And they have so much 
 books to read to be able to convarse genteel before the ladies. 
 I 'm told a gentleman isn't fit to show his face in company till he 
 reads as much books as would stretch from this to the doore over. 
 And then to be watching yourself, an' spake Englified, an' not to ate 
 half your 'nough at dinner, an' to have 'em all looking at you if you 
 took too big a bit or done anything again' manners, and never to 
 have your own fling, an' let you do what you liked yourself! I 
 wouldn't lade such a life if I got Europe. A snug stool by the 
 fireside — a boiled piatee in one hand, a piggin o' milk in the other, 
 and one (that I won't name now) smiling overright me, that 's all 
 the gentility I 'd ever ax for in this world, anyway. I 'd a'most as 
 lieve be born a female as a gentleman, maning no offence to the 
 ladies, Mrs. Naughten.' 
 
 ' Every one to his taste, Lowry. Many men have many minds. 
 Phil, will you go out now and help Danny to put up them goats, 
 not to have them strayin' over on Myles Murphy's ground as they 
 wor o' Cheusday week ? I see Danny coming down the mountain.' 
 
 The obedient husband did as he was commanded, and Lowry 
 took advantage of his absence to enter into a more confidential 
 communication with his formidable hostess. 
 
 'Well, Mrs. Naughten, if I was to hear a person swear this upon 
 a book, I 'd say 'twas a lie he was telling me, if I didn't see it with 
 my own eyes.' 
 
 ' What is it you see ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! then, nothing but what I 'm well pleased to see. Well, I 
 thought that one that once gave themselves a bad habit could 
 never be broke of it again, no more than a horse could be broke 
 of starting.' 
 
 At this the virago fixed upon him a kindling and suspicious eye. 
 
 ' And tell me now, Mrs. Naughten,' continued Lowry, not per- 
 ceiving the indication of incipient wrath, ' how did it come on you 
 first when you dhropt the cursing that way entirely ? I think I 'd 
 feel a great loss for the first week or fortnight.' 
 
 1 Folly on ! Misther Looby, folly on ! You 're welcome to your 
 sport this evening.' 
 
 'Sport? Faiks it's no sport to me, only an admiration. All 
 the people that I ever heerd of making a vow o' the kind wor sure 
 to break it again, if they didn't get inside of it one way or another 
 by shkaming. Sure there was, to my knowledge, John O'Reilly, 
 the blacksmith, near Castle Chute, made as many vows as I have 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 161 
 
 fingers an' toes again' the dhrink, and there isn't one of 'em but 
 what he got the advantage of. First, he med a vow he wouldn't 
 dhrink a dhrop for six months to come, anyway, either in a house 
 or out of a house. An' sure 'tis where I found him the fortnight 
 afther, was at Mike Normile's, an' he dhrinking as if it was for 
 bets, an' sitting in a chair upon the threshold o' the doore with a 
 leg at this side and a leg at that. " Is that the way you're keep- 
 ing your vow, Misther O'Reilly ? " says I, when I see him. " Tis," 
 says he ; " what else ? Sure, I can dhrink here," says he, "an' no 
 thanks, while I 'm neither in the house nor out it." An' sure 'twas 
 thrue for him. Well, there 's no use in talking, but some people 
 would live where a fox would starve. Sure, of another time, he med 
 a vow he wouldn't dhrink upon Ireland ground, an' where do you 
 think did I get him afther, only sitting cross-legs upon a branch o' 
 the big beech-tree near Normile's, an' he still at the ould work, 
 dhrinking away ! " Wisha, long life to you," says I, "if that's 
 the way ; a purty fruit the tree bears in you," says I, " this 
 morning." People o' that kind, Mrs. Naughten, has no business 
 making vows at all, again' the dhrink or the cursing either.' 
 
 ' I 'm hearing to you, Lowry,' said Fighting Poll, with an 
 ominous sharpness in her accent. 
 
 1 An' do you hold to the same plan still, ma'am ? ' 
 
 * What plan do you mane ? ' 
 
 'The same plan as when I met you that night at the dairy 
 cottage. Not to be talking, nor drinking, nor cursing, nor 
 
 swearing, nor fighting, nor Oh ! murther, Mrs. Naughten, 
 
 sure you 're not going to sthrike me inside your own doore ! ' 
 
 1 To be sure I would, when I see you daar make a hand o' me ! ' 
 
 ' Me make a hand o' you, woman ! What hand am I makin' ? ' 
 
 1 Every hand ! ' exclaimed the Penthesilea, raising her voice. 
 So saying, and with the accustomed yell of onset, she flourished 
 her short stick, and discharged a blow at Lowry's little head, which, 
 if it had not been warded off by a dexterous interposition of the 
 chair on which he had been sitting, would have left him something 
 to think of for a week to come. 
 
 ' The scuffle waxed hot, and would doubtless have terminated in 
 some serious bodily injury to the party assailed, but that the 
 sudden re-entrance of Phil with his brother-in-law, Danny Mann, 
 brought it to a premature termination. 
 
 ' Poll ! Poll, ayeh ! Misther Looby 1 What 's the matter ! 
 Worn't ye as thick as cousins this moment ?' 
 
 1 Ah, Lowry, is dat you ? What 's all dis about ? ' 
 
 1 Don't hould me, Phil, an' I '11 bate him while bating is good 
 for him ; an' that 's from this till morning. 5 
 
 1 Here 's usage, Mr. Naughten ! Mr. Mann, here 's thratement ! 
 Gi' me my ould hat an' let me be off ; I was a fool to come at all ! 
 And after my civility eastwards, when you come dhripping wet 
 into the cottage ! Well, it 's all one.' 
 
162 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' Whist, eroo !' said Danny Mann, in a conciliating tone; 'come 
 dis way, Lowry, I want to talk to you.' And he led him out of the 
 cottage. 
 
 Eily, who was perfectly aware of the cause of this misconcep- 
 tion, had listened to the whole scene, at one time with intense and 
 painful anxiety, and at another with an inclination to laugh, in 
 spite of all the difficulties and dangers by which she was sur- 
 rounded. Before long, however, an idea entered her mind, which 
 wholly detached her attention from the melee in the kitchen. She 
 resolved to write to her father by Lowry, to make him aware, at 
 least, of her safety, and of her hope to meet him again in honour if 
 not in happiness. This would at least remove one great load from 
 her mind, and prepare him for her return. While she arranged her 
 writing materials at the small table, the thoughts of home came 
 crowding on her so thick and fast, that she found a difficulty in 
 proceeding with her task. It was a humble home, to be sure, but 
 yet it was her home. He was a humble father, but he was her 
 father. She painted a little picture, unconsciously to her own mind, 
 of that forsaken dwelling. She saw her father sitting by the turf 
 fire, leaning forward with his elbow resting on his knee, a ringer be- 
 neath his temple, and his grey watery eye fixed on her accus- 
 tomed chair, which stood empty on the opposite side. His hair 
 had received another shower of silver since they parted. She 
 scarcely dared to breathe aloud, lest she should disturb the im- 
 agined loneliness of his condition. On a sudden she figured to 
 herself the latched door put gently back, and the form of Lowry 
 Looby entering with her letter in his hand. She marked the air 
 of cold and sad indifference with which the old man recognised him 
 and received the letter. He looked at the direction — started — tore 
 off the seal, and looked within while his whole frame trembled until 
 the grey hairs were shaken loose upon his temples ; she saw the 
 passion struggling in his throat, and her own eyes were blinded 
 by tears. The picture here became too vivid for her feelings, and 
 pushing the little desk aside, she sank down into her chair in a 
 violent fit of sobbing. 
 
 While she remained in this condition, Poll Naughten entered 
 the room, arranging her disordered head-dress, and bearing still 
 upon her countenance the traces of the vanished storm. Its ex- 
 pression, however, was completely altered when she observed the 
 situation of Eily. 
 
 'What ails you, a'ra gal ? ' she asked, in a softened voice. ' Aren't 
 you betther afther the sleep at all ? ' 
 
 1 Poll, do you know that man who is in the kitchen ? ' 
 
 ' Is it Lowry Looby ? Ah ha ! the scoundhril ! 'tis I that do, 
 an' I '11 make him he '11 know me, too, before I part him.' 
 
 ' Hush, Poll, come hither. I want you to do me a service. I 
 know this man too.' 
 
 ' Why, then, he 's little credit to you or any one else.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 163 
 
 ' I want to caution you against saying a word of my name while 
 he is in the house. It would be ruinous both to your master 
 and myself.' 
 
 1 Faiks, I '11 engage he won't be a bit the wiser of it for Poll 
 Naughten.' 
 
 I And I wish, besides, that you would give him, if he intends 
 going to Limerick, a letter which I will have for you in a few 
 minutes. You need not tell him from whom it comes ; do not 
 even let him know that it is from a person in the house. And now, 
 Poll, will you light me one of those candles, and close the window- 
 shutters?' 
 
 This was done, and Eily commenced her letter. Before she 
 proceeded far, however, it occurred to her that the superscription 
 might awaken the suspicions of Lowry, and besides, she felt a 
 very accountable difficulty about the manner of addressing her 
 offended parent. Finally, she decided on forwarding a brief and 
 decorous note to ' Mr. Dunat O'Leary, Haircutter, Garryowen'; in 
 which she requested him to communicate to his old neighbour the 
 circumstances of which she desired the latter should be made 
 aware. 
 
 Whilst she folded the letter, she heard the cottage door once 
 more open, and two persons enter the kitchen. A stillness ensued, 
 which was broken by the voice of Danny Mann. 
 
 I I was spaking to dis boy here, Poll,' he said ; ' an' I see 'tis all 
 rising out of a mistake betune de two o' ye. He didn't mane any- 
 thing by it, he tells me. Eh, Lowry ? ' 
 
 ' It would be long from me, Mrs. Naughten, to say anything offen- 
 sive to you, or any o' your people. Misther Mann here explained 
 to me the nature of the matther. I own I didn't mane a ha'p'orth.' 
 
 ' Well, that 's enough, that 's enough. Give him the hand now, 
 Poll,' said her husband, ' and let us ate our little supper in pace.' 
 
 Eily heard no more, and the clatter of knives and forks, soon 
 after, informed her that the most perfect harmony had been re- 
 established amongst the parties. Nothing further occurred to dis- 
 turb the good understanding which was thus fortunately restored, or 
 to endanger the secret of our heroine, although Lowry was not with- 
 out making many inquiries as to the name and quality of the 
 lodger in the inner room. It was a long time, too, before he 
 ceased to speculate on the nature of the letter to Foxy Dunat. 
 On this his hostess would give him no information, although he 
 threw out several hints of his anxiety to obtain it, and made many 
 conjectures of his own, which he invaribly ended by tossing the 
 head, and declaring that ' it flogged the world.' 
 
164 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 HOW EILY UNDERTAKES A JOURNEY IN THE ABSENCE OF HER 
 HUSBAND 
 
 EiLY heard Lowry Looby take his departure on the next morning 
 with as lively a sensation of regret as if he had been a dear friend. 
 After the unkindness of her husband, she trembled while she wept, 
 to think that it might be a long time before she could meet one 
 more interested in her fortunes. 
 
 Happier anticipations than this might not have been so perfectly 
 fulfilled. The first weeks of winter swept rapidly away, and Eily 
 neither saw nor heard from Hardress. Her situation became 
 every moment more alarming. Her host and hostess, according 
 as she appeared to grow out of favour with their patron, became 
 at first negligent and surly, and at last insulting. She had hitherto 
 maintained her place on the sunny side of Poll's esteem by sup- 
 plying that virago with small sums of money from time to time, 
 although her conscience told her that those donations were not 
 appropriated by the receiver to any virtuous end. But now her 
 stock was running low. Hardress — and this was from mere lack 
 of memory — had left her almost wholly unprovided with funds. 
 
 She resolved to write to him, not with the view of obtaining 
 mere pecuniary assistance, but in order to communicate the re- 
 quest which is subjoined in her own simple language : 
 
 ■ My dear Hardress, 
 
 ' Do not leave me here to spend the whole winter alone. If Eily has done 
 anything to offend you, come and tell her so ; but remember that she is now 
 away from every friend in the whole world. Even if you are still in the same 
 mind as when you left me, come, at all events, for once, and let me go back to 
 my father, If you wish it, nobody besides us three shall ever know what you 
 were to your own Eily.' 
 
 To this letter, which she entrusted to Danny the Lord, she re- 
 ceived no answer ; neither Hardress nor his servant being seen at 
 the cottage for more than a week after. 
 
 Matters, in the meantime, grew more unpleasing between Eily 
 and her hosts. Poll treated her with the most contemptuous rude- 
 ness, and Phil began to throw out hints which it was difficult to 
 misconceive, respecting their poverty, and the unreasonableness 
 of people thrusting idlers upon them, when it was as much as they^ 
 could do to maintain themselves in honesty. But Poll, who pos- 
 sessed the national recklessness of expense, whenever her husband 
 spoke in this niggardly humour, turned on him, not in defence of 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 165 
 
 Eily, but in abuse of his ' mainness,' although she could herself use 
 the very same cause of invective when an occasion offered. Thus 
 Eily, instead of commanding like a queen, as she had been 
 promised, was compelled to fill the pitiable situation of an insecure 
 and friendless dependent. 
 
 The wintry year rolled on in barrenness and gloom, casting an 
 air of iron majesty and grandeur over the savage scenery in which 
 she dwelt, and bringing close to her threshold the first Christmas 
 which she had ever spent away from home. The Christmas Eve 
 found her still looking anxiously forward to the return of her hus- 
 band, or of his messenger. The morning had brought with it a 
 black frost, and Eily sat down alone to a comfortless breakfast. 
 No longer attended with that ready deference which marked the 
 conduct of the Naughtens while she remained in favour, Eily was 
 now obliged to procure and arrange all the materials for her repast 
 with her own hands. There was no butter nor cream ; but as this 
 was one of the great vigils or fast-days of her church, which Eily 
 observed with a conscientious exactness, she did not miss these 
 prohibited luxuries. There was no fast upon sugar, however, and 
 Eily perceived, with some chagrin, that the sugar-bowl also was 
 empty. She walked softly to the chamber- do or, where she paused 
 for a moment, with her handkerchief placed before her cheeks, in 
 that beautiful attitude which Homer ascribes to Penelope at the 
 entrance of the ' stout-built hall.' At length she raised the latch, 
 and opened the door to a few inches only. 
 
 ' Poll,' she said, in a timid and gentle voice, ' do you know 
 where 's the sugar ? ' 
 
 ' It 's in the cubbert, I suppose,' was the harsh and unceremonious 
 answer. 
 
 Tne fact was, Poll had begun to keep the Christmas the evening 
 before, and treated herself to a few tumblers of hot punch, in the 
 manufacture of which she had herself consumed the whole of Eily's 
 sweets. And there might have been some cause of consolation, if 
 Poll's temper had been rendered the sweeter by all the sugar she 
 took, but this was not the case. 
 
 1 There is none there, Poll,' said Eily. 
 
 ' Well, what hurt ? Can't you put a double allowance o' crame 
 in the tay, and dhrink it raw for once ?' 
 
 1 Ah, but this is a fast-day,' said Eily. 
 
 1 Oyeh, choke it for work ! Well, then, do as you plaze ; I can't 
 help you. I haven't a spoonful o' groceries in the house, girl, 
 except I went for 'em — a thing I 'd be very unfond to do on a 
 mornin' like this.' 
 
 ' Well, I can do without it, Poll,' said Eily, returning to the table 
 and sitting down to her, unmetaphorically, bitter draught with the 
 meekest resignation. 
 
 ' Gi' me the money by an' by, when I 'm goin' into town for the 
 Christmas candle, an' I '11 buy it for you, itself and the tay.' 
 
1 66 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' But I have no money, Poll. 5 
 
 ' No money, inagh ? An' isn't it upon yourself we 're depending 
 this way to get in the things again' to-morrow, a Christmas Day?' 
 
 ' Well, I have not a farthing.' 
 
 1 Didn't you tell me yourself, the other day, you had a half crown 
 keepin' for me again' Hansel Monday?' 
 
 ' 1 gave it to Danny. I thought I 'd have more for you before 
 then.' 
 
 'Here Poll dashed in the door with her hand, and confronted 
 her affrighted lodger with the look and gesture of a raging 
 Bacchanal. 
 
 ' An' is that my thanks ? ' she screamed aloud. ' Why, then, 
 cock you up with bread and tay this mornin'. Go look afther 
 Danny, now, if you want your bruk'ast.' And so saying, she 
 seized two corners of the table-cloth, and upset the whole concern 
 into the fireplace. 
 
 Terror and astonishment deprived Eily for some moments of 
 the power of speech or motion ; but when she saw Poll taking 
 breath for a moment, and looking around to know what further 
 devastation she might commit, the forlorn helplessness of her 
 condition rushed at once upon her mind, and she fell back into 
 her seat in a violent fit of hysterics. 
 
 This is a condition in which one woman can rarely behold 
 another without emotion. Poll ran to her relief, uttering every 
 sound of affectionate condolence and encouragement which arose 
 to her lips. 
 
 ' Whist, now, a'ra gal ! Whist, now, missiz, a-chree ! Oh, ma 
 chree, ma'asthora, ma llanuv, you wor ! Howl, now, a'ra gal ! 
 Oh ! vo ! vo ! — howl, asthore. ! What ails you ? Sure you know 
 'tis only funnin' I was. Well, see this ! Tell me anything now in 
 the wide world I '11 do for you, a'ra gal.' 
 
 I Poll,' said Eily, when she had recovered a certain degree of 
 composure, 'there is one thing that you can do for me, if you like, 
 and it will relieve me from the greatest distress.' 
 
 ' And what is that, a-chree ? ' 
 
 'To lend me one of the ponies, and get me a boy that can show 
 me the way to Castle Island.' 
 ' Is it goin' you're thinkin' of?' 
 
 I I will be here again,' said Eily, ' on to-morrow evening.' Eily 
 spoke this without any vehemence of assertion, and in the quiet 
 manner of one who had never been accustomed to have her words 
 doubted. So irresistible, too, is the force of simple truth, that Poll 
 did not even entertain a suspicion of any intent to deceive. 
 
 'An' what business would carry you to Castle Island, a'ra 
 gal?' 
 
 ' I have a friend there, an uncle,' Eily replied, with tears start- 
 ing into her eyes at the remembrance of her old preceptor. ' I 
 am sure, Poll, that he would assist me.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 167 
 
 ' I'm in dhread 'tis goin' from uz you are now, o' count o' what I 
 said to you. Don't mind that at all. Stop here as long as ever 
 you like, an' no thanks. I '11 step across the road this minute, an' 
 borry the sugar for you, if it 's it you want.' 
 
 ' No, no ; I only want you to do as I have told you. I '11 engage 
 to screen you from all blame.' 
 
 ' Blame ! Ah, whose blame is it you think I 'd be afeerd of. I '11 
 let you see that I '11 do what I like myself, an' get you the pony 
 saddled an' all this minute. But you didn't ate anything hardly. 
 Here's more bread in the cubbert, an' strengthen yourself again' 
 the road while I 'm away.' 
 
 She left the room, and Eily, who had little hope of succeeding 
 so easily in her request, proceeded to make her preparations for 
 the journey with as much despatch and animation as if she had 
 discovered a sudden mode of release from all her anxieties. For 
 a considerable time the prospect of meeting with her uncle filled 
 her bosom with a sensation of unmingled pleasure. If she looked 
 back (while she tied her bonnet strings below her chin, and hur- 
 ried on the plainest dress in her trunk), if she looked back to those 
 days in which her venerable relative presided over her evening 
 studies, and directedtheir application, it was only to turn her eyes 
 again upon the future, and hope for their speedy renovation. 
 
 Having concluded her arrangements, and cautioned Poll not to 
 say a word of her destination in case Hardress should come to the 
 cottage, Eily now set out upon her lonely journey. The person 
 whom Poll Naughten had procured her for a guide was a stout- 
 made girl, who carried an empty spirit-keg slung at her back in 
 the tail of her gown, which she had turned up over her shoulders. 
 She informed Eily that she was accustomed to go every Saturday 
 to a town at the distance of fourteen miles, and to return in the 
 evening with the keg full of spirits. ' But this week,' she continued, 
 ' I 'm obleest to go twice, on account o' the Christmas Day falling 
 in the middle of it.' 
 
 'And what does your employer want with so much whisky?' 
 said Eily, a little interested in the fortune of so hard-working a 
 creature. 
 
 'Want wi' the whisky, inagh?' exclaimed the mountain girl, 
 turning her black eyes on her companion in surprise. ' Sure, isn't 
 it she that keeps the public-house above the Gap, an' what busi- 
 ness would she have wid a place o' the kind without a dhrop o' 
 whisky.' 
 
 'And what are you paid, now, for so long a journey as that ? ' 
 
 'Different ways, I'm paid, different times. If it is a could 
 evening when I come home, I take a glass o' the spirits itself, in 
 preference to anything, an' if not, the misthress pays me a penny 
 every time.' 
 
 ' One penny only ! ' 
 
 'One penny. Indeed it's too little, but when I spake of it 
 
168 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 the misthress tells me she can get it done for less. So I have 
 nothin' to say, but do as I 'm bid.' 
 
 Eily paused for some moments, while she compared the situa- 
 tion of this uncomplaining individual with her own. The balance 
 of external comforts, at least, did not appear to be on the side of 
 the poor little mountaineer. 
 
 * And have you no other way of living now than this ? ' she 
 asked, with increasing interest. 
 
 ' Illilo ! Is it upon a penny a week you think I 'd live ? ' re- 
 turned the girl, who was beginning to form no very exalted idea 
 of her companion's intellect. 
 
 * Do you live with your mistress ?' 
 
 * No, I live with my ould father. We have a spot o' ground 
 beyant for the piatees. Sometimes I dig it ; but mostly the 
 young boys o' the place comes and digs it for us on a Sunday 
 or a holiday morning, an' I stick in the seed.' 
 
 1 And is it for the sake of the father or the daughter they take 
 that trouble?' 
 
 * For the sake, I b'lieve, of the Almighty that made 'em both. 
 Signs on, they have our prayers, night an' morning.' 
 
 ' Is your father quite helpless ? ' 
 
 * Oyeh ! Long from it. He's a turner ; he makes little boxes, 
 and necklaces, and things that way, of the arbutus and the black 
 oak of the Lakes, that he sells to the English and other quollity 
 people that comes to see them. But he finds it hard to get the 
 timber, for none of it is allowed to be cut, and 'tis only windfalls 
 that he can take when the stormy saison begins. Besides, there 's 
 more in the town o' Killarney that outsells him. He makes but 
 a poor hand of it, afther all.' 
 
 * I wonder you have not got a sweetheart. You are very pretty 
 and very good.' 
 
 The girl gave her a sidelong glance, and laughed so as to 
 exhibit a set of teeth of the purest enamel. The look seemed to 
 say: 'Is that all you know about the matter?' but her words 
 were different in their signification. 
 
 1 Oyeh, I don't like 'em for men,' she said, with a half-smiling, 
 half-coquettish air ; ' they 're deceivers an' rovers, I believe, the 
 best o' 'em.' 
 
 ' Well, I wouldn't think that now of that handsome young man 
 in the check shirt that nodded to you as we passed him awhile 
 ago : he has an honest face.' 
 
 The girl again laughed and blushed. ' Why, then, I '11 tell you,' 
 she said at length, seduced into a confidence. ' If I 'd b'lieve any 
 of 'em, I think it is that boy ; he is a boatman on the Lakes, and 
 aims a sight o' money, but it goes as fast as it comes.' 
 
 4 How is that ? ' 
 
 * Oh ! then, he can't help it, poor fellow. Them boatmen 
 aren't allowed to dhrink anything while they 're upon the Lakes, 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 169 
 
 except at the stations ; but, then, to make up for that, they all 
 meet at night at a hall in town, where they stay dancing and 
 dhrinking all night, till they spend whatever the quollity gives 
 'em in the day. Luke Kennedy (that 's this boy) would like to 
 save if he could, but the rest wouldn't pull an oar with him, if he 
 didn't do as they do. So that 's the way of it. And sometimes, 
 after being up all night a'most, you '11 see 'em out again at the 
 first light in the mornin'. 'Tis a pity the quollity would give 'em 
 money at all, only have it laid out for 'em in some way that 
 would do 'em good. Luke Kennedy is a great fencer, I 'm tould. 
 Himself an' Myles Murphy, behind, are the best about the 
 Lakes at the stick. Sure Luke taught fencin' himself once. 
 Did you ever hear of the great guard he taught the boys about 
 the place ? ' 
 
 Fame had not informed Eily of this circumstance. 
 
 'Well, I '11 tell you it. He gev it out one Sunday upon some 
 writing that was placed again' the chapel door, to have all the 
 boys that wor for larnen to fence to come to him at such a place, 
 an' he 'd taich 'em a guard that would hindher 'em of ever being 
 sthruck. Well, 'tis an admiration what a gathering he had 
 before him. So when they wor all listenin', "Boys," says he, 
 gettin' up on a table, an' lookin' round him — "boys, the guard I 
 have to give ye, that '11 save ye from all sorts o' sthrokes, is this — 
 to keep a civil tongue in yer head at all times. Do that," says 
 he, " an' I '11 be bail ye never '11 get a sthroke." Well, you never 
 seen people wondher so much, nor look so foolish as they did, 
 since the hour you wor born.' 
 
 "Twas a good advice.' 
 
 ' And that 's a thing Luke knew how to give better than he 'd 
 take. I hardly spake to him at all now myself.' 
 
 1 Why so ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! he knows himself. He wanted me awhile ago to marry 
 him, and to part my ould father.' 
 
 'And you refused ?' said Eily, blushing a conscious crimson. 
 
 ' I hardly spoke to him after. He 'd be the handsome Luke 
 Kennedy, indeed, if he 'd make me part the poor ould man that 
 way, an' my mother dead, an' he having no one else but 
 myself to do a ha'p'orth for him. What could I expect if I 
 done that ? If Luke likes me, let him come and show it by my 
 father ; if not, there 's more girls in the place, an' he 's welcome 
 to pick his choice for Mary.' 
 
 Every word of this speech fell like a burning coal upon the 
 heart of Eily. She paused a moment in deep emotion, and then 
 addressed her companion : 
 
 'You are right, Mary — you are very right. Let nothing — let 
 no man's love tempt you to forget your duty to your father. Oh ! 
 you don't know, much as you love him, what thoughts you would 
 have, if you were to 'eave him, as you say. Let nothing tempt 
 
170 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 you to it. You would neither have luck, nor peace, nor comfort ; 
 and if your husband should be unkind to you, you could not turn 
 to him again for consolation. But I need not be talking to you ; 
 you are a good girl, and more fit to give me advice than to 
 listen to any I can offer you.' 
 
 From this moment Eily did not open her lips to her companion 
 until they arrived in Castle Island. The Christmas candles were 
 already lighted in every cottage, and Eily determined to defer 
 seeing her uncle until the following morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 HOW EILY FARED IN HER EXPEDITION 
 
 After a sharp and frosty morning, the cold sun of the Christmas 
 noon found Father Edward O'Connor seated in his little parlour 
 before a cheerful turf fire. A small table was laid before it, and 
 decorated with a plain breakfast, which the fatigues of the forenoon 
 rendered not a little acceptable. The sun shone directly in the 
 window, dissolving slowly away the fantastic foliage of frost-work 
 upon the window-panes, and flinging its shadow on the boarded 
 floor. The reverend host himself sat in a meditative posture, near 
 the fire, awaiting the arrival of some fresh eggs, over the cookery of 
 which Jim, the clerk, presided in the kitchen. His head was drooped 
 a little ; his eyes fixed upon the burning fuel, his nether lip a little 
 protruded, his feet stretched out and crossed, and the small 
 bulky volume in which he had been reading his daily office half 
 closed in his right hand, with a finger left between the leaves to 
 mark the place. No longer a pale and secluded student, Father 
 Edward now presented the appearance of a healthy man, with a 
 face hardened by frequent exposure to the winds of midnight and 
 of morn, and "with a frame made firm and vigorous by unceasing 
 exercise. His eye, moreover, had acquired a certain character 
 of severity, which was more than qualified by a nature of the 
 tenderest benevolence. 
 
 On the table, close to the small tray which held his simple 
 equipage, was placed a linen bag, containing in silver the amount 
 of his Christinas offerings. They had been paid him on the 
 morning in crowns, half crowns, and shillings, at the parish 
 chapel. And Father Edward on this occasion had returned 
 thanks to his parishioners for their liberality— the half-yearly 
 compensation for all his toils and exertions, his sleepless nights 
 and restless days, amounting to no less a sum than thirteen 
 pounds fourteen shillings. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 171 
 
 "Tis an admiration, sir,' said Jim, the clerk, as he entered, clad 
 in a suit of Father Edward's rusty black, laid the eggs upon the 
 tray, and moved back to a decorous distance from the table — ' 'tis 
 an admiration what a sighth o' people is abroad in the kitchen, 
 money hunting.' 
 
 1 Didn't I tell 'em the last time that I never would pay a bill 
 upon a Christmas Day again ?' 
 
 ' That 's the very thing I said to 'em, sir. But 'tis the answer 
 they made me, that they came a long distance, and 'twould 
 cost 'em a day more, if they were obliged to be coming again 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 Father Edward, with a countenance of perplexity and chagrin, 
 removed the top of the egg, while he cast a glance alternately at 
 the bag and at his clerk. ' It is a hard case, Jim,' he said at last, 
 ' that they will not allow a man even the satisfaction of retaining 
 so much money in his possession for a single day, and amuse 
 himself by fancying it his own. I suspect I am doomed to be no 
 more than a mere agent to this thirteen pounds fourteen after all ; 
 to receive and pay it away in a breath.' 
 
 'Just what I was thinking myself, sir, 5 said Jim, tossing his 
 head. 
 
 ' Well, I suppose I must not cost the poor fellows a day's work, 
 however, Jim, if they have come such a distance. That would be 
 a little pharisaical, I fear.' 
 
 Jim did not understand this word, but he bowed, as if he would 
 say: ' Whatever your reverence says must be correct.' 
 
 ' Who are they, Jim ? ' resumed the clergyman. 
 
 'There's Luke Scanlon, the shoemaker, for your boots, sir; 
 and Reardon, the blacksmith, for shoeing the pony ; and Miles- 
 na-Coppaleen, as they call him, for the price o' the little crathur ; 
 and the printer for your reverence's subscription to the Kerry 
 Luminary ; and Rawley, the carpenter, for the repairs o' the 
 althar, an' ' 
 
 ' Hut tut ! he must settle that with the parishioners. But the 
 others — let me see. Shoeing myself, fifteen shillings ; shoeing 
 my pony, thirteen, four sets. Well; the price of the "little 
 crathur," as you say, seven pounds ten (and she 's well worth it) ; 
 and lastly, the newspaper man, two pounds.' 
 
 ' But not lastly, intirely,' said Jim, 'for there 's the tailor ' 
 
 'Sixteen and three pence. Jim, Jim, that will be a great 
 reduction on the thirteen pound fourteen.' 
 
 ' Just what I was thinking of myself, sir,' said the clerk. 
 
 ' But I suppose they must have their money. Well, bring me 
 in their bills, and let them all write a " settled " at the bottom.' 
 
 Exit Jim. 
 
 'Here they are all, sir,' he said, returning with a parcel of 
 soiled and crumpled papers in his hand; 'and Myles Murphy 
 says that the agreement about the pony was seven pound ten an' 
 
172 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 a glass o' whisky, an' that he never knew a morning he 'd sooner 
 give your reverence a resate for it than a frosty one like this.' 
 
 1 Let him have it, Jim. That was an item in the bargain which 
 had slipt my memory. An' as you are giving it to him, take the 
 bottle and treat them all round. They have a cold road before 
 them.' 
 
 * It's what I thought myself, sir,' said Jim. 
 
 Father Edward emptied the bag of silver, and counted it into 
 several sums, the amount of all the bills. When he had done so, 
 he took in one hand the few shillings that remained, threw them 
 into the empty bag, jingled them a little, smiled, and tossed his 
 head. Jim, the clerk, smiled, and tossed his head in sympathy. 
 
 * It's aisier emptied than filled, plase your reverence,' said Jim, 
 with a short sigh. 
 
 * If it were not for the honour and dignity of it,' thought Father 
 Edward, after his clerk had once more left the room, ' my humble 
 curacy at St. John's were preferable to this extensive charge in so 
 dreary a peopled wilderness. Quiet lodgings, a civil landlady, 
 regular hours of discipline, and the society of my oldest friends ; 
 what was there in these that could be less desirable than a cold 
 small house on a mountain-side, total seclusion from the company 
 of my equals, and a fearful increase of responsibility ? Did the 
 cause of preference lie in the distinction between the letters V. P. 
 and P. P. ; and the pleasure of paying away thirteen pounds four- 
 teen shillings at Christmas ? Oh, world ! world ! world ! You 
 are a great stage-coach, with fools for outside passengers ; a huge 
 round lump of earth, on the surface of which men seek for peace, 
 but find it only when they sink beneath. Would I not give the 
 whole thirteen pounds fourteen at this moment to sit once more in 
 my accustomed chair in that small room, with the noise of the 
 streets just dying away as the evening fell, and my poor little Eily 
 reading to me from the window, as of old, as innocent, as happy, 
 and as dutiful as then ? Indeed, I would, and more if I had it. 
 Poor Mihil ! Ah, Eily, Eily ! You deceived me ! Well, well ! 
 Old Mihil says I am too ready to preach patience to him. I must 
 try and practise it myself.' 
 
 At this moment the parlour door opened again, and Jim once 
 more thrust in his head. 
 
 * A girl sir, that 's abroad, an' would want to see you, if you 
 plase.' 
 
 'Who is she? What does she want ? Confession, I suspect.' 
 
 c Just what I was thinking of myself, sir.' 
 
 1 Oh, why didn't she go to the chapel yesterday, where I was sit- 
 ting until ten at night ?' 
 
 ' It's the very thing I said to her myself, sir, and she had no 
 answer to make, only wanting to see you.' 
 
 1 Who is she ? Don't you know her even by sight ? ' 
 
 1 No, sir, in regard she keeps her head down, and her handker- 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 173 
 
 chief to her mouth. I stooped to have a peep undernaith, but if 
 I stooped low, she stooped lower, an' left me just as wise as I was 
 in the beginning.' 
 
 ' Send her in,' said Father Edward ; ' I don't like that secrecy.' 
 
 Jim went out, and presently returned, ushering in, with many 
 curious and distrustful glances, the young female of whom he had 
 spoken. Father Edward desired her to take a chair, and then told 
 the clerk to go out to the stable, and give the pony his afternoon 
 feed. When the latter had left the room, he indulged in a pre- 
 liminary examination of the person of his visitor. She was young 
 and well formed, and clothed in a blue cloak and bonnet, which 
 were so disposed, as she sat, as to conceal altogether both her 
 person and her features. 
 
 'Well, my good girl,' said the clergyman, in an encouraging 
 tone, ' what's your business with me?' 
 
 The young female remained for some moments silent, and her 
 dress moved as if it were agitated by some strong emotion of the 
 frame. At length, rising from her seat, and tottering towards the 
 astonished priest, she knelt down suddenly at his feet, and ex- 
 claimed, while she uncovered her face, with a burst of tears and 
 sobbing : ' Oh, uncle Edward, don't you know me ?' 
 
 Her uncle started from his chair. Astonishment for some 
 moments held him silent and almost breathless. He at last 
 stooped down, gazed intently on her face, raised her, placed her 
 on a chair, where she remained quite passive, resumed his own 
 seat, and covered his face in silence with his hand. Eily, more 
 affected by this action than she might have been by the bitterest 
 reproaches, continued to weep aloud with increasing violence. 
 
 I Don't cry— do not afflict yourself,' said Father Edward, in a 
 quiet, yet cold tone ; ' there can be no use in that. The Lord for- 
 give you, child ! Don't cry ! Ah, Eily O'Connor ! I never 
 thought it would be our fate to meet in this manner.' 
 
 I I hope you will forgive me, uncle,' sobbed the poor girl ; ' I did 
 it for the best, indeed.' 
 
 'Did it for the best ! ' said the clergyman, looking on her for the 
 first time with some sternness. 'Now, Eily, you will vex me, if 
 you say that again. I was in hopes that, lost as you are, you came 
 to me, nevertheless, in penitence and humility, at least, which was 
 the only consolation your friends could ever look for. But the 
 first word I hear from you is an excuse : a justification of your 
 crime. Did it for the best ! Don't you remember, Eily, having 
 ever read in that book that I was accustomed to explain to you in 
 old times — don't you remember that the excuses of Saul made 
 his repentance unaccepted ? and will you imitate his example ? 
 You did it for the best, after all ! I won't speak of my own suf- 
 ferings since the unhappy affair ; but there is your old father — I 
 am sorry to hurt your feelings, but it is my duty to make you know 
 the extent of your guilt — your old father has not enjoyed one 
 
174 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 moment's rest ever since you left him. He was here with me a 
 week since, for the second time after your departure, and I never 
 was more shocked in all my life. You cry, but you would cry 
 more bitterly if you saw him. When I knew you together, he was 
 a good father to you, and a happy father, too. He is now a fright- 
 ful skeleton ! Was that done for the best, Eily ? ' 
 
 1 Oh, no, no, sir ; I did not mean to say that I acted right, or 
 even from a right intention. I only meant to say, that it was not 
 quite so bad as it might appear.' 
 
 1 To judge by your own appearance, Eily,' her uncle continued, 
 in a compassionate tone, ' one would say that its effects have not 
 been productive of much happiness on either side. Turn to the 
 light : you are very thin and pale. Poor child ! poor child ! oh, 
 why did you do this ? What could have tempted you to throw 
 away your health, your duty, to destroy your father's peace of 
 mind, and your own honest reputation, all in a day ? ' 
 
 * Uncle,' said Eily, ' there is one point on which I fear you have 
 made a wrong conclusion. I have been, I know, sir, very un- 
 grateful to you, and to my father, and very guilty in the sight of 
 Heaven, but I am not quite so abandoned a creature as you seem 
 to believe me. Disobedience, sir,' she added, with a blush of the 
 deepest crimson, ' is the very worst offence of which I can accuse 
 myself.' 
 
 1 What ! ' exclaimed Father Edward, while his eyes lit up with 
 sudden pleasure ; ' are you, then, married ? ' 
 
 * I was married, sir, a month before I left my father.' 
 
 The good clergyman seemed to be more deeply moved by this 
 intelligence than by anything which had yet occurred in the scene. 
 He winked repeatedly with his eyelids, in order to clear away the 
 moisture which began to overspread the balls, but it would not do. 
 The fountain had been unlocked, it gushed forth in a flood too 
 copious to be restrained, and he gave up the contest. He reached 
 his hand to Eily, grasped hers, and shook it fervently and long, 
 while he said, in a voice that was made hoarse and broken by 
 emotion : 
 
 c Well, well, Eily, that 's a great deal. 'Tis not everything, but 
 it is a great deal. The general supposition was, that the cause of 
 secrecy should be no other than a shameful one. I am very glad 
 of this, Eily. This will be some comfort to your father.' He 
 again pressed her hand, and shook it kindly, while Eily wept upon 
 his own like an infant. 
 
 1 And where do you stay now, Eily ? — where — who is your hus- 
 band?' 
 
 Eily appeared distressed at this question, and after some em- 
 barrassment said : ' My dear uncle, I am not at liberty to answer 
 you those questions at present. My husband does not know of 
 my having even taken this step, and I dare not think of telling 
 what he commanded that I should keep secret.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 175 
 
 'Secrecy still, Eily ? 5 said the clergyman, rising from his seat, 
 and walking up and down the room with his hands behind his back, 
 and a severe expression returning to his eye. ' I say again, I do 
 not like this affair. Why should your husband affect this deep 
 concealment? Is he poor? Your father will rejoice to find it no 
 worse. Is he afraid of the resentment of your friends? Let him 
 bring back our own Eily, and he will be received with arms as 
 open as charity. What, besides conscious guilt, can make him 
 thus desirous of concealment ?' 
 
 1 1 cannot tell you his reasons, uncle,' said Eily timidly ; ' but, 
 indeed, he is nothing of what you say.' 
 
 ' Well, and how do you live, then, Eily ? With his friends, or 
 how? If you will not tell me where, you may at least tell how.' 
 
 ' It is not will not with me, indeed, uncle Edward, but dare not. 
 My first act of disobedience cost me dearly enough, and I dare 
 not attempt a second.' 
 
 'Well, well/ replied her uncle, a little annoyed, 'you have more 
 logic than I thought you had. I must not press you further on 
 that head. But how do you live ? Where do you hear mass on 
 Sundays ? Or do you hear it regularly at all ? ' 
 
 Eily's drooping head and long silence gave answer in the 
 negative. 
 
 ' Do you go to mass every Sunday at least ? You used to hear 
 it every day, and a blessing fell on you and on your house while 
 you did so. Do you now attend it on Sunday itself?' 
 
 Eily continued silent. 
 
 ' Did you hear mass a single Sunday at all since you left home ?' 
 he asked, in increasing amazement. 
 
 Eily answered in a whisper between her teeth — ' Not one.' 
 
 The good religious lifted up his hands to Heaven, and then suf- 
 fered them to fall motionless by his side. ' Oh, you poor child ! ' 
 he exclaimed, ' may the Lord forgive you your sins ! It is no won- 
 der that you should be ashamed, and afraid, and silent.' 
 
 A pause of some moments now ensued, which was eventually 
 broken by the clergyman. 
 
 'And what was your object in coming, then, if you had it not in 
 your power to tell me anything that could enable me to be of some 
 assistance to you?' 
 
 ' I came, sir,' said Eily, ' in the hope that you would, in a kinder 
 manner than anybody else, let my father know all that I have told 
 you, and inform him, moreover, that I hope it will not be long be- 
 fore I am allowed to ask his pardon, with my own lips, for all the 
 sorrow that I have caused him. I was afraid if I had asked my 
 husband's permission to make this journey, it might have been re- 
 fused. I will now return, and persuade him, if I can, to come here 
 with me again this week.' 
 
 Father Edward again paused for a considerable time, and eventu- 
 ally addressed his niece with a deep seriousness of voice and man 
 
176 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ner. ' Eily,' he said, 'a strong light has broken upon me respect- 
 ing your situation. I fear this man, in whom you trust so much 
 and so generously, and to whose will you show so perfect an obedi- 
 ence, is not a person fit to be trusted nor obeyed. You are married, 
 I think, to one who is not proud of his wife. Stay with me, Eily, 
 I advise— I warn you. It appears by your own words that this 
 man is already a tyrant ; he loves you not, and from being despotic 
 he may grow dangerous. Remain with me, and write him a letter. 
 I do not judge the man. I speak only from general probabilities, 
 and these would suggest the great wisdom of your acting as I 
 say.' 
 
 ' I dare not, I could not, would not do so,' said Eily. ' You 
 never were more mistaken in anybody's character than in his of 
 whom you are speaking. If I did not fear, I love him far too well 
 to treat him with so little confidence. When next we meet, uncle, 
 you shall know the utmost of my apprehensions. At present, I 
 can say no more. And the time is passing, too,' she continued, 
 looking at the sunshine which traversed the little room with a ray 
 more faint and more oblique. ' I am pledged to return this 
 evening. Well, my dear uncle, good-bye ! I hope to bring you 
 back a better niece than you are parting now. Trust all to me for 
 three or four days more, and Eily never will have a secret again 
 from her uncle nor her father.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, child — good-bye, Eily ! ' said the clergyman, much 
 affected. ' Stay — stay ! ' he exclaimed, as a sudden thought 
 entered his head. ' Come here, Eily, an instant.' He took up 
 the linen bag before mentioned, and shook out into his hand the 
 remaining silver of his dues. ' Eily,' said he, with a smile, 'it is 
 a long time since uncle Edward gave you a Christmas box. 
 Here is one for you. Open your hand, now, if you do not wish 
 to offend me. Good-bye ! Good-bye, my poor darling child ! ' 
 He kissed her cheeks, and then, as if reproaching himself for an 
 excess of leniency, he added, in a more stern accent, ' I hope, 
 Eily, that this may be the last time I shall have to part from my 
 niece without being able to tell her name.' 
 
 Eily had no other answer than her tears, which, in most 
 instances, were the most persuasive arguments she could 
 employ.' 
 
 ' She is an affectionate creature, after all,' said Father Edward, 
 when his niece had left the house — ' a simple, affectionate, little 
 creature ; but I was in the right to be severe with her,' he added, 
 giving himself credit for more than he deserved ; ' her conduct 
 called for some severity, and I was in the right to exercise it as 
 I did.' 
 
 So saying, he returned to his chair by the fireside, and 
 resumed the reading of his interrupted office. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 177 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 HOW HARDRESS CONSOLED HIMSELF DURING HIS SEPARATION 
 FROM EILY 
 
 Danny the Lord did not, as Eily was tempted to fear, neglect 
 the delivery of her letter to Hardress. Night had surprised him 
 on his way to Mr. Cregan's cottage. A bright crescent shed its 
 light over the lofty Toomies, and flung his own stunted shadow 
 on the limestone road as he trudged along, breathing now and 
 then on his cold fingers, and singing : 
 
 * Oh, did you not hear of Kate Kearney, 
 Who lives on de banks of Killarney ? 
 From de glance of her eye 
 Shun danger and fly, 
 For fatal 's de glance of Kate Kearney.' 
 
 He had turned in upon the road which led to Aghadoe, and 
 beheld at a short distance the ruined church and the broken 
 gravestones which were scattered around its base. Danny, with 
 the caution which he had learned from his infancy, suppressed his 
 unhallowed song as he approached this mournful retreat, and 
 stepped along with a softer pace, in order to avoid attracting the 
 attention of any spiritual loiterers in his neighbourhood. The 
 grave of poor Dalton, the huntsman, was amongst the many 
 which he beheld, and Danny knew that it was generally reported 
 amongst the peasantry, that his ghost had been frequently seen in 
 the act of exercising, after death, that vocation to which, during life, 
 he had been so ardently attached. Danny, who had no ambition 
 to become a subject for the view-halloo to his sporting acquaint- 
 ance, kept on the shady side of the road, in the hope that by this 
 means he might be enabled to ' stale by unknownst' 
 
 Suddenly the night-wind, which hurried after, bore to his ear 
 the sound of several voices, which imitated the yelling of hounds 
 in chase and the fox-hunter's cry. Danny started aghast with 
 terror, a heavy and turbid sensation pressed upon his nerves, and 
 all his limbs grew damp. He crossed himself, and drew close to 
 the dry stone wall which bounded the roadside. 
 
 1 Hoicks ! Come ! — come ! — come away ! Come away ! Hoicks ! ' 
 was shouted at the top of a voice that, one might easily judge, 
 had sounded the death-knell of many a wily reynard. The cry 
 was caught up and echoed at various distances by three less 
 practised voices. The ringing of horses' hoofs against the hard 
 and frosty road was the next sound that encountered the ears of 
 the little lord. It approached rapidly nearer, and grew too sharp 
 
 M 
 
178 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 and hard to suppose that it could be occasioned by any concussion 
 of immaterial substances. It proved, indeed, to be a danger of a 
 more positive and actual kind. Our traveller perceived, in a few 
 minutes, that the noise proceeded from three drunken gentlemen 
 who were returning from a neighbouring debauch, and urging 
 their horses forward at the summit of their speed with shouts and 
 gestures, which gave them the appearance of demoniacs. 
 
 The foremost, perceiving Danny Mann, pulled up his horse 
 with a violent check, and the others, as they approached, imitated 
 his example. The animals (which were worthy of kinder masters) 
 appeared to participate in the intoxication of their riders. Their 
 eyes flared, their mouths were hid in foam, and they snorted in 
 impatient scorn of the delay to which they were subjected. 
 
 4 Tally ! ' cried the first who galloped up. ' Ware bailiff ! Who 
 are you ? ' 
 
 * A poor man, sir, dat 's going de road to ' 
 
 * Hoicks ! A bailiff ! Come, come away ! Don't I know you, 
 you limb of mischief? Give me out your processes, or I '11 beat 
 you into jelly. Kneel down there on the road until I ride 
 over you ! ' 
 
 ' Dat de hands may stick to me, sir, if I have a process in de 
 world.' 
 
 ' Kneel down, I say ! ' repeated the drunken horseman, shaking 
 his whip loose, and applying it several times with all his might 
 to the shoulders of the recusant. ' Lie down on the road until I 
 ride over you and trample your infernal brains out.' 
 
 1 Pink him ! Sweat him ! Pink the rascal ! cried another horse- 
 man, riding rapidly up, and flourishing a naked sword. ' Put up 
 your whip, Connolly ; out with your sword, man, and let us pink 
 the scoundrel.' 
 
 1 Do as Creagh bids you, Connolly, 5 exclaimed a third, who was 
 as drunk again as the other two. ' Out with your blade, and pi — 
 pink the ras — rascal.' 
 
 There was nothing for it but a run, and Danny took to his heels 
 like a fawn. This measure, however, gave a new zest to the sport. 
 The gentlemen galloped after him with loud shouts of ' Hoicks ! ' 
 and ' Tally ! ' and overtook him at a part of the road which was 
 enclosed by hedges too close and high to admit of any escape 
 into the fields. Knowing well the inhuman desperation with 
 which the gentlemen of the day were accustomed to follow up 
 freaks of this kind, Danny felt his heart sink as low as if he had 
 been pursued by a rooted enemy. While he glanced in terror 
 from one side to another, and saw himself cut off from all chance 
 of safety, he received a blow on the head from the loaded handle 
 of a whip, which stunned, staggered, and finally laid him prostrate 
 on the earth. 
 
 'I have him,' shouted his pursuer. ' Here he is, as cool as 
 charity. I '11 trample the rascal's brains out.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 179 
 
 So saying, he reined up his horse, and endeavoured, by every 
 species of threat and entreaty, to make the chafed and fiery steed 
 set down his iron hoof on the body of the prostrate lord ; but 
 the animal, true to that noble instinct which distinguishes the 
 more generous individuals of his species, refused to fall in with 
 the bloody humour of his rider. He set his feet apart, demi- 
 vaulted to either side, and would not, by any persuasion or 
 sleight of horsemanship, be prevailed upon to injure the fallen 
 man. 
 
 Danny, recovering from the stunning effects of the blow, and per- 
 ceiving the gentlemen hemming him round with their swords, now 
 sought, in an appeal to their mercy, that security which he could 
 not obtain by flight. He knelt before them, lifted up his hands, 
 and implored compassion in accents which would have been 
 irresistible by any but drunken gentlemen on a pinking frolic. 
 But his cries were drowned in the savage shouts of his be- 
 leaguerers. Their swords gathered round him in a fearful circle, 
 and Creagh commenced operations by a thrust in the arm, which 
 left a gash of nearly half an inch in depth. His companions, who 
 did not possess the same dexterity in the exercise of the weapon, 
 and were nevertheless equally free of its use, thrust so frequently, 
 and with so much awkwardness, that the unfortunate deformed 
 ran a considerable risk of losing his life. He had already 
 received several gashes in the face and limbs, and was grow- 
 ing faint with pain and anxiety, when the voice of a fourth 
 horseman was heard at a little distance, and young Hardress 
 Cregan, as little self-possessed as the rest, galloped into the 
 group. He drew his small sword, flourished it in the moonlight 
 with a fierce halloo ! that was echoed far away among the lakes 
 and mountains, and prepared to join in the fun. But one glance 
 was sufficient to enable him to recognise his servant. 
 
 1 Connolly, hold ! Hold off, Creagh. Hold, or I '11 stab you ! ' 
 he cried aloud, while he struck up their swords with passion. 
 ' How dared you set upon my servant ? You are both drunk ! Go 
 home, or I ; 11 hash you ! 5 
 
 ' Drunk !' said his father, 'pup — puppy ! wha — what do you call 
 d — d — drunk ? D — d— d 5 you say 1 'm drunk ? Eh ? ' And he 
 endeavoured, but without much success, to assume a steady and 
 dignified posture in his saddle. 
 
 'No, sir,' said Hardress, who merited his own censure as richly 
 as any one present ; ' but a— th — these two gentlemen are.' 
 
 ' D'ye hear that, Creagh ? ' said Connolly. ' Come along, and 
 show him if we're drunk. Look here, Mister Slender-limbs ! Do 
 you see that road ? ' 
 
 ' I — I do,' said Hardress, who might have conscientiously sworn 
 to the seeing more than one. 
 
 ' And do you — look here — do you see this horse ? ' 
 
 ' I do,' said Hardress, with some gravity of deliberation. 
 
180 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' And do you see me ? ' shouted the querist. 
 
 • He raised his desperate foot 
 On stirrup side, and gazed about.' 
 
 * Ve — very well ! You see that road, and you see my horse, 
 and you see me ! Ve — very well. Now, could a drunken man 
 do this ? ' Yo — hoicks ! Come ! come ! come away ! hoicks ! ' 
 And so saying, he drove the rowels into his horse's flanks, 
 stooped forward on his seat, and galloped away with a speed that 
 made the night air whistle by his ears. He was followed at an 
 emulative rate by Hyland Creagh and the elder Cregan. 
 
 Hardress now assisted the afflicted Danny to mount behind 
 him, and, putting spurs to his horse, rode after his companions at 
 a pace but little inferior, in point of speed, to that which they 
 had used. 
 
 Arrived at the cottage, he bade Danny follow him into the 
 drawing-room, where there was a cheerful fire. The other gentle- 
 men, in the meantime, had possessed themselves of the dining- 
 parlour, and were singing, in astounding chorus, the melody which 
 begins with this verse : 
 
 * Come ! each jolly fellow 
 
 That loves to be mellow, 
 A tend unto me, and sit easy ; 
 
 One jorum in quiet, 
 
 My boys, we will try it : 
 Dull thinking will make a man crazy." 
 
 The ladies, who had spent the evening out, were not yet returned ; 
 and Hardress, much against the will of the affrighted boatman, 
 insisted upon Danny's taking his seat before the fire in Mrs. 
 Cregan's arm-chair. 
 
 ' Sit down there ! ' he exclaimed, seizing him with violence by 
 the collar, and forcing him into the seat. ' Know, fellow, that if I 
 bid you sit on a throne, you are fit to fill it ! You are a king, 
 Danny ! ' he added, standing unsteadily before his servant, with 
 one hand thrust between his ample shirt-frills, and the other 
 extended in an oratorical attitude, ' you are a king in heart, 
 though not in birth. But, tush, as Sterne says, " are we not all 
 relations ? " Look at this hand ! I admire you, Danny Mann ! 
 I respect, I venerate you : I think you a respectable person in 
 your class ; respectable in your class ; and what more could be 
 expected from a king? I admire, I love you, Danny ! You are a 
 king in heart though not,' he repeated, lowering the tone of his 
 eulogy, while he fixed his half-closed eyes upon the deplorable 
 figure of the little lord, ' though not in appearance.' 
 
 Anybody who could contemplate Danny's person at this 
 moment might have boldly joined in the assertion that he was not 
 a ' king in appearance.' The poor hunchback sat forward in 
 the chair in a crouching attitude, half terrified, and abashed by 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 181 
 
 the finery with which he was surrounded. His joints were 
 stiffened from the cold, his dress sparkling with a hoar-frost, and 
 his face of a wretched white wherever it was not discoloured by the 
 clotted blood. At every noise he half started from his seat, 
 with the exclamation : ' Tunder alive ! it 's de missiz ! ' 
 
 1 Nancy ! ' Hardress said, addressing the old woman who came to 
 answer the bell ; ' Nancy, draw that table near to the fire there, 
 and slip into the dining-parlour, do you hear ? and bring here 
 the whisky, a jug of hot water, a bowl, two glasses, and a lemon. 
 Don't say a word to the gentlemen : I '11 take a quiet glass here in 
 comfort with Danny.' 
 
 'With Danny!' exclaimed the old woman, throwing up her 
 hands. 
 
 ' Oh, dat I mightn't sin, master, if I daare do it,' said Danny, 
 springing out of the chair. ' I '11 be kilt by de missiz.' 
 
 1 Stay where you are ! ' said Hardress ; ' and you, woman ! do 
 as you're bid.' 
 
 He was obeyed. The lord, in vain ennobled, returned to his seat ; 
 and the bewildered Nancy laid on the table the materials in demand. 
 
 1 Danny,' said Hardress, filling out a brimming glass to his 
 dependent, 'when the winds of autumn raved, and the noble 
 Shannon ruffled his grey pate against the morning sun ; when the 
 porpoise rolled his black bulk amid the spray and foam, and the 
 shrouds sung sharp against the cutting breeze Do you under- 
 stand me ? ' 
 
 1 Iss ; partly, sir.' 
 
 { In those moments, then, of high excitement and of triumph, 
 with that zest which danger gives to enjoyment ; when every 
 cloud that darkened on the horizon sent forth an additional blast, 
 a fresh trumpeter amongst the Tritons to herald our destruction ; 
 when our best hope was in our own stout hands, and our dearest 
 consolation that of the Trojan leader: 
 
 "Hasc olim meminisse juvabit." 
 
 Do you understand that ? ' 
 
 ' It 's Latin, sir, I 'm thinking.' 
 
 ' Probatum est I When the struggle grew so close between 
 our own stout little vessel and her invisible aerial foe as to 
 approach the climax of contention, the point of contact between 
 things irrestible and things immovable, the Hjue avaeip rj eyeo <re. 
 Do you understand ? ' 
 
 ' More Latin, sir.' 
 
 ' That 's greek, you goose.' 
 
 ' It 's all Greek to me,' said Danny. 
 
 1 But in those moments, my fidus Achates •, you often joined me 
 in a simple acquatic meal, and why not now ? This is my con- 
 clusion. Why not now? Major — We used to eat together; 
 Minor — We wish to drink together ; Conclusion — We ought to 
 
182 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 drink together.' And following up in act a conclusion so perfectly 
 rational, the collegian (who was only pedantic in his maudlin hours) 
 hurried swiftly out of sight the contents of his own lofty glass. 
 
 Danny timidly imitated his example, at the same time drawing 
 from inside the lining of his hat the letter of the unhappy Eily. 
 Intoxicated as he was, the sight of this well-known hand produced 
 a strong effect upon her unprincipled husband. His eye-lids 
 quivered, his hand trembled, and a black expression swept across 
 his face. He thrust the letter, opened but still unread, into his 
 waistcoat pocket, refilled his glass, and called on Danny for a 
 song. 
 
 'A song, Mr. Hardress ! Oh ! dat I may be happy if I 'd raise 
 my voice in dis room for all Europe !' 
 
 ' Sit in that chair and sing ! ' exclaimed Hardress, clenching his 
 hand, and extending it towards the recusant, 'or I '11 pin you to 
 that door ! ' 
 
 Thus enforced, the rueful Danny returned to the chair which he 
 had once more deserted, and after clearing his throat by a fresh 
 appeal to the glass, he sang a little melody which may yet be 
 heard at evening in the western villages. Hardress was enchanted 
 with the air, the words, and the style of the singer. He made Danny 
 repeat it until he became hoarse, and assisted to bear the burthen 
 himself with more of noise than good taste or correctness. The 
 little lord, as he dived deeper into the bowl, began to lose his self- 
 restraint, and to forget the novelty of his situation. He rivalled 
 his master in noise and volubility, and no longer showed the least 
 reluctance or timidity, when commanded to chant out the favourite 
 lay for the seventh time at least : 
 
 i 
 ' My mamma she bought me a camlet coat-gown, 
 Made in de fashion, wit de tail of it down, 
 A dimity petticoat whiter dan chalk, 
 An' a pair o' bow slippers to help me to walk, 
 An' it 's Oro wisha, Dan'el asthore ! 
 
 II 
 
 ' I 've a nice little dog to bark at my doore, 
 A neat little beasom to sweep up the floore, 
 Everyting else dat is fit for good use, 
 Two ducks and a gander, besides an old goose, 
 An' it 's Oro wisha, Dan'el asthore.' 
 
 1 Well ! why do you stop ? What do you stare at ? ' Hardress 
 asked, perceiving the vocalist suddenly lower his voice, and slinge 
 away from the table, while his eyes were fixed on the farther end 
 of the room. The collegian looked in the same direction, and be- 
 held the figure of a young female, in a ball dress of unusual splen- 
 dour, standing as if fixed in astonishment. Her black hair, which 
 was decorated with one small sprig of pearls, hung loose around 
 her head, a necklace of the same costly material rested on her 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 183 
 
 bosom, and was, in part, concealed by the bright-coloured silk 
 kerchief which was drawn around her shoulders. On one arm she 
 held the fur-trimmed cloak and heavy shawl which she had just 
 removed from her person, and which were indicative of a recent 
 exposure to the frosty air. Indeed, nothing but the uproarious 
 mirth of the ill-assorted revellers could have prevented their 
 hearing the wheels of the carriage as they grated along the gravel- 
 plat before the hall door. This venerable vehicle was sent to set 
 the ladies down by the positive desire of the hostess, and Mrs. 
 Cregan accepted it in preference to her own open curricle, 
 although she knew that a more crazy mode of conveyance could 
 not be found, even among the ships marked with the very last 
 letter on Lloyd's list. 
 
 Recognising his cousin, Hardress endeavoured to assume to- 
 wards Danny Mann an air of dignified condescension and 
 maudlin majesty, which formed a ludicrous contrast to the 
 convivial freedom of his manner a few moments before. 
 
 ' Very well, my man,' he said, liquefying the consonants in every 
 word. ' Go out now, go to the kitchen, and I '11 hear the remainder 
 of your story in the morning.' 
 
 Danny fell cunningly into the deception of his master, to whom 
 he now evinced a profundity of respect, as if to banish the idea 
 of equality which the foregoing scene might have suggested. 
 
 * Iss, plase your honour ! ' he said, bowing repeatedly down to his 
 knees, and brushing his hat back until it swept the floor. 'Long 
 life an' glory to your honour, Master Hardress, an' 'tis I dat would 
 be lost if it wasn't for your goodness. Oh, murder, murder ! ' he 
 added to himself as he scoured out of the room, describing a wide 
 circuit to avoid Miss Chute, ' I '11 be fairly flayed alive on de 'count 
 of it.' 
 
 ' Well, Anne ? ' said Hardress, rising and moving toward her 
 with some unsteadiness of gait. ' I — I am glad to see you, Anne ; 
 we're just come home; very pleasant night; pleasant fellows, 
 very, very pleasant fellows ; some cap — capital songs ; I was 
 wishing for you, Anne. Had you a pleasant night where you were ? 
 Who — who did you dance with ? Come, Anne, we '11 dance a 
 minuet — min — minuet de la cour.' 
 
 ' Excuse me,' said Anne coldly, as she turned towards the door, 
 ' not at this hour, certainly.' 
 
 * A fig for the hour, Anne. Hours were made for slaves. Anne, 
 oh, Anne ! you look beautiful — beautiful to-night ! Oh, Anne ! 
 Time flies, youth fades, and age, with slow and withering pace, 
 comes on before we hear his footfall ! ' Here he sang in a loud 
 but broken voice : 
 
 " Then follow, follow, 
 
 Follow, follow, 
 Follow, follow pleasure ! 
 There's no drinking in the grave." 
 
1 84 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Oh, Anne ! that 's as true as if the Stagyrite had penned it. Worms, 
 Anne, worms and silence ! Come, one minuet ! Lay by your 
 cloak : 
 
 "And follow, follow, 
 
 Follow, follow, 
 Follow, follow pleasure ! 
 There 's no dancing in the grave ! " 
 
 1 Let me pass, if you please,' said Miss Chute, still cold and 
 lofty, while she endeavoured to get to the door. 
 
 ' Not awhile, Anne,' replied Hardress, catching her hand. 
 
 1 Stand back, sir,' exclaimed the offended girl, drawing up her 
 person into the attitude of a Minerva, while her forehead glowed 
 and her eye flashed with indignation. ' If you forget yourself, do 
 not suppose that I am inclined to commit the same oversight.' 
 Saying this, she walked out of the room with the air of an offended 
 princess, leaving Hardress a little struck and sobered by the 
 sudden change in her manner. 
 
 Lifting up his eyes after a pause of some moments, he beheld 
 his mother standing near, and looking on him with an eye in 
 which the loftiness of maternal rebuke was mingled with an 
 expression of sneering and satirical reproach. 
 
 'You are a wise young gentleman, 5 she said; 'you have done 
 well. Fool that you are ! you have destroyed yourself.' Without 
 bestowing another word upon him, Mrs. Cregan took one of the 
 candles in her hand and left the room. 
 
 Hardress had sufficient recollection to follow her example. He 
 took the other light, and endeavoured, but with many errors, to 
 navigate his way towards the door. 'Destroyed myself?' he 
 said, as he proceeded. ' Why, where 's the mighty harm of taking 
 a cheerful glass on a winter's night with a friend? A friend, 
 Hardress ? Yes, a friend, but what friend ? Danny Mann, alias 
 Danny the Lord, my boatman. It won't do ! (shaking his head). 
 It sounds badly. I 'm afraid I did something to offend Anne 
 Chute. _ I am sorry for it, because I respect her ; I respect you, 
 Anne, in my very, very heart. But I am ill-used, and I ought to 
 have satisfaction ; Creagh has pinked my boatman. I '11 send him 
 a message, that's clear ; I '11 not be hiring boatmen for him to be 
 pinking for his amusement. Let him pink their master if he can. 
 That's the chat ! (snapping his fingers). Danny Mann costs me 
 twelve pounds a year, besides his feeding and clothing, and I '11 
 not have him pinked by old Hyland Creagh afterwards. Pink 
 me, if he can; let him leave my boatman alone! That's the 
 chat ! This floor goes starboard and larboard, up and down, like 
 the poop of a ship; up and — hallo! Who are you? Oh! it's 
 only the door. I have broken my nose against it. And if I break 
 my own nose without any reason, at this time o' the day, what 
 usage can I expect from Creagh or anybody else?' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 185 
 
 Having arrived at this wise conclusion, he sallied out of the 
 room, rubbing with one hand the bridge of the afflicted feature, 
 and elevating in the other the light, which he still held with a 
 most retentive grasp. As the long and narrow hall, which lay be- 
 tween him and his bedchamber, formed a direct railroad way, 
 which it was impossible even for a drunken man to miss, he 
 reached the little dormitory without further accident. The other 
 gentlemen had been already borne away unresisting from the 
 parlour, and transmitted from the arms of Mike to those of 
 Morpheus. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 HOW HARDRESS ANSWERED THE LETTER OF EILY 
 
 'You have destroyed yourself! 5 Mrs Cregan repeated on the 
 following morning, as she sat in the breakfast-parlour in angry 
 communication with our collegian. ' If you have any desire to 
 redeem even a portion of her forfeited esteem, now is your time. 
 She is sitting alone in the drawing-room, and I have prevailed on 
 her to see you for a few moments. She returns in two or three 
 days to Castle Chute, where she is to spend Christmas ; and 
 unless you are able to make your peace before her departure, I 
 know not how long the war may last.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Hardress, with a look of deep anguish, ' I shall go 
 and meet her on the spot where I dared to insult her ! Insult 
 Anne Chute ! Why, if my brain had turned, if lunacy instead of 
 drunkenness had set a blind upon my reason at the time, I 
 thought my heart at least would have directed me. Mother, don't 
 ask me to see her there ; 1 could tear my very flesh for anger ; I 
 never will forgive myself, and how then can I seek forgiveness 
 from her ? J 
 
 ' Go, go ! That speech might have done much for you, if it had 
 been properly addressed. Go to her.' 
 
 1 1 will ! ' said Hardress, setting his teeth, and rising with a look 
 of forced resolution. ' I know that it is merely a courting of ruin, 
 a hastening and confirming of my own black destiny, and yet I 
 will go seek her. I cannot describe to you the sensation that 
 attracts my feet at this moment in the direction of the drawing- 
 room. There is a demon leading and a demon driving me on, and 
 I know them well and plainly, and yet I will not choose but go. 
 The way is torture, and the end is hell, and I know it, and I go ! 
 And there is one sweet spirit, one trembling, pitying angel, that 
 waves me back with its pale, fair hands, and strives to frown in 
 its kindness, and points that way to the hills ! Mother ! mother ' 
 
186 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 the day may come when you will wish a burning brand had seared 
 those lips athwart before they said — "Go to her !"' 
 
 'What do you mean?' said Mrs. Cregan, with some indignant 
 surprise. 
 
 'Well, well, am I not going? Do I not say, I go?' continued 
 Hardress. ' Is it not enough if I comply? May I not talk? May 
 I not rant a little ? My heart will burst if I do these things in 
 silence.' 
 
 ' Come, Hardress, you are far too sensitive a lover ' 
 
 'A what?' cried Hardress, springing to his feet, and with a 
 fierceness of tone and look that made his mother start. 
 
 1 Pooh ! A cousin, then ; a good, kind cousin ; but too sensitive.' 
 
 * Yes, yes ! ' muttered Hardress ; ' I am not yet damned. The 
 sentence is above my head, but it is not spoken ; the scarlet sin is 
 willed, but not recorded. Mother, have patience with me ! I will 
 not, I cannot, I dare not, see Anne Chute this morning.' And he 
 again sunk into his chair. 
 
 Mrs. Cregan, who attributed all those manifestations of re- 
 luctance and remorse which her son had evinced during their 
 frequent interviews, to the recollection of some broken promise 
 or boyish faith forsaken, was now surprised at their intensity. 
 
 ' My dear Hardress ! ' she said, laying her hand affectionately 
 on his shoulder — 'my darling child, you afflict yourself too 
 earnestly. Say what you will, there are few natures nursed in an 
 Irish cabin that are capable of suffering so keenly the endurance 
 of any disappointment as you do the inflicting it.' 
 
 'Do you think so, mother?' 
 
 'Be assured of it. And again — why do you vex your mind 
 about this interview ? Is it not a simple matter for a gentleman 
 to apologise politely to a lady for an unintentional affront ? If you 
 have hurt your cousin's feelings, what crime can accompany or 
 follow a plain and gentlemanly apology ? ' 
 
 ' That 's true, that 's very true,' said Hardress. ' There is a call 
 upon me, and I will obey it. But politely ? Politely ! If I could 
 stop at that. It is impossible ; I shall first become a fool, and, 
 by and by, a demon. But you are right, and I obey you, mother.' 
 
 So saying, he walked with a kind of desperate calmness out of 
 the room, and Mrs. Cregan heard him continue the same heavy, 
 self-abandoned step along the hall which led to the drawing-room 
 door. 
 
 Nothing could have been more propitiatory than the air of 
 mournful tranquillity with which the young collegian entered the 
 room in which his cousin was expecting him. It might resemble 
 that of a believing Mussulman, who prepared to encounter a pre- 
 destined sorrow. He observed, and his pulse quickened at the 
 sight, that his cousin's eyes were marked with a slight circle of 
 red, as if she had been weeping. She rose as he entered, and 
 lowered her head and her person in rather distant courtesy, a 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 187 
 
 coldness which she repented the moment her eye rested on his 
 pale and anxious countenance. 
 
 1 You see how totally all shame has left me,' said Hardress, 
 forcing a smile ; ' I do not even hide myself. Will any apology, 
 Anne, be admissible after last night ? ' Miss Chute hesitated, and 
 appeared slightly confused. She did not, she said, for her own 
 sake, look for any ; but it would, indeed, give her pleasure to hear 
 anything that might explain the extraordinary scene on which she 
 had intruded. 
 
 'You are astonished,' said Hardress, 'to find that I could make 
 myself so much a beast? But intoxication is not always a 
 voluntary sin with people who sit down after dinner with such 
 men as Creagh, and Connolly, and ' he did not add, ' my father.' 
 
 ' But when you were aware ' 
 
 'And when I was, and as I was, Anne, I rose and left the table 
 — I and young Geoghegan ; but they all got up to a man, and 
 shut the door, and swore we should not stir. They went so far as 
 to draw their swords. Upon my honour, I do not think we could 
 have left the room last night sober without bloodshed. And was 
 it so unpardonable, then? Cato, himself, you know, was once 
 found drunk.' 
 
 ' Yes, once. 
 
 ' I don't think that's deserved,' said Hardress, colouring slightly ; 
 ' I may have often trespassed a little in that way, but I never, till 
 last night, became as drunk as Cato. Nor even last night ; for I 
 was able to ride home at a canter, to rescue my poor hunchback 
 out of a dilemma, and to bring him hither on my saddle ; whereas, 
 Cato was unable to keep his own legs, you know.' 
 
 ' I heard that circumstance this morning, and I admit that it 
 altered the posture of the transaction very considerably. But did 
 those gentlemen who drew their swords upon you make you 
 promise to continue drinking after your return, and to bring 
 Danny into the drawing-room to join you ? ' 
 
 'And to insult my cousin?' added Hardress. 'No; there my 
 guilt begins, and unless your mercy steps in to my relief, I must 
 bear the burthen unassisted.' 
 
 ' To tell you the truth, Hardress,' said Anne, assuming an air of 
 greater frankness, 'it is not the offence or insult, as you term it, of 
 last night alone that perplexes and afflicts me. Your whole 
 manner, for a long time past, is one continued enigma — one dis- 
 tressing series of misconceptions on my part, and of inconsistencies 
 — I will say nothing harder — upon yours. Your whole conduct 
 has changed since I have met you here, and changed by no means 
 favourably. I cannot understand you. I appear to give you pain 
 most frequently when it is farthest from my own intention, and I 
 cannot tell you how distressed I feel upon the subject.' 
 
 Hardress fixed his eyes upon her while she spoke, and remained 
 for some moments wrapped in silent and intoxicating admiration. 
 
188 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 When she had concluded, and while a gentle anxiety still shadowed 
 her features with an additional depth of interest, he approached 
 her and said : ' And is it possible, Anne, that the conduct of so 
 worthless a fellow as I am should in any way affect you so deeply 
 as you describe ? Believe me, Anne, I do not mouth or rave, 
 while I declare to you, that I had rather lie down and die here at 
 your feet than give you a moment's painful thought, or seem to 
 disregard your feelings.' 
 
 * Oh, sir,' said Anne, looking more offended than usual, c I can- 
 not sit to hear this language again repeated. You must remember 
 how painfully those conversations have always terminated.' 
 
 The intoxication of passion is not less absorbing and absolute 
 than that which arises out of coarser sensual indulgence. 
 Hardress was no more capable of thought or of reflection now 
 than he was during the excesses of the foregoing night. He 
 yielded himself slowly, but surely, to the growing delirium, and 
 became forgetful of everything but the unspeakable happiness 
 that seemed to thrust itself upon him. 
 
 * Anne,' he said, with great anxiety of voice and manner, ' let 
 that too be made a subject for your forgiveness. Shall I tell you 
 a secret ? Shall I give you the key to all those perplexing incon- 
 sistencies — the solution to that long enigma of which you have 
 complained? I can no more contain it than I could arrest a 
 torrent. I love you ! Does that explain it ? If you are satisfied, 
 do not conceal your thoughts. Say it kindly — say it generously ! 
 I do not ask you to say anything that can even make you blush. 
 If you are not displeased, say only that you forgive me, and that 
 word will be the token of my happiness.' 
 
 He paused, and Anne Chute, turning away her head, and 
 reaching her hand, said in a low, but distinct tone : ' Hardress, I 
 am satisfied — I do forgive you.' 
 
 Hardress sunk at her feet, and bathed with his tears the hand 
 which had been surrendered to him. * One moment ! one 
 moment's patience, my kindest, my sweetest Anne ! ' he said, as 
 a sudden thought started into his mind : ' I wish to send one line 
 to my mother ; is it your pleasure ? She is in the next room, and 
 I wish to Ha ! ' 
 
 A sudden alteration took place in his appearance. While he 
 spoke of writing, he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket a pencil 
 and an open letter, from which he tore away a portion of the 
 back. The handwriting arrested his attention, and he looked 
 within. The first words that met his eyes were the following : 
 
 { If Eily has done anything to offend you, come and tell her so ; 
 but remember she is now away from every friend in the whole 
 world. Even if you are still in the same mind as when you left me, 
 come, at all events, for once, and let me go back to my father.' 
 
 Whilst his eyes wandered over this letter, his figure underwent 
 an alteration that filled the heart of Anne with terror. The 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 189 
 
 apparition of the murdered Banquo at the festival could not have 
 shot a fiercer remorse into the soul of the slayer than did those 
 simple lines into the heart of Hardress. He held the paper before 
 him at arm's length, his cheek grew white, his forehead grew 
 damp, and the sinews of his limbs grew faint and quivering with 
 fear. His uneasiness was increased by his total ignorance of the 
 manner in which the letter came into his possession. 
 
 * Hardress ! what is the matter ? What is it you tremble at ? ' 
 said Anne, in great uneasiness. 
 
 ' I do not know, Anne. I think there's witchcraft here. I am 
 doomed, I think, to live a charmed life. I never yet imagined 
 that I was on the threshold of happiness but some wild hurry, 
 some darkening change, swept across the prospect, and made it 
 all a dream. It has been always so — in my least as in my highest 
 hopes. I think it is my doom. Even now, I thought I had 
 already entered upon its free enjoyment, and behold, yourself, how 
 swiftly has it vanished ! ' 
 
 'Vanished!' 
 
 ' Ay, vanished, and for ever ! Were we not now almost one 
 soul and being? Did we not mingle sighs? Did we not mingle 
 tears ? Was not your hand in mine, and did I not think I felt our 
 spirits growing together in an inseparable league ? And now (be 
 witness for me against my destiny), how suddenly we have been 
 wrenched asunder! how soon a gulf has opened at our feet, to 
 separate our hearts and fortunes from henceforth and for ever ! ' 
 
 ' For ever ! ' echoed Anne, lost in perplexity and astonishment. 
 
 ' Forgive me ! ' Hardress continued, in a dreary tone. ' I did 
 but mock you, Anne ; I cannot — I must not love you ! I am 
 called away ; I was mad, and dreamed a lunatic's dream : but a 
 horrid voice has awoke me up, and warned me to be gone. I can 
 never be the happy one I hoped — Anne Chute's accepted lover.' 
 
 ' Yet once again, sir ! ' exclaimed Miss Chute, with a burst of 
 natural indignation, ' once more must I endure those insults ! 
 Do you think I am made of marble ? Do you think,' she con- 
 tinued, panting heavily, ' that you can sport with my feelings at 
 your pleasure?' 
 
 ' I can only say, forgive me ! ' 
 
 ' I do not think you value my forgiveness. I have been always 
 too ready to accord it, and that, I think, has subjected me to 
 additional insult. Oh ! Mrs. Cregan ! ' she added, as she saw 
 that lady enter the room, and close the door carefully behind her 
 — 'why did you bring me to this house?' With these words she 
 ran, as if for refuge, to the arms of her aunt, and fell in a fit of 
 hysterical weeping upon her neck. 
 
 'What is the matter?' said Mrs. Cregan sternly, and standing 
 at her full height. ' What have you done ? ' 
 
 'I have, in one breath, made her a proposal, which I have 
 broken in the next,' said Hardress calmly. 
 
i 9 o THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 1 You do well to boast of it. Comfort yourself, my love, you 
 shall have justice. Now, hear me, sir. Abandon my house this 
 instant ! ' 
 
 1 Mother ' 
 
 'Be silent, sir, and dare not address me by that name. My 
 love, be comforted ! I disown, I renounce you for a son of mine. 
 If you had one drop of gentle blood in your veins, it would have 
 rebelled against such perfidy, such inhuman villainy as this ! 
 Away, sir ! your presence is distressing to us both ! My love ! 
 my love ! my unoffending love ! be comforted ! ' she added, 
 gathering her niece tenderly in her arms, and pressing her head 
 against her bosom. 
 
 'Mother, 5 said Hardress, drawing in his breath between his 
 teeth, ' if you are wise you will not urge me farther. Your power 
 is great upon me : if you are merciful, exercise it not at this 
 moment.' 
 
 ' Do not, aunt ? ' said Anne, in a whisper ; ' let him do nothing 
 against his own desire.' 
 
 ' He shall do it, girl ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Cregan. ' Must the selfish 
 boy suppose that there are no feelings to be consulted besides his 
 own in the world ? I will not speak for myself,' she added — ' but 
 look there !' holding towards him the form of her niece as if in 
 
 reproach. ' Is there a man on earth- besides yourself that ' here 
 
 the words stuck in her throat, and her eyes filled up. ' Excuse 
 me, my darling ! ' she said to Anne ; ' I must sit down. This 
 monster will kill me ! ' She burst into tears as she spoke those 
 words. 
 
 It now became Anne's turn to assume the office of comforter. 
 She stood by her aunt's chair, with her arm round her neck, and 
 loading her with caresses. If ever a man felt like a fiend, Har- 
 dress Cregan did so at that moment. 
 
 'I am a villain either way,' he muttered below his breath. 
 ' There is no escaping it, Well whispered, Fiend ! I have but 
 a choice between the two modes of evil, and there is no resisting 
 this ! I cannot hold out against this ! ' 
 
 ' Come, Anne,' said Mrs. Cregan, rising — ' let us look for privacy 
 elsewhere, since this gentleman loves so well to feast his eyes 
 upon the misery he can occasion that he will not afford it to us 
 here.' 
 
 'Stay, mother,' said Hardress, suddenly rising and walking 
 towards them — ' I have decided between them.' 
 
 'Between what?' 
 
 • I — I mean that I am ready to obey you. I am ready, if Anne 
 will forgive me, to fulfil my pledge. I ask her pardon and yours 
 for the distress I have occasioned. From this moment I will 
 offend no more. Your power, mother, has prevailed. Whether 
 for good or evil, let time tell ! ' 
 
 ' But will you hold to this ? ' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 191 
 
 'To death, and after. Surely that may answer.' 
 
 ' No more discoveries ? ' 
 
 1 None, mother, none.' 
 
 1 This, once for all, and at every hazard ? ' 
 
 1 Yes ; and at every expense to soul or to body, here or here- 
 after.' 
 
 ' Fie ! fie ! Why need you use those desperate terms ? Where 
 are you running to now ?' 
 
 1 Merely to speak to my servant. I will return to dinner.' 
 
 * Why, how you tremble ! You are pale and ill ! ' 
 
 ' No, no ; 'tis nothing. The air will take it away. Good-bye, 
 one moment ; I will return to dinner.' 
 
 He hurried out of the room, leaving the ladies to speculate 
 together on the probable cause of his vacillation. What appeared 
 most perplexing to Anne Chute was the circumstance that she 
 knew he loved her as deeply and as intensely as he said, and yet 
 her admitting his addresses always seemed to occasion a feeling 
 of terror in his mind. More than once, as his character unfolded 
 on her view, she had been tempted to regret her hasty predilection, 
 and had recurred, with a feeling of saddened recollection, to the 
 quiet tenderness and cheerful affection of the rejected Kyrle Daly. 
 
 In the meantime, Hardress Cregan hurried through the house 
 in search of his boatman. Danny's wounds had become inflamed 
 in the course of the night, and he was now lying in a feverish state 
 in the little green-room in which Hardress had his last interview 
 with the poor huntsman. Hither he hastened, with a greater tur- 
 bulence of mind than he had ever yet experienced. ' They are 
 driving me upon it ! ' he muttered between his teeth. ' They are 
 gathering upon me, and urging me onward in my own despite ! 
 Why then, have at ye, devils. I am among ye. Which way must 
 it be done ? Heaven grant I may not one day weep for this ! but 
 I am scourged to it ! ' 
 
 He entered the room. The check blind was drawn across the 
 little window, and he could scarcely for a moment distinguish the 
 face of his servant, as the latter raised himself in the bed at his 
 approach. Old Nancy was standing, with a bowl of whey in her 
 hand, near the bed-side. Hardress, as if unwilling to afford a 
 moment's time for reflection, walked quickly to her, seized her by 
 the shoulders, and thrust her out of the room. He then threw in 
 the bolt of the door, and took a chair by the sick man's side. A 
 silence of some moments ensued. 
 
 ' Long life to you, Master Hardress ; 'tis kind o' you to come 
 and see me dis mornin',' said the wounded lord. 
 
 His master made no reply, but remained for a minute with his 
 elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. 
 
 1 Danny,' he said, at length, ' do you remember a conversation 
 which I had with you some weeks since on the Purple Mountain ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! den, master,' said Danny, putting his hands together with 
 
192 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 a beseeching look — 'don't talk o' dat anymore. I ax Heaven's 
 pardon, an' I ax your pardon for what I said ; and I hope and 
 pray your honour '11 tink of it no more. Many is de time I was 
 sorry for it since, and moreover now, being on my sick bed, and 
 tinkin' of everyting.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! you do not understand me. Do you remember your 
 saying something about hiring a passage for Eily in an American 
 vessel, and ' 
 
 ' I do, an' I ax pardon. Let me out o' de bed, an' I '11 go down 
 on my two knees ' 
 
 * Pish ! bah ! be silent ! When you spoke of that, I was not 
 wise enough to judge correctly. Do you mark ? If that conver- 
 sation were to pass again, I would not speak, nor think, nor feel 
 as I did then.' 
 
 Danny gaped and stared on him as if at a loss. 
 
 ' Look here ! — you asked me for a token of my approbation. 
 Do you remember it? You bade me draw my glove from off my 
 hand, and give it for a warrant. Danny,' he continued, plucking 
 off the glove slowly, finger after finger — ' my mind has altered. I 
 married too young. I didn't know my own mind. Your words 
 were wiser than 1 thought. I am hampered in my will. I am 
 burning with this thraldom. Here is my glove.' Danny received 
 it, while they exchanged a look of cold and fatal intelligence. 
 
 ' You shall have money,' Hardress continued, throwing a purse 
 upon the bed. ' My wish is this. She must not live in Ireland. 
 Take her to her father? No, the old man would babble, and 
 all would come to light. Three thousand miles of a roaring ocean 
 may be a better security for silence. She could not keep her 
 secret at her father's. She would murmur it in her dreams. I 
 have heard her do it. She must not stay in Ireland. And you, 
 do you go with her — watch her — mark all her words, her wishes. 
 I will find you money enough ; and never let me see her more. 
 Harm not, I say — oh, harm not a hair of the poor wretch's head ! 
 never let me see her more. Do you hear ? Do you agree ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, den, I 'd do more dan dat for your honour ; but ' 
 
 ' Enough. When ? — when ? — then ? — when ? 
 
 ' Ah, den, Master Hardress, dear knows ; I'mso poorly after 
 de proddin' I got from dem jettlemen, dat I don't know will I be 
 able to lay dis for a few days, I 'm tinkin'.' 
 
 ' Well, when you go, here is your warrant' 
 
 * He tore the back from Eily's letter, and wrote in answer : — 
 
 * I am still in the same mind as when I left you. I accept your 
 proposal. Put yourself under the bearer's care, and he will 
 restore you to your father.' 
 
 He placed this black lie in the hand of his retainer, and left the 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 193 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 HOW THE LITTLE LORD PUT HIS MASTER'S WISHES INTO 
 ACTION 
 
 We lost sight of Eily after her parting with her uncle. She 
 wasted no time on her journey homewards, but yet it was nearly 
 dusk before the pony had turned in upon the little craggy road 
 which led upward through the Gap. The evening was calm and 
 frosty, and every footfall of the animal was echoed from the 
 opposite cliffs like the stroke of a hammer. A broken covering of 
 crystal was thrown across the stream that bubbled downwards 
 through the wild valley ; and the rocks and leafless trees, in 
 those corners of the glen which had escaped the direct influence of 
 the sunshine, were covered with drooping spars of ice. Chilled by 
 the nipping air, and fearful of attracting the attention of any occa- 
 sional straggler in the wild, Eily had drawn her blue cloak around 
 her face, and was proceeding quietly in the direction of the 
 cottage, when the sound of voices on the other side of a hedge 
 by which she passed, struck on her ear. 
 
 ' Seven pound tin an 5 a pint o' whisky ! — the same money as I 
 had for the dead match of her from Father O'Connor, the priest, 
 eastwards in Castle Island. Say the word now — seven pound tin, 
 or lave it there. 5 
 
 ' Seven pound.' ' . 
 
 1 No ; seven pound tin.' 
 
 ' I will not, I tell you.' 
 
 ' Well, then, being relations, as we are, I never will break your 
 word, although she 5 s worth that, if it was between brothers. 5 
 
 In her first start of surprise, at hearing this well-remembered 
 voice, Eily had dropped the mantle from her face. Before she 
 could resume it, the last speaker had sprung up on the hedge, and 
 plainly encountered her. 
 
 At this moment — far away from home, forsaken, as it appeared, 
 by her chosen, her own accepted love, living all alone in heart, 
 and without even the feverish happiness of hope itself — at this 
 mournful moment it would be difficult to convey any idea of the 
 effect which was produced upon Eily by the sudden apparition of 
 the first, though not the favoured, love of her girlish days. Both 
 came simultaneously to a pause, and both remained gazing each on 
 the other's face with a feeling too sudden and too full for immediate 
 expression. The handsome, though no longer healthy, counten- 
 ance of the mountaineer was expanded to a stare of pleasurable 
 astonishment, while that of Eily was covered with an appearance 
 
 N 
 
194 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 of shame, sorrow, and perplexity. The pony, likewise, drooping 
 his head as she suffered the rein to slacken in her hand, seemed 
 to participate in her confusion. 
 
 At length Myles of the Ponies, keeping his eyes still fixed on 
 Eily, advanced towards her, step after step, with the breathless 
 suspense of King Leontes before the feigned statue. ' Eily ! ' he 
 said at length, laying one hand upon the shaggy neck of the 
 little animal, and placing the other against his throat, to keep 
 down the passion which he felt gathering within, ' Oh, Eily 
 O'Connor ! is it you I see at last ? ' 
 
 Eily, with her eyes lowered, replied in a whisper, which was all 
 but utterly inaudible, ' 'Tis, Myles.' 
 
 A long pause ensued. The poor mountaineer bent down his 
 head in a degree of emotion which it would be difficult to describe, 
 otherwise than by adverting to the causes in which it originated. 
 He was Eily's first declared admirer, and he was the cause of 
 her present exile from her father's fireside. He had the 
 roughness, but at the same time, the honesty, of a mountain 
 cottager ; and he possessed a nature which was capable of being 
 deeply, if not acutely, impressed by the circumstances just 
 mentioned. It was long, therefore, before he could renew the 
 conversation. At last he looked up and said : 
 
 'Why then, when you were below at the lake, where I seen 
 you, although I couldn't see a bit o' you but the cloak, I wondhered 
 greatly what is it made me feel so quare in myself. Sure it 's 
 little notion I had who was in it for a cloak. Little I thought — ' 
 [here he passed his hand across his eyes]. ' Ah, what 's the use o' 
 talking ? ' 
 
 Eily was still unable to articulate a syllable. 
 
 ' I saw the old man last week,' continued Myles, ' still at the 
 old work on the rope-walk. 5 
 
 ' Did you — speak to him ? ' whispered Eily. 
 
 ' No. He gave me great anger (and justly) the next time he 
 saw me afther you going, in regard it was on my account, he said 
 (and justly too), that you were driven to do as you had done. Oh ! 
 then, Miss Eily, why did you do that ? Why didn't you come to 
 me unknownst to the old man, and says you, "Myles, I make it 
 my request o' you, you won't ax me any more, for I can't have you 
 at all " ? And sure, if my heart was to split open that minute, it 's 
 the last word you'd ever hear from Myles.' 
 
 'There's only one person to blame in all this business,' mur- 
 mured the unhappy girl, ' and that is Eily O'Connor.' 
 
 ' I don't say that,' returned the mountaineer. ' It's no admira- 
 tion to me you should be heart-broken with all the persecution 
 we gave you day after day. All I 'm thinking is, I 'm sorry 
 you didn't mention it to myself unknownst. Sure it would be 
 betther for me than to be as I was afther when I heerd you were 
 gone. Lowry Looby told me first of it, when I was eastwards. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 195 
 
 Oh, vo ! such a life as I led afther ! Lonesome as the mountains 
 looked before, when I used to come home thinkin' of you, they 
 looked ten times lonesomer after I heerd that story. The ponies, 
 poor crathurs, see 'em all, how they 're lookin' down at us this 
 moment, they didn't hear me spring the rattle on the mountain 
 for a month afther. I suppose they thought it is in Garryowen 
 I was.' 
 
 Here he looked upward, and pointed to his herd, a great 
 number of which were collected in groups on the broken cliffs 
 above the road, some standing so far forward on the projections 
 of rock as to appear magnified against the dusky sky. Myles 
 sprung the large wooden rattle which he held in his hand, and 
 in an instant all dispersed and disappeared like the clan of a 
 Highland chief at the sound of their leader's whistle. 
 
 * Well, Myles,' said Eily at length, collecting a little strength, ' I 
 hope we '11 see some happy days in Garryowen yet.' 
 
 ' Heaven send it. I '11 pack off the boy to-night to town, 
 or I '11 go myself if you like, or I '11 get you a horse and truckle, 
 and guide it myself for you, or I '11 do anything in the 
 whole world that you '11 have me. Look at this. I 'd rather 
 be doing your bidding this moment than my own mother's, 
 and Heaven forgive me if that's a sin. Ah! Eily, they 
 may say this and that o' you, in the place where you were 
 born, but I '11 ever hold to it, I held to it all through, an' I '11 hold 
 to it to my death, that when you darken your father's door again, 
 you will send no shame before you ! ' 
 
 ' You are right in that, Myles.' 
 
 'Didn't I know I was? And wasn't it that that broke my 
 heart ? Look ! If one met me after you flitted aA\ay, an' saw 
 me walking the road with my hands in my pocket, and my head 
 down, an' I thinking ; an' if he sthruck me on the shoulder, an' 
 " Myles," says he, " don't grieve for her, she's this an' that ! " and 
 if he proved it to me, why, I 'd look up that minute an' I 'd smile 
 in his face. I 'd be as easy from that hour as if I never crossed 
 your threshold at Garryowen ! But knowing in my heart, and as 
 my heart told me, that it never could be that way, that Eily was 
 still the old girl always, and hearing what they said o' you, 
 
 an' knowing that it was I that brought it all upon you oh, 
 
 Eily ! Eily ! ■ Oh, Eily O'Connor, there is not that man upon 
 
 Ireland ground that can tell what I felt. That was what kilt me ! 
 That was what drove the pain into my heart, and kept me in the 
 doctor's hands till now.' 
 
 ' Were you ill, then, Myles ? ' Eily asked, in a tone of greater 
 tenderness and interest than she had ever shown to this faithful 
 lover. He seemed to feel it too ; for he turned away his head and 
 did not answer for some moments, 
 
 'Nothing to speak of,' he said at length; 'nothing, Eily, that 
 couldn't be cured by a kind word or a look o' that kind. But 
 
196 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 where are you going now? The night is falling, and this is a 
 lonesome road. The Sowlth was seen upon the Black Lake last 
 week, and few are fond of crossing the little bridge at dark since 
 then.' 
 
 1 1 am not afraid, 5 said Eily. 
 
 'Are you going far a-past the Gap? Let me guide the pony 
 for you.' 
 
 ' No, Myles ; where I am going, I must go alone.' 
 
 ' Alone ? Sure, 'tisn't to part me you will, now ? ' 
 
 c I must, indeed, Myles.' 
 
 'And what will I say to the old man, when I go and tell him 
 that I saw Eily, an' spoke to her, an' that I know no more.' 
 
 'Tell him, if you like, that Eily is sorry for the trouble she 
 gave him, and that before many days she hopes to ask his pardon 
 on her knees. Good-night and Heaven be with you. Myles, you 
 are a good man.' 
 
 'An' amn't I to know where you stop itself?' 
 
 ' Not now. You said, Myles, that you would like to do my 
 bidding. My bidding is now that you would neither ask, nor look 
 after, where I 'm going, nor where I stop. If you do either one 
 or the other, you will do me a great injury.' 
 
 'Say no more, a-chree !' said Myles ; 'the word is enough. 
 Well, Eily, good-night ! your own good-night back again to you, 
 and may the angels guide you on your road. Cover up your hands 
 in your cloak, an' hide your face from the frost. I do your 
 bidding, but I don't like the look o' you that way, going up this 
 lonesome glen alone, an' a winter night coming on, an' not 
 knowing where you 're steering or who you 're trusting to. Eily, 
 be said by me, and let me go with you.' 
 
 Eily again refused, and gave her hand to Myles, who grasped it 
 between his, and seemed as loth to part with it as if it were a 
 treasure of gold. At length, however, Eily disengaged herself, 
 and put her pony to a trot. The mountaineer remained gazing 
 after her until her figure was lost among the shadows of the 
 rocks. He then turned on his path, and pursued the road which 
 led down the valley, with his eyes fixed heavily upon the ground, 
 and his head sunk forward in an excess of deep and singular 
 emotion. Eily, meanwhile, pursued her journey to the cottage, 
 where, as the reader is aware, no news of her forgetful husband 
 had as yet been heard. Some days of painful suspense and 
 solitude elapsed, and then came Danny Mann with his young 
 master's note. 
 
 It was the eve of Little Christmas, and Eily was seated by the 
 fire, still listening, with the anxiety of deferred hope, to every 
 sound that approached the cottage door. She held in her hand a 
 small prayerbook, in which she was reading, from time to time, the 
 office of the day. The sins and negligences of the courted maiden 
 and the happy bride came now in dread array before the memory 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 197 
 
 of the forsaken wife, and she leaned forward with her cheek sup- 
 ported by one finger, to contemplate the long arrear in silent peni- 
 tence. They were, for the most part, such transgressions as might, 
 in a more worldly soul, be considered indicative of innocence rather 
 than hopeless guilt ; but Eily's was a young and tender conscience, 
 that bore the burthen with reluctance and with difficulty. 
 
 Poll Naughten was arranging at a small table the three-branched 
 candle with which the vigil of this festival is celebrated in Catholic 
 houses. While she was so occupied a shadow fell upon the thresh- 
 old, and Eily started from her chair. It was that of Danny Mann. 
 She looked for a second figure, but it did not appear, and she re- 
 turned to her chair with a look of agony and disappointment. 
 
 'Where's your masther? Isn't he coming ? 5 asked Poll, while 
 she applied a lighted rush to one of the branches of the candle. 
 
 ' He isn't,' returned Danny ; ' he has something else to do.' 
 
 He approached Eily, who observed, as he handed her the note, 
 that he looked more pale than usual, and that his eyes quivered 
 with an uncertain and gloomy fire. She cast her eyes on the note, 
 in the hope of finding there a refuge from the fears which crowded 
 in upon her ; but it came only to confirm them in all their gloomy 
 force. She read it word after word, and then, letting her hand fall 
 lifeless by her side, she leaned back against the wall in an attitude 
 of utter desolation. Danny avoided comtemplating her in this con- 
 dition, and stooped forward, with his hands expanded over the fire. 
 The whole took place in silence so complete, that Poll was not 
 yet aware of the transaction, and had not even looked on Eily. 
 Again she raised the paper to her eyes, and again she read in the 
 same well-known hand, to which her pulses had so often thrilled 
 and quickened, the same unkind, cold, heartless, loveless words. 
 She thought of the first time on which she had met Hardress ; she 
 remembered the warmth, the tenderness, the respectful zeal of his 
 young and early attachment ; she recalled his favourite phrases of 
 affection ; and again she looked upon this unfeeling scrawl, and 
 the contrast almost broke her heart. She thought that if he were 
 determined to renounce her, he might at least have come and 
 spoken a word at parting, even if he had used the same violence 
 as in their last interview. His utmost harshness would be kinder 
 than indifference like this. It was an irremediable affliction, one 
 of those frightful visitations, from the effects of which a feeble 
 and unelastic character like this unhappy girl can never be re- 
 covered. 
 
 But though the character of Eily was, as we have termed it, un- 
 elastic ; though, when once bowed down by a calamitous pressure, 
 her spirits would not recoil, but took the drooping form, and re- 
 tained it even after that pressure was removed ; still she possessed 
 a heroism peculiar to herself — the noblest of which humanity is 
 capable — the heroism of endurance. The time had now arrived 
 for the exercise of that faculty of silent sufferance of which she had 
 
198 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 made her gentle boast to Hardress. She saw now that complaint 
 would be in vain, that Hardress loved her not, that she was dead 
 in his affections, and that, although she might disturb the quiet of 
 her husband, she never could restore her own. She determined, 
 therefore, to obey him at once, and without a murmur. She 
 thought that Hardress's unkindness had its origin in a dislike to 
 her, and did not at all imagine the possibility of his proceeding to 
 such a degree of perfidy as he, in point of fact, contemplated. 
 Had she done so, she would not have agreed to maintain the 
 secrecy which she had promised. 
 
 While this train of meditation was still passing in her mind, 
 Danny Mann advanced towards the place where she was stand- 
 ing, and said, without raising his eyes from her feet : 
 
 'If you're agreeable to do what's in dat paper, Miss Eily, I 
 have a boy below at de Gap wid a horse and car, an' you can set 
 off to-night if you like.' 
 
 Eily, as if yielding to a mechanical impulse, glided into the little 
 room, which, during the honeymoon, had been furnished up and 
 decorated for her own use. She restrained her eyes from wander- 
 ing as much as possible, and commenced, with hurried and 
 trembling hands, her arrangements for departure. They were few 
 and speedily effected. Her apparel was folded into her trunk, and 
 for once she tied on her bonnet and cloak without referring to the 
 glass. It was all over now ! It was a happy dream, but it was 
 ended. Not a tear fell, not a sigh escaped her lips, during the 
 course of those farewell occupations. The struggle was deep and 
 terrible, but it was firmly mastered. A few minutes only elapsed 
 before she again appeared at the door of the little chamber, 
 accoutred for the journey. 
 
 ' Danny,' she said, in a faint, small voice, ' I am ready.' 
 
 ' Ready ?' exclaimed Poll. ' Is it going you are, a-chree ?' 
 
 Nothing could be more dangerous to Eily's firmness at this 
 moment than any sound of commiseration or kindness. She felt 
 the difficulty at once, and hurried to escape the chance of this 
 additional trial. 
 
 1 Poll,' she replied, still in the same faint tone, ' good-bye to you. 
 I am sorry I have only thanks to give at parting, but I will not 
 forget you when it is in my power. I left my things within ; I will 
 send for them some other time.' 
 
 'And where is it you're going? Danny, what's all this 
 about?' 
 
 ' What business is it of yours,' replied her brother, in a peevish 
 tone, ' or of mine eider ? It is de master's bidding, an' you can ax 
 him why he done it when he comes, if you want to know. 
 
 ' But the night will rain ; it will be a bad night,' said Poll. ' I 
 seen the clouds gatherin' for tundher, an' I comin' down the 
 mountain.' 
 
 Eily smiled faintly and shook her head, as if to intimate that 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 199 
 
 the changes of the seasons would henceforth be to her of trivial 
 interest. 
 
 1 If it be the master's bidding, it must be right, no doubt,' said 
 Poll, still looking in wonder and perplexity on Eily's dreary and 
 dejected face ; ' but it is a quare story — that 's what it is. Won't 
 you ate anything ?' 
 
 'Oh, not a morsel ! ' said Eily, with a look of sudden and in- 
 tense disgust ; ' but perhaps Danny may.' 
 
 ' No, but I '11 drink a drop if you have it,' returned the lord, in a 
 tone which showed that he doubted much the likelihood of any re 
 freshment of that kind remaining long inactive in the possession 
 of his sister. To his delight and disappointment, however, Poll 
 handed him a bottle from the neighbouring dresser, which con- 
 tained a considerable quantity of spirits. He drank off the whole 
 at a draught, and we cannot more clearly show the strong interest 
 which Poll Naughten felt in the situation of Eily, than by men- 
 tioning that she left this circumstance unnoticed. 
 
 Without venturing to reiterate her farewell, Eily descended, with 
 a hasty but feeble step, the broken path which led to the Gap road, 
 and was quickly followed by the little lord. Committing herself to 
 his guidance, she soon lost sight of the mountain cottage, which 
 she had sought in hope and joy, and which she now abandoned in 
 despair. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 HOW HARDRESS LOST AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 
 
 Eily had not been many minutes absent from the cottage, when 
 the thunderstorm predicted by Fighting Poll commenced, amid 
 all the circumstances of adventitious grandeur by which those 
 elemental convulsions are accompanied among the Kerry moun- 
 tains. The rain came down in torrents, and the thunder clattered 
 among the crags and precipices with a thousand short reverbera- 
 tions. Phil Naughten, who had entered soon after the storm 
 began, was seated with his wife at their small supper-table, the 
 latter complaining heavily of the assault made by Danny on her 
 spirit flask, which she now, for the first time, discovered to be 
 empty. 
 
 Suddenly the latch of the door was raised, and Hardress Cregan 
 entered, with confusion and terror in his appearance. The dark 
 frieze greatcoat, in which his figure was enveloped, seemed to be 
 drenched in rain, and his face was flushed and glistening with the 
 beating of the weather. He closed the door with difficulty against 
 the strong wind, and still keeping his left hand on the latch, he 
 said : 
 
200 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 * I am afraid I have come too late. Is Danny here ?' 
 
 1 No, sir,' said Phil ; 'he's gone these two hours.' 
 
 'And Eily?' 
 
 ' An' Eily along with him. He gave her papers that made her go.' 
 
 Hardress heard this with an appearance of satisfaction. He 
 leaned his back against the door, crossed his feet, and fixed his 
 eyes upon the ground, in a silent soliloquy, which was to this 
 effect : 
 
 ' It is done, then. I would have saved her, but it is too late. 
 Now, my good angel, be at peace with me. I would have saved 
 her. I obeyed your call. Amid the storm, the darkness, and the 
 rain, I flew to execute your gentle will. But the devil had taken 
 me at my word already, and found me a rapid minister. Would 
 I had saved her ! Ha ! What whisper 's that ? There can come 
 nothing worse of it than I have ordered. Forsaken ! Banished ! 
 This is the very worst that can befall her. And for the conse- 
 quences, why, if she be so weak and silly a thing as to pine and die 
 of the slight, let nature take the blame, not me. I never meant it. 
 But if that madman should exceed my orders. And if he should,' 
 Hardress suddenly exclaimed aloud, while he started from the door 
 and trembled with fury ; ' and if he should,' he repeated, extend- 
 ing his arms, and spreading his fingers as if in act to grip, ' wher- 
 ever I meet him — in the city, or in the desert ; in the lowest depth 
 of this accursed valley, or on the summit of the mountain where he 
 tempted me, I will tear his flesh from off his bones, and gibbet him 
 between these fingers for a miscreant and a ruffian.' 
 
 He sunk, exhausted by this frantic burst of passion, into a chair 
 — the chair which Eily had occupied on that evening. Phil 
 Naughten and his wife left their seats in astonishment, and gazed 
 on him and on one another in silence. In a few minutes Hardress 
 rose more calmly from the chair, and drew his arms out of the 
 greatcoat, which he handed to Poll, signifying, by a motion of his 
 hand, that she should hang it near the fire. While she obeyed his 
 wishes, he resumed his seat in silence. For a considerable time 
 he remained leaning over the back of the chair, and gazing fixedly 
 upon the burning embers. The fatigue of his long journey on 
 foot, and the exhaustion of his feelings, at length brought on a 
 heavy slumber, and his head sunk upon his breast in deep, though 
 not untroubled rest. Poll and her husband resumed their meal, 
 and afterwards proceeded to their customary evening occupations. 
 Phil began to repair the pony's saddle, while Poll twisted the 
 flaxen cords, according as her husband required them. 
 
 ' I '11 tell you what, Phil,' said his wife, in a low whisper, ' there 's 
 something going on to-night that is not right ; I am sorry I let 
 Eily go.' 
 
 1 Whisht, you foolish woman,' returned her husband ; ' what 
 would be going on ? Mind your work, an' don't wake the master. 
 D'ye hear how he moans in his sleep?' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 2oi 
 
 4 1 do ; an' I think that moan isn't for nothing. Who is it he 
 was talking of tearing a while ago ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know ; there 's no use in thinking about it. This is a cold 
 night with poor M'Donough in his grave — the first he ever spent 
 there.' 
 
 1 And so it is. Were there many at the funeral ?' 
 
 * A power. The whole counthry was afther the hearse. You 
 never heerd such a cry in your life as was set up in the church- 
 yard by poor Garret O'Neil, his own natural, afther the grave was 
 covered in. The whole place was in tears.' 
 
 ' Sure Garret wasn't with him this many a year ?' 
 
 I He was not, until the very day before he died, when he seen 
 him in his own room. You remember a long wattle that Garret 
 used always be carrying in his hand ? ' 
 
 I I do well.' 
 
 * That was given to him be the masther, M'Donough himself. 
 Garret axed him once of a Handsel Monday for his handsel, 1 and 
 'tis what he gave him was that wattle, as it was standing behind 
 the parlour doore. "Here, Garret," says he, "take this wattle, 
 and when you meet with a greater fool than yourself, you may give 
 it to him." Garret took it without a word, and the masther never 
 seen him afther till the other day, when he walked into his bedroom 
 where he was lying in his last sickness, with the wattle still in his 
 hand. The masther knew him again the minute he looked at him. 
 " And didn't you part the wattle yet, Garret ? " says he. " No, sir," 
 says Garret, " I can find nowhere a greater fool than I am myself." 
 " You show good sense in that, anyway," says the masther. " Ah, 
 Garret," says he, " I b'lieve I 'm going." " Going where, sir ? " 
 says Garret. " Oh, a long journey," says he, " an' one that I 'm 
 but little provided for." " An' did you know you 'd be goin' that 
 journey ! " says Garret. " I did, Heaven forgive me," says 
 M'Donough. " An' you made no preparation for it ? " says Garret. 
 " No preparation in life," says the masther to him again. Well, 
 Garret moved over near the bed-side, and took the masther's hand, 
 an' put the wattle into it, just that way. " Well," says he " take 
 your wattle again. You desired me keep it until I met a greater 
 fool than myself, an' now I found him ; for if you knew you 'd be 
 taking that journey, an' made no preparation for it, you are a 
 greater fool than ever Garret was." ' 
 
 ' That was frightful ! ' said Poll ! ' Husht ! Did you hear that ? 
 Well, if ever the dead woke, they ought to wake to-night ! Did 
 you ever hear such tundher ? ' 
 
 * 'Tis great, surely. How sound Misther Hardress sleeps, an' 
 not to be woke by that. Put the candle at this side, Poll, an' don't 
 disturb him.' 
 
 1 On the first Monday of the new year, called Handsel Monday, it is cus- 
 tomary to bestow trifling gifts, which are denominated handsels. 
 
202 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 They now proceeded with their employment in silence, which 
 was seldom broken. Any conversation that passed was carried 
 on in low and interrupted whispers, and all possible pains were 
 used to avoid disturbing the repose of their weary guest and 
 patron. 
 
 But the gnawing passion haunted him even in the depths of 
 sleep. A murmur occasionally broke from his lips, and a hurried 
 whisper, sometimes indicative of anger and command, and some- 
 times of sudden fear, would escape him. He often changed his 
 position, and it was observed by those who watched beside him, 
 that his breathing was oppressed and thick, and his brow was 
 damp with drops of moisture. 
 
 1 The Lord defend and forgive us all ! ' said Phil, in a whisper to 
 his wife. ' I 'm afeerd — I '11 judge nobody, but I 'm afeerd there 's 
 some bad work, as you say, going on this night. 5 
 
 ' The Lord protect the poor girl that left us, 5 whispered Poll. 
 
 1 Amen ! 5 replied her husband aloud. 
 
 'Amen! 5 echoed the sleeper; and following the association 
 awakened by the response, he ran over, in a rapid voice, a number 
 of prayers, such as are used in the service of his church. 
 
 ' He's saying his litanies, 5 said Poll. ' Phil, come into the next 
 room, or wake him up, either one or the other ; I don 5 t like to 
 be listenin 5 to him. 5 Tisn't right of us to be taking advantage of 
 anybody in their dhrames. Many is the poor boy that hung him- 
 self that way in his sleep. 5 
 
 "Tis a bad business, 5 said Phil. ' I don 5 t like the look of it at 
 all, I tell you.' 
 
 1 My glove ! — my glove ! 5 said the dreaming Hardress ; ' you 
 used it against my meaning. I meant but banishment. We shall 
 both be hanged — we shall be hanged for this 5 
 
 ' Come, Phil ! Come — come ! 5 cried Poll Naughten, with 
 impatience. 
 
 'Stop, eroo ! — stop!' cried her husband. 'He's choking, I 
 b'lieve ! Poll ! Poll !— the light— the light ! Get a cup o' wather.' 
 
 1 Here it is ! Shake him, Phil ! Masther Hardress ! — wake, 
 a'ra gal ! ' 
 
 ' Wake., Masther Hardress ; wake, sir, if you plase P 5 ^ 
 
 The instant he was touched Hardress started from his chair as 
 if the spring that bound him to it had been suddenly struck, and 
 remained standing before the fire in an attitude of extreme terror. 
 He did not speak — at least the sounds to which they gave utter- 
 ance could not be traced into any intelligible form ; but his look 
 and gesture were those of a man oppressed with a horrid appre- 
 hension. According, however, as his nerves recovered their 
 waking vigour, and the real objects surrounding him became known 
 to his senses, a gradual relief appeared to steal upon his spirits, 
 his eyelids dropped, his muscles were relaxed, and a smile of 
 intense joy was visible upon his features. He let his arms fall 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 203 
 
 slowly by his side, and sunk down once more, with a murmur of 
 painful satisfaction, into the chair which he had left. 
 
 But the vision, with which he had been terrified, was too deeply 
 impressed on his imagination to be at once removed. His dream 
 had merely represented in act a horrid deed, the apprehension 
 of which had shaken his soul with agony when awake, and had 
 brought him amid those obstacles of storm and darkness to the 
 cottage of his neglected wife. His fears were still unquieted : the 
 frightful image that bestrode his slumbers haunted him awake, and 
 opposed itself with a ghastly vigour to his eyes, in whatever direc- 
 tion they were turned. Unable to endure the constant recurrence 
 of this unvarying suggestion, he at length hurried out of the 
 cottage. He paid no attention to the voice of Poll Naughten, 
 who followed him to the door, with his greatcoat^ in her hand, but 
 ran down the crags, and in the direction of his home, with the 
 speed of one distracted. 
 
 The light which burned in the drawing-room window showed 
 that all the family had not yet retired. His mother, as he learned 
 from old Nancy, was still expecting his return. She was almost 
 alone in the house, for Cregan had left the cottage about a fortnight 
 before in order to escort Miss Chute to her own home. She 
 was seated at a table, and reading some work appropriate to the 
 coming festival, when Hardress made his appearance at the door, 
 still drenched in rain, and pale with agitation and fatigue. He 
 remained on the threshold, leaning with one arm against the jamb, 
 and gazing on the lady. 
 
 ' What ! up yet, mother ? ' he said at length. ' Where 's Anne ? ' 
 
 ' Ha ! Hardress ! Oh ! my dear child, I have been anxiously 
 expecting you. Anne ? Do you forget that you took leave of her 
 a fortnight since ? ' 
 
 ' I had forgotten it. I now remember. But not for ever?' 
 
 ' Why should you say so ? What do you mean ? ' said Mrs. 
 Cregan. ' Is not your bridal fixed for the 2nd of February ? But 
 I have mournful news to tell you, Hardress.' 
 
 ' Let me hear none of it ! ' exclaimed the unhappy youth, with 
 great vehemence. 'It will drive me mad at last, nothing but 
 mournful news 1 I 'm sick of it. Wherever I turn my eyes, they 
 encounter nothing now but mourning. Coffins and corpses, graves 
 and darkness, all around me ! Mother, your son will end his days 
 in bedlam. Start as you will, I say but what I feel and fear. I 
 find my reason going fast to wreck. Oh, mother, I shall die an 
 idiot yet ! ' 
 
 ' My child ! ' 
 
 ' Your child ! ' Hardress reiterated, with petulant emphasis. 'And 
 if I am your child., could you not care more kindly for my happi- 
 ness ? It was you that urged me on to this. Mind, I comply ; 
 but it was you that urged me. You brought me into the danger : 
 and when I would have withdrawn, you held me there. I told you 
 
264 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 that I was engaged ; that Heaven had heard, and earth recorded, 
 my pledge, and that I could not break it. Oh, mother, if you 
 were a mother, and if you saw your son caught by a treacherous 
 passion, if you saw that he was weak, and yielding, and likely to be 
 overcome, you should have strengthened him. It would have been 
 a mother's part to warn him off — to take the side of honesty against 
 his weakness, and make him virtuous in his own despite. But this 
 you did not. I was struggling for my failing honesty, and you 
 strove against me. I rose again and again, almost discomfited, 
 yet still unwilling to yield up all claim to truth, and again and 
 again you struck me down. Behold me now ! You have 
 succeeded fully. I am free now to execute your will — to marry or 
 hang, whichever you please.' 
 
 * Hardress ! ' exclaimed his mother in an agony, ' I ' 
 
 * Oh ! no more remonstrance, mother. Your remonstrances 
 have been my curse and bane : they have destroyed me for this 
 world and for the next.' 
 
 4 You shock me to the soul ! ' 
 
 * Well, I am sorry for it. Go on. Tell me this mournful news. 
 It cannot be but another drop in the ocean. I told you that 
 my reason was affected, and so it is. I know it by the false 
 colouring that has grown upon my senses. My imagination 
 is filled continually with the dreariest images, and there is 
 some spirit within me that tinges, with the same hue of death, 
 the real objects I behold. At morning, if I look upon the east, I 
 think it has the colour of blood ; and at night, when I gaze on 
 the advancing shadows, I think of palls, and hearse-plumes, and 
 habits of mourning. Mother, I fear I have not long to live.' 
 
 * Fie, Hardress ! — fie ! Are you growing superstitious ? For 
 shame ! I will not talk with you to-night upon that subject, nor 
 will I tax you with the manifest unkindness of your charges on 
 myself, so often refuted, yet now again repeated. I have a matter 
 of weightier interest to communicate. You know Mrs. Daly, the 
 mother of your young friend Kyrle ? ' 
 
 1 There again ! ' exclaimed Hardress, starting from his seat, and 
 speaking with passionate loudness. 'There again, mother! 
 Another horrid treason ! Why, the whole world are joining in 
 one cry of reprobation on my head. Another black and horrid 
 perfidy ! Oh, Kyrle, my friend, my calm, high-minded, virtuous, 
 and serene companion ! He trusted me with everything : told me 
 his secrets, showed me his fears, and commended his hopes to my 
 patronage. And what have I done ? I pledged myself to be his 
 friend. I lied ! — I have supplanted him ! How shall I meet him 
 now for evermore ? I feel as if the world were met to spit upon 
 my face. This should be my desert. Oh, fool ! — blind fool ! 
 Anne Chute ! What was Anne Chute to me, or I to her, that I 
 should destroy my own repute, betray my friend, resist my Maker, 
 and forsake my ' Suddenly arresting his speech at this con- 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 205 
 
 juncture, he sunk back into his chair, and added in a low murmur : 
 ' Well, mother, tell this mournful news at once.' 
 
 ' It is soon told,' said Mrs. Cregan, who had now become too 
 well accustomed to those bursts of transient passion in her son to 
 afford them any angry consideration. ' Poor Mrs. Daly is dead.' 
 
 'Dead!' 
 
 'But this evening I heard it. The circumstance is one of 
 peculiar melancholy. She died quite unexpectedly in her accouche- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' And if the virtuous are thus visited,' said Hardress, after a 
 pause, lifting up his hands and eyes, 'what should not I expect? 
 I wish I were fit to pray, that I might pray for that kind woman.' 
 
 1 There is one act of mercy in your power/ said his mother ; ' you 
 will be expected at the wake and funeral.' 
 
 1 And there I shall meet with Kyrle ! ' 
 
 'What then?' 
 
 1 Oh, nothing, nothing ! ' He paused for several minutes, during 
 which he leaned on the table in a meditative posture. His coun- 
 tenance at length assumed an appearance of more peaceful grief, 
 and it became evident, from the expression of his eye, that a more 
 quiet train of feeling was passing through his mind. ' Poor Mrs. 
 Daly !' he said at last. ' If one would be wise at all times, how 
 little he would sacrifice to the gratification of simple passion in 
 such a world as this ! Imprimis,' he continued, counting on his" 
 finger ends. ' Imprimis, a cradle ; item, clothing ; item, a house ; 
 item, fire ; item, food ; item, a coffin. The best require no more 
 than these ; and for the worst, you need only add — item, a gallows, 
 and you have said enough.' 
 
 Mrs. Cregan heard this speech without the keen anxiety which 
 she would have felt if Hardress had been less passionate in his 
 manner and less extravagant , in his mode of speech. But know- 
 ing this, she heeded little in him what would have filled her with 
 terror in another. 
 
 'Well, will you go to the wake, Hardress?' she said. 'You 
 must set out to-morrow morning early.' 
 
 'I will,' said Hardress. 'It's a long distance, but I can be 
 there, at all events, by nightfall. When does the funeral take 
 place ? ; 
 
 ' I suppose after to-morrow. I will have the curricle at the door 
 by daybreak, for you must set me down at Castle Chute. Go 
 now, and change your dress at once, or you will suffer for it. 
 Nancy shall take you a warm foot-bath and a hot drink, when you 
 are in your room.' 
 
 Hardress retired without farther question. The idea of meeting 
 with Kyrle Daly, after the unmanly neglect and even betrayal of 
 his interests, was now the one which occupied his sole attention. 
 Half love is vanity ; at least a fair moiety of Hardress Cregan's 
 Jater passion might be placed to the account of that effeminate 
 
206 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 failing. It could not, therefore, continue to maintain its hold 
 upon his heart against a passion so new and terrible as that of 
 remorse. His love for Anne Chute was now entirely dormant in 
 his mind, and his reason was at full liberty to estimate the great- 
 ness of his guilt, without even the suggestion of a palliative. When 
 we add to this his cruel uncertainty with respect to the fate of Eily 
 O'Connor, it is probable that few who hear the story will envy 
 the repose of Hardress Cregan. _ 
 
 For one instant only, during his conversation with Danny Mann, 
 the idea of Eily's death had flashed upon his mind, and for that 
 instant it had been accompanied with a sensation of wilful pleasure. 
 The remembrance of this guilty thought now haunted him with a 
 deep feeling of remorse, as if that momentary assent had been a 
 positive act. Whenever his eyelids dropped, a horrid chain of faces 
 passed before his imagination, each presenting some character- 
 istic of death or pain — some appearing to threaten, and others to 
 deride him. In this manner the long and lonely night crept by, 
 and the dreary winter dawn found him still unrefreshed and 
 feverish. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 HOW HARDRESS GOT HIS HAIR DRESSED IN LISTOWEL, AND 
 HEARD A LITTLE NEWS 
 
 HE rose and found that his mother was already equipped for the 
 journey. They took a hurried breakfast by candle-light, while 
 Mike was employed in putting the horse to the curricle. The 
 lakes were covered by a low mist, that concealed the islands and 
 the distant shores, and magnified the height of the gigantic 
 mountains by which the waters are walled in._ Far above this 
 slumbering cloud of vapour, the close and wide-spread forests 
 were seen along the sides of the stupendous ridge, the trees so 
 much diminished by the distance, and by the illusion produced by 
 the novelty of the point of vision, as to resemble a garden of 
 mangel-wurzel. 
 
 Hardress had just taken his seat in the vehicle beside his mother 
 when a servant in livery rode up to the door, and, touching his hat, 
 put a letter into his hand. It contained an invitation from Hepton 
 Connolly to a hunting dinner, which he was about to give in the 
 course of the month. Hardress remained for a moment in medi- 
 tation. 
 
 * Well, how long am I to stop here waiting for my answer? ' 
 asked the messenger— the insolent groom alluded to in an early 
 portion of the narrative. Hardress stared on him in sUence for 
 some moments. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 207 
 
 ' You had better go in and breakfast, I think,' he said ; * you 
 don't intend to return without alighting ?' 
 
 * Is it for Hepton Connolly ? Why then, you may take your vido 
 I don't, nor for any other masther under the sun. I was going to 
 breakfast over at the inn, but as you make the offer, I '11 not pass 
 your doore.' 
 
 ' You do me a great deal of honour. When does the hunt take 
 place?' 
 
 ' In three weeks' time, I believe, or something thereabouts.' 
 ' Not sooner ? ' 
 
 * No. I wanted him to have it at once, for he couldn't have 
 finer weather, an' the mare is in fine condition for it. But 
 when Connolly takes a thing into his head, you might as well be 
 talking to an ass.' 
 
 'Well,' said Hardress, 'tell your master that you found me just 
 driving from home, and that I will come.' 
 
 Saying this he drove away, while his mother remained still 
 wrapt in silent astonishment at the fellow's impudence. 
 
 ' Such,' said Hardress, ' is the privilege of a clever groom. 
 That rogue was once a simple, humble cottager, but fortune 
 favoured him. He assisted Connolly to win a sweepstakes, which 
 gained him a reputation on the turf, and fame has since destroyed 
 him. You would not know whether to choose between indignation 
 or laughter, if you were present at the conversations that some- 
 times take place between him and his master.' 
 
 ' If, instead of winning me the king's plate, he could win me the 
 king's crown, I could not endure him,' said the proud mother. 
 
 ' Nor I,' returned her prouder son ; 'nor I, indeed.' 
 
 About noon they stopped to bait and hear mass at the town of 
 Listowel. Mrs. Cregan and her son were shown into a little par- 
 lour at the inn, the window of which looked out upon the square. 
 The bell of the chapel on the other side was ringing for last mass, 
 and numbers of people, in their holiday attire, were seen in the 
 wide area, some hurrying towards the chapel-gate, some loitering 
 in groups about the square, and some sitting on the low window- 
 sill stones. 
 
 The travellers joined the first-mentioned portion of the crowd 
 and performed their devotions ; at least they gave the sanction of 
 their presence to the ceremonial of the day. When they had re- 
 turned to the inn, and taken their places in the little parlour, Mrs. 
 Cregan, after fixing his eyes for a moment on her son, exclaimed : 
 
 ' Why, Hardress, you are a perfect fright ! Did you dress to- 
 day?' 
 
 ' Not particularly.' 
 
 ' Do you intend to call in at Castle Chute ?' 
 
 'Just to visit in passing.' 
 
 ' Then I would advise you by all means to do something to your 
 toilet before you leave this.' 
 
2 o8 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Hardress took up a mirror which lay on the wooden chimney- 
 piece, and satisfied himself by a single glance of the wisdom of 
 his mother's suggestion. His eyes were bloodshot, his beard grown 
 and grisly, and his hair hanging about his temples in most ungrace- 
 ful profusion. He rang the little bell which lay on the table, and 
 summoned the landlady to his presence. It would be difficult, 
 she told him, to procure a haircutter to-day, being a holiday, but 
 there was one from Garryowen below, that would do the business 
 as well as any one in the world, if he had only got his scissors with 
 him. 
 
 Hardress started at the name of Garryowen ; but as he did not 
 remember the haircutter, and felt an anxiety to hear news from 
 that quarter, he desired the stranger to be shown into another 
 room, where he proposed effecting the necessary changes in his 
 attire. 
 
 He had scarcely taken his seat before the toilet, when a 
 soft tap at the door, and the sound of a small, squeaking voice, 
 announced the arrival of the haircutter. On looking round him 
 Hardress beheld a small, thin-faced, red-haired little man, with a 
 tailor's shears dangling from his finger, bowing and smiling with a 
 timid and conciliating air. In an evil hour for his patience, Har- 
 dress consented that he should commence operations. 
 
 ' The piatez were very airly this year, sir,' he modestly began, 
 after he had wrapped a check apron about the neck of Hardress, 
 and made the other necessary arrangements. 
 
 1 Very early, indeed. You needn't cut so fast.' 
 
 ' Very airly, sir — the white-eyes especially. Them white-eyes 
 are fine piatez. For the first four months, I wouldn't ax a better 
 piatie than a white-eye, with a bit o' bacon, if one had it ; but 
 after that the meal goes out of 'em, and they gets wet and bad. 
 The cups aren't so good in the beginnin' o' the saison, but they 
 hould better. Turn your head more to the light, sir, if you plase. 
 The cups, indeed, are a fine, substantial, lasting piatie. There 's 
 great nutriment in 'em for poor people, that would have nothin' 
 else with them but themselves or a grain o' salt. There's no piatie 
 that eats better, when you have nothin' but a bit o' the little one 
 (as they say) to eat with a bit o' the big. No piatie that eats so 
 sweet with point.' 
 
 'With point ? ' Hardress repeated, a little amused by this fluent 
 discussion of the poor haircutter upon the varieties of a dish 
 which, from his childhood, had formed almost his only article of 
 nutriment, and on which he expatiated with as much cognoscence 
 and satisfaction as a fashionable gourmand might do on the 
 culinary productions of Eustache Ude. ' What is point ? ' 
 
 ' Don't you know what it is, sir ? I '11 tell you in a minute. A 
 joke that them that has nothin' to do, an' plenty to eat, make upon 
 the poor people that has nothin' to eat, and plenty to do. That 
 is, when there 's dry piatez on the table, and enough of hungry 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 209 
 
 people about it, and the family would have, may be, only one bit 
 o' bacon hanging up above their heads, they 'd peel a piatie first, 
 and then they 'd point it up at the bacon, and they 'd fancy that it 
 would have the taste o' the mait when they 'd be aitin' it after. 
 That 's what they call point, sir. A cheap sort o' diet it is (Lord 
 help us !) that 's plenty enough among the poor people in this 
 country. A great plan for making a small bit o' pork go a long 
 way in a large family.' 
 
 ' Indeed it is but a slender sort of food. Those scissors you 
 have are dreadful ones.' 
 
 1 Terrible, sir. I sent my own over to the forge before I left 
 home, to have an eye put in it ; only for that I'd be smarter a 
 deal. Slender food it is, indeed. There 's a deal o' poor people 
 here in Ireland, sir, that are run so hard at times, that the wind of 
 a bit o' mait is as good to 'em as the mait itself to them that 
 would be used to it. The piatez are everythin' — the kztske?i l 
 little or nothin'. But there 's a sort of piatez (I don't know did 
 your honour ever taste 'em) that 's gettin' greatly in vogue now 
 among 'em, an' is killin' half the country — the white piatez — a 
 piatie that has great produce, an 5 requires but little manure, 
 an' will grow in very poor land, but has no more strength nor 
 nourishment in it than if you had boiled a handful o' sawdust and 
 made gruel of it, or put a bit of deal boord between your teeth 
 and thought to make a breakfast of it. The black bulls them- 
 selves are better. Indeed the black bulls are a deal a better piatie 
 than they 're thought. When you 'd peel 'em, they'd look as black 
 as indigo, an' you 'd have no mind to 'em at all ; but I declare 
 they're very sweet in the mouth, an' very strength enin'. The 
 English reds are a nate piatie too ; and the apple piatie (I don't 
 know what made 'em be given up), an' the kidney (though delicate 
 of rearing); but give me the cups for all,, that will hould the meal 
 in 'em to the last, and won't require any inthricket tillage. Let a 
 man have a middling-sized pit o' cups again' the winter, a small 
 caish 2 to pay his rent, an' a handful o' turf behind the doore, an' 
 he can defy the world.' 
 
 1 You know as much, I think,' said Hardress, ' of farming as of 
 haircutting.' 
 
 * Oyeh, if I had nothing to depend upon but what heads comes 
 across me this way, I 'd be in a poor way enough. But I have 
 a little spot o' ground besides.' 
 
 * And a good taste for the produce.' 
 
 "Twas kind father for me to have that same. Did you ever 
 hear tell, sir, of what they call limestone broth ? ' 
 1 Never.' 
 
 * 'Twas my father first made it. I '11 tell you the story, sir, if 
 you '11 turn your head this way a minute.' 
 
 1 Anything eaten with potatoes. 2 A pig. 
 
 O 
 
2io THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Hardress had no choice but to listen. 
 
 1 My father went once upon a time about the country, in the 
 idle season, seeing would he make a penny at all by cutting hair, 
 or setting razhurs and penknives, or any other job that would fall 
 in his way. Well an' good — he was one day walking alone in the 
 mountains of Kerry, without ahai'p'ny in his pocket (for though he 
 travelled afoot, it cost him more than he earned), an' knowing 
 there was but little love for a county Limerick man in the place 
 where he was, on being half perished with the hunger, an' evening 
 drawing nigh, he didn't know well what to do with himself till morn- 
 ing. Very good — he went along the wild road, an 5 if he did, he soon 
 see a farm-house at a little distance, o' one side— a snug-looking 
 place, with the smoke curling up out of the chimney, an' all tokens 
 of good living inside. Well, some people would live where a fox 
 would starve. What do you think did my father do ? He wouldn't 
 beg (a thing one of our people never done yet, thank Heaven !) 
 an' he hadn't the money to buy a thing ; so what does he do ? He 
 takes up a couple o' the big limestones that were lying on the road 
 in his two hands, an' away with him to the house. " Lord save 
 all here !" says he, walkin' in the door. "And you kindly," says 
 they. " I 'm come to you," says he, this way, looking at the two lime- 
 stones, " to know would you let me make a little limestone broth 
 over your fire, until I '11 make my dinner ? " " Limestone broth ! " 
 says they to him again ; " what 's that, eroo ? " " Broth made o' 
 limestone," says he, " what else ? " " We never heard of such a 
 thing," says they. "Why, then, you may hear it now," says he, 
 " an' see it also, if you '11 gi' me a pot an' a couple o' quarts o' soft 
 water." " You can have it an' welcome," says they. So they put 
 down the pot an' the water, an' my father went over an' tuk a chair 
 hard by the pleasant fire for himself, an' put down his two limestones 
 to boil, and kept stirrin' them round like stirabout. Very good — 
 well, by an' by, when the wather began to boil — " 'Tis thickening 
 finely," says my father ; " now, if it had a grain o' salt at all, 
 'twould be a great improvement to it." " Raich down the salt-box, 
 Nell," says the man o' the house to his wife. So she did. " Oh ! 
 that 's the very thing just," says my father, shaking some of it into 
 the pot. So he stirred it again awhile, looking as sober as a 
 minister. By an' by, he takes the spoon he had stirring it, an' 
 tastes it. " It is very good now," says he, " although it wants 
 something yet.'' "What is it?" says they. " Oyeh, wisha, 
 nothing," says he ; "maybe 'tis only fancy o' me." "If it 's any- 
 thing we can give you," says they, " you're welcome to it." " 'Tis 
 very good as it is," says he ; " but when I 'm at home, I find it 
 gives it a fine flavour just to boil a little knuckle o' bacon, or 
 mutton trotters, or anything that way, along with it." " Raich 
 hether that bone o' sheep's head we had at dinner yesterday, 
 Nell," says the man o' the house. " Oyeh, don't mind it," says 
 father ; " let be as it is." " Sure if it improves it, you may as 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 211 
 
 well," says they. " Baithershin! " 1 says my father, putting it down. 
 So after boiling it a good piece longer, "'Tis as fine limestone 
 broth," says he, "as ever was tasted; an' if a man had a few 
 piatez," says he, looking at a pot of 'em that was smokin' in the 
 chimney corner, " he couldn't desire a better dinner." They gave 
 him the piatez, and he made good dinner of themselves an' the 
 broth, not forgetting the bone, which he polished equal to chaney 
 before be let it go. The people themselves tasted it, an' thought 
 it as good as any mutton broth in the world.' 
 
 ' Your father, I believe, knew how to amuse his friends after a 
 short journey as well as any other traveller.' 
 
 The fellow leered at Hardress, thrust out his lips, and winked 
 with both eyes, in a manner which cannot be expressed. ' He 
 was, indeed, a mighty droll, funny man. Not interruptin' you, sir, 
 I '11 tell you a thing that happened him in the haircuttin' line, that 
 flogs all Munster, I think, for cuteness.' 
 
 ' I am afraid I cannot wait to hear it. I have a great way to 
 go to-day, and a great deal to do before I set off.' 
 
 1 That 's just biddin' me go on with my story, sir ; for the more 
 I talk, the faster I work, for ever. Just turn your head this way, 
 sir, if you plase. My father — a little more to the light, sir— my 
 father was sitting one fine mornin' in his little shop, curlin' a 
 front curl belongin' to a lady (we won't mention who) in the neigh- 
 bourhood, with the sun shinin' in the door, and he singin' a little 
 song for himself, an' meself, a craithur, sittin' by the fire, lookin' 
 about me, an' sayin' nothin'. Very well ; all of a sudden a gentle- 
 man, tall and well mounted, rode up to the doore, an' — " Hello 1 " 
 says he, callin' out, "can I get myself shaved here?" says he. 
 " Why not, plase your honour ? " says my father, startin' up, and 
 layin' by the front out of his hand. So he 'lit off his horse an' 
 came in. He was a mighty bould, fierce-looking gentleman, 
 with a tundherin' long swoord be his side, down, an' a pair o' 
 whiskers as big an' as red as a fox's brush, an' eyes as round 
 as them two bull's eyes in the window-panes, an' they havin' 
 a strange twisht in 'em, so that when he'd be lookin' you 
 straight in the face, you 'd think it 's out at the door he 'd be lookin'. 
 Besides that, when he 'd spake, he used to give himself a loud 
 roisterin' way, as if you were a mile off, an' not willin' to come 
 near or to be said by him. "Do you mind, now," says he, an' 
 he takin' a chair oppozzit the windee, while my father smartened 
 himself, an' bate up a lather — " ever and always, since I was the 
 height of a bee's knee," says he, " I had a mortal enmity to seein' 
 a drop o' my own blood, an' I '11 tell you what it is," says he. 
 " What is it, sir?" says my father. " I '11 make a clear bargain 
 with you now," says the gentleman. So he took out a half crown, 
 an' laid it upon the table, an' after that he drew his swoord, and 
 
 1 Be it so. 
 
212 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 laid it hard by the half crown. "Do you see them two, now?" 
 says he. "I do, surely," says my father. "The half crown will 
 be yours," says the gentleman, "if you '11 shave me without drawin' 
 my blood ; but if I see as much as would make a breakfast for 
 — (he named an animal that I won't mention after him now) — 
 if I see as much after you," says he, " I '11-run this swoord through 
 your body, as sure as there 5 s mait in mutton. So look before you 
 lep ; if you won't take the bargain, say it, and let me ride away," 
 says he. This was in times when a gentleman that way would 
 think as little a'most of doin' a thing o' the kind to a poor Catholic 
 as he would now of sayin' it ; so well became my father to look to 
 himself. "You'll never have it to say o' me," says my father, 
 " that I wouldn't trust my hand so far at any rate in the business I 
 was bred to." So to it they fell, an' as Providence ordered it, my 
 father shaved him without one gash, an' put the half crown in his 
 pocket. " Well, now, 'tis done," says the gentleman, " but you 're 
 a foolish man." "How so, sir? "says my father. "Because, so 
 sure as I saw the blood," says the other, " I 'd make my word 
 good." " But you never would see the blood, sir," says my father 
 quite easy, "because I 'd see it before you, an' I'd cut your throat 
 with the razhur." Well, 'twas as good as a play to see the look 
 the gentleman gave him when he said that. He didn't answer 
 him a word, but mounted his horse, and rode away.' 
 
 1 He found his match in the haircutter,' said Hardress, rejoiced 
 as the stoiy ended. 
 
 ' I '11 be bound, sir, he was in no hurry to make bargains o' 
 that kind any more. 'Twas a mighty good answer, sir, 
 wasn't it ? ' 
 
 1 A desperate one, at all events.' 
 
 _ \ Ah, desperate, you may say that ; but my father was sure of 
 his hand. I '11 tell you another droll thing that happened my 
 father once, when ' 
 
 But the patience of his listener was here completely stranded. 
 The haircutter had got such a miserable pair of shears, that he was 
 obliged to use as much exertion in clipping the hair as a tinker or 
 a plumber might do in cutting sheet lead. Besides, being accus- 
 tomed to that professional flippancy of movement which, with 
 proper instruments, might have expedited the operation, he made 
 no allowance for the badness of his scissors, but clipped and 
 plucked away as fast as usual ; thus contriving to tear up half as 
 much by the roots as he removed in the usual course of business. 
 This, and other circumstances, induced Hardress to place a 
 decided negative in the way of his anecdotes, until he had con- 
 cluded his task. 
 
 This being accomplished, Hardress raised his hand to his head, 
 and experienced a sensation on the palm, somewhat similar to that 
 which would be produced by placing it on an inverted hair-brush. 
 On looking in the glass, he discovered that his hair had been cut 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 213 
 
 into a fashion which enjoys a lasting popularity at fairs and cottage 
 merry-makings ; but, however consistent with the interests of per- 
 sons who only employed a barber once in a quarter, and then 
 supposed that the closer he cut the better value he gave for the 
 money, it was by no means in accordance with the established 
 notions of good taste. There were indeed no gaps, as he boasted, 
 for he had cut it almost as bare as a wig-block, leaving only 
 a narrow fringe in front, from ear to ear, like the ends of a piece 
 of silk. There was no help, however, for such mischief once 
 effected, so that Hardress paid him without remark, and paid him 
 liberally. 
 
 The little haircutter took it for granted, by the handsome man- 
 ner in which his customer had compensated for his services, that 
 he was highly gratified with the manner in which they had been 
 performed. 
 
 ' If your honour,' he said, bowing very low, ' would be passing 
 through Garryowen, an' would be inclined to lave any o' your hair 
 behind you, maybe you'd think of Dunat O'Leary's shop, on the 
 right hand side o' the sthreet, three doores down from Mihil 
 O'Connor's, the ropemaker's.' 
 
 1 1 will, I will,' said Hardress, turning suddenly away. 
 
 Mr. O'Leary walked slowly to the door, and again returned. 
 
 ' There 's a great set o' lads about the place, sir,' he said, in his 
 usual shrill voice, while a slight degree of embarrassment appeared 
 in his manner, 'an' they're for ever christenin' people out o' their 
 names, till a man is better known by a nickname than by his own. 
 'Tis ten to one, plase your honour, that you'll be the surer of 
 finding me by asking for Foxy Dunat, than for my own lawful 
 name ; they're such a set o' lads.' 
 
 'Very well ; good morning, Foxy Dunat.' 
 
 'Yes, sir, Foxy, in regard, of the red hair that's on me. Ah, 
 there 's no standing them lads.' 
 
 ' Very well ; good morning, Foxy Dunat. I '11 remember.' 
 
 ' Good morning to your honour. Stay ! ' He once more returned 
 from the door. ' See what I was doing ; carrying your honour's 
 hair away with me.' 
 
 ' Well, and what business do you suppose I have of it now ? I 
 am not a wigmaker.' 
 
 ' I don't know, sir, but people mostly likes to put it up in some 
 safe place again' the day of judgment, as they say.' 
 
 'The day of judgment !' 
 
 'Yes, plase your honour. We must have everything about us 
 then, that ever belonged to us, an' a man would look droll that 
 time without his hair.' 
 
 Hardress was not in a humour for jesting, but he could not 
 avoid smiling in secret at this conceit. 
 
 ' Very well,' said he, tapping the haircutter upon the shoulder, 
 and looking gravely in his face. 'As I am going a long journey 
 
214 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 at present, I will feel obliged by your keeping it for me until then, 
 and I will call on you if I want it.' 
 
 'As your honour feels agreeable,' said Dunat, again bowing low, 
 and moving towards the door. Nevertheless, he did not leave the 
 room until he had made the young gentleman acquainted with all 
 the circumstances that occasioned his absence from home at this 
 moment. In doing so, he unwarily touched Hardress to the quick. 
 He had come, he said, in consequence of a letter he had received 
 from a neighbour's daughter that had run away from her father, 
 and was hid somewhere among the Kerry mountains. 
 
 'A letter you received!' exclaimed Hardress, in strong sur- 
 prise. 
 
 ' Yes, sir : telling me she was alive, and bidding me let the old 
 man know of it ; the old ropemaker I mentioned a while ago. 
 Since I came, I heard it reported at Castle Island, this morning, 
 that she was drownded somewhere in the Flesk.' 
 
 1 Drowned ! Eily drowned ! ' Hardress suddenly exclaimed, 
 starting from a reverie, as the single word struck upon his 
 hearing. 
 
 ' Eily was her name, sure enough, replied O'Leary, staring on 
 him, ' howsomdever you come to know it.' 
 
 ' I — I — you mentioned that name, I think ; did you not ? ' 
 
 ' Maybe it slipped from me, sir. • Well, as I was saying, they 
 thought she was drownded there, an' they wor for havin' a sheaf o' 
 reeds, with her name tied upon it, put out upon the sthrame ; for 
 they say, when a person dies by water, the sheaf o' reeds will float 
 against the sthrame, or with the sthrame, until it stops over the 
 place where the body lies, if it had to go up O'Sullivan's cascade 
 itself. But Father Edward O'Connor desired 'em to go home 
 about their business, that the sheaf would go with the current an' 
 no way else, if they were at it from this till doomsday. To be sure 
 he knew best.' 
 
 At this moment the landlady knocked at the door, to inform 
 our collegian that Mrs. Cregan was expecting him without. Hav- 
 ing concluded his toilet, he hurried out of the room, not displeased 
 at his release from the observation of this stranger, at a moment 
 when he felt his agitation increasing to an extent that was almost 
 ungovernable. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 HOW KYRLE DALY HEARS OF THE HANDSOME CONDUCT OF HIS 
 FRIEND HARDRESS 
 
 Previous to Anne Chute's departure from the cottage of her aunt^ 
 all the arrangements necessary for her marriage with Hardress 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 215 
 
 had been verbally agreed upon. A feeling of decorum only pre- 
 vented the legal preliminaries from being put in form before her 
 return to her mother's castle. The singularly unequal and un- 
 accountable behaviour of her intended husband, during the whole 
 course of wooing, had left her mind in a condition of distressing 
 annoyance and perplexity. Though she still loved Hardress 
 well, it was with an anxious and uneasy affection, such as she 
 should entertain for a mysterious being whose talents had fascinated 
 her will, but of whose real nature she yet remained in troubled 
 ignorance. Fame, who never moves her wings so swiftly as 
 when she has got a tale to tell of death or marriage, soon spread 
 the information far and wide. The manner in which it reached 
 the ears of Kyrle Daly was sudden as it was unwelcome. 
 
 He had gone down to the dairy-farm, for the purpose of shore- 
 shooting, and was returning in order to spend the Little Christmas 
 at home. It was about noon when he rode by the gate at Castle 
 Chute. The door of the dwelling-house stood open, and several 
 figures appeared on the broad stone steps. They were too distant 
 to be recognised, but Kyrle glanced with a beating pulse towards 
 that part of the building which contained the sleeping chamber 
 of his mistress. The window-shutters were unclosed, and it was 
 evident that Anne Chute had once more become a resident in the 
 castle. 
 
 In order to be assured of the reality of this belief, young Daly 
 spurred on his horse as far as the caravansary of Mr. Normile, 
 already celebrated in an early part of our history. That indi- 
 vidual, whom he found in the act of liberating an unruly pig, after 
 payment of pound fees, informed him of the arrival at Castle 
 Chute, a fortnight previous, of its young heiress and her uncle. 
 
 He rode on, unwilling to trust himself with any lengthened 
 conversation on this subject while under the shrewd eye of an 
 Irish peasant. All his former passion returned in an instant, and 
 with an intensity which surprised himself. It had been the labour 
 of his life since his last interview with the young lady above named, 
 to remove her quietly from his recollection, and he flattered himself 
 that he had, in a great degree, succeeded. He was no believer 
 in the romantic and mischievous supposition, that true love never 
 changes nor decays, even when hope has left it. He knew that 
 there were many effeminate and sensitive characters who, having 
 once permitted their imaginations to become deeply impressed, are 
 afterwards weak enough to foster that impression, even while it is 
 making inroads upon their health and peace ; but such beings were 
 the objects of his pity, not of his esteem. He was neither a fanatic 
 nor a voluptuary in the passion. If, therefore, he had discovered 
 that any one of those rational considerations, on which his love 
 was founded, had been erroneously taken up — if he had discovered 
 that the lady was, in reality, unworthy of the place to which he 
 had raised her, we do^not say he would at once have ceased to 
 
216 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 love, but he would certainly have experienced much less difficulty 
 in subduing the frequent agitations of the passion. But he had 
 not the assistance of such a conviction ; and it was only after 
 a long and vigilant exercise of his habitual firmness that he 
 reduced his mind to a state of dormant tranquillity. 
 
 Opportunity, therefore, was only needed to rouse it up once 
 more in all its former strength. That opportunity had now arrived, 
 and Kyrle Daly found that the trial was a more searching one 
 than he had been led to think. He yielded for a moment to the 
 reflections which pressed upon him, and slackened the pace of his 
 steed. He looked upon the castle and its quiet bay, the point, the 
 wood, the waves, and the distant hills of Clare. He passed the 
 little sandy slope on which he had witnessed the festivities of the 
 saddle-race, and which now looked wintry, lone, and bleak in the 
 December blast. The face of the river was dark and troubled — 
 the long waves of the half-flood tide rolled in, and broke upon 
 the sands, leaving a track of foam upon the water's verge, while a 
 long black line of seaweed marked the height to which it had 
 arisen on the shore. He glanced at the pathway from the road, 
 on which his hopes had experienced their last decisive and severe 
 repression. His feelings, at this moment, approached the limits of 
 pain too nearly, and he spurred on his horse, to hurry away from 
 them and from the scene on which they had been first called into 
 action. 
 
 He had not ridden far when he heard loud bursts of laughter, 
 and the tramp of many horses on the road behind him. The 
 voices were raised high in the competition to obtain a hearing, and 
 he thought the accents were not those of strangers. The proud 
 politeness of an Irish gentleman, which was rather conventional than 
 natural with Kyrle Daly, prevented his looking round to satisfy his 
 curiosity, until the party had ridden up, and he heard his own 
 name coupled with a familiar greeting by many voices. Turning 
 on his saddle, he beheld Mr. Connolly, Mr. Hyland Creagh, 
 Doctor Leake, and Captain Gibson, riding abreast, and laughing 
 immoderately. 
 
 ' Connolly, how are you ? How are you, Doctor ? Mr. Creagh 
 — Captain, 5 touching his hat slightly to the latter, ' what 's all the 
 fun about ? ' 
 
 1 1 '11 tell Daly,' said Connolly ; 'he'sa lawyer.' 
 
 ' Pish ! ' replied Doctor Leake, ' 'tis too foolish a thing ; you will 
 make him laugh at you.' 
 
 1 Foolish ! It is the best story I ever heard in my life. Eh, 
 Captain?' 
 
 Captain Gibson replied by an excessive roar of laughter, and 
 Hyland Creagh protested it was worthy of the days of the Hell- 
 fire Club. Connolly looked down in scornful triumph upon the 
 Doctor, who tossed his head, and sneered in silence. 
 
 ' I '11 tell you how it was,' said Connolly. ' I believe 'tis no 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 217 
 
 secret to you, Daly, or any other acquaintance of mine, that 
 I owe more money to different friends than I am always willing 
 to pay — 
 
 " Owen Moore ran away, 
 Owing more than he could pay ; " 
 
 so, if I should come to borrow money of you, you had better keep 
 it in your pocket, I advise you. But it so happened that we 
 spent the other evening at a friend's in the neighbourhood, who 
 could not afford me a bed, so I went to hammock at Normile's 
 inn. In the morning, I stepped out to the stable to see how my 
 horse had been made up in the night, when I felt a tap on the 
 shoulder— just like that — do you feel it at all electrical ?— [he 
 touched Kyrle's shoulder] — I do, always. I turned, and saw a 
 fellow in a brown coat, with a piece of paper in his hand. I was 
 compelled to accept his invitation, so I requested that he would 
 step into the inn while I was taking a little breakfast. While I 
 was doing so, and while he was sitting at the other side of the fire, 
 in walked Pat Falvey, Mrs. Chute's footman, with his mistress's 
 compliments, to thank me for a present of baking apples I had 
 sent her. I winked at Pat, and looked at the bailiff. " Pat," says 
 I, " tell your mistress not to mention it ; and Pat," says I, dropping 
 to a whisper, " I am a prisoner." "Very well, sir," says Pat 
 aloud, and bowing as if I had given him some message. He left 
 the room, and in ten minutes I had the whole parish about the 
 windows. They came in, they called for the bailiff, they seized 
 him, and beat him until they didn't leave him worth looking at. 
 Dooly, the nailor, caught his arm, and O'Reilly, the blacksmith, 
 took him by the leg, and another by the hair, and another by the 
 throat ; and such a show as they made of him before five minutes 
 I never contemplated. But here was the beauty of it. I knew 
 the law, so I opposed the whole proceeding. " No rescue," says 
 I ; " I am his prisoner, gentlemen, and I will not he rescued ; so 
 don't beat the man ! — don't toss him in a blanket !— don't drag 
 him in the puddle ! — don't plunge him into the horse-pond^ I 
 entreat you ! " By some fatality my intentions were wholly mis- 
 conceived, and they performed exactly the things that I warned 
 them to avoid. They did beat him — they did toss him in a 
 blanket — they did drag him through the puddle — and they did 
 plunge him into the horse-pond ! Only imagine what were my 
 chagrin and disappointment. Doctor Leake maintains that it is 
 a misprision of battery — a law term I never heard in my life. As 
 if, by desiring them not to drag him through the horse-pond, I 
 imagined their doing it. Then it was an overt act of dragging 
 him through the horse-pond. Compassing the dragging him 
 through would have been an actual act of battery, but the imagin- 
 ing of it is only an overt act. As among the English regicides, 
 by cutting off the head of Charles, they were said to imagine his 
 
218 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 death, which was an overt act of treason, whereby compassing 
 his death was the actual treason itself. But in this case I deny 
 both the compassing and the imagination. What do you think 
 of it, Mr. Daly ? ' 
 
 ' I think,' said Kyrle, with a smile, ' that you ought to come and 
 take my opinion on it some day or other.' 
 
 ' Ah, ha ! ' replied Connolly, shaking his head. ' I understand 
 you, young lawyer ! Well, when I have a fee to spare, you shall 
 have it. But here is the turn up to my house. Est ubi locus — 
 how I forget my Latin ! Daly, will you come up and dine with 
 me?' 
 
 ' I cannot, thank you.' 
 
 ' Well, I 'm sorry for it. Creagh, you 're not going ? ' 
 
 ' I must.' 
 
 c Stop and dine.' 
 
 ' No. I '11 see you to-morrow. I have business in town.' 
 
 The party separated, Kyrle Daly and Creagh continuing to 
 ride in the same direction, while the rest wheeled off by a narrow 
 byroad. 
 
 'You will be at the wedding, I suppose, Mr. Daly?' said the 
 latter gentleman, after a silence of some minutes. 
 
 ' What wedding ? ' asked Kyrle, in some surprise. 
 
 ' Why, have you not heard of it ?• Miss Chute's wedding.' 
 
 ' Miss Chute ?' Kyrle repeated faintly. 
 
 'Yes. Everything, I understand, has been arranged for the 
 ceremony, and Cregan tells me it is to take place next month. 
 She would be a magnificent wife for any man ! ' 
 
 It was some moments before Kyrle could recover breath to ask 
 another question. 
 
 I And — a — of course you heard who is to be the bridegroom ? ' 
 he said, with much hesitation. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes. I thought he was a friend of yours. Mr. Hardress 
 Cregan.' 
 
 ' Cregan ! ' exclaimed Kyrle aloud, and starting as if he had 
 received a galvanic shock ; ' it is impossible.' 
 
 ' Sir ! ' said Creagh sternly. 
 
 I I think,' said Kyrle, governing himself by a violent exertion, 
 ' you must have been misinformed. Hardress Cregan is, as you 
 say, my friend, and he cannot be the man.' 
 
 ' 1 seldom, sir,' said Creagh, with a haughty curl on his lip, 
 f converse with any person who is capable of making false asser- 
 tions ; and, in the present instance, I should think the gentleman's 
 father no indifferent authority. 
 
 Again Kyrle Daly paused for some minutes in an emotion of 
 deep apprehension. ' Has Mr. Cregan, then, told you,' he said, 
 ' that his son was to be the bridegroom ? ' 
 
 1 1 have said he has.' 
 
 Daly closed his lips hard, and straightened his person, as if to 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 219 
 
 relieve an internal pain. This circumstance accounted for the 
 enigmatical silence of his friend. But what a horrible solution ! 
 
 ' It is very strange,' he said, ' notwithstanding. There are 
 many impediments to such a marriage. He is her cousin.' 
 
 ' Pooh, pooh, that 's a name of courtesy. It is only a connection 
 by affinity. Cousin ! Hang them all, cousins on a string, say I ! 
 They are the most dangerous rivals a man can have. Any other 
 man you can call out and shoot through the head, if he attempts 
 to interfere with your prospects, but cousins must have a privilege. 
 The lady may walk with her cousin (hang him !), and she may 
 dance with her cousin, and write to her cousin and it is only 
 when she has run away with her cousin that you find that you 
 have been cozened with a vengeance. 5 
 
 While Creagh made this speech, Kyrle Daly was running over 
 in his mind the entire circumstances of young Cregan's conduct, 
 and the conclusion to which his reflections brought him was, that 
 a more black and shameful treason had never been practised 
 between man and man. For the first time in his life, Kyrle Daly 
 wholly lost his self-government. Principle, religion, duty, justice, 
 all vanished for the instant from his mind, and nothing but the 
 deadly injury remained to stare him in the face. 
 
 i I will horsewhip him ! ' he said within his mind ; ' I will horse- 
 whip him at the wedding-feast. The cool, dark hypocrite ! I 
 suppose, sir,' he said aloud, turning to Creagh, with a smile of 
 calm and dignified courtesy, ' I suppose I may name you as my 
 authority for this?' 
 
 'Certainly, certainly,' returned the old duellist, with a short bow, 
 while his eyes lit up with pleasure at the idea of an affair of 
 honour. 'Stay a moment, Mr, Daly,' he added, as the young 
 gentleman was about to quicken his pace. * I perceive, sir, that 
 you are going to adopt, in this business, .the course that is usual 
 among men of honour. Now, I have had a little experience in 
 these affairs, and I am willing to be your friend ' 
 
 ' Pardon me, Mr. Creagh, I ' 
 
 * Nay, pardon me, Mr. Daly, if you please. I do not mean your 
 friend in the usual acceptation of the term ; I do not mean your 
 second ; you may have a desire to choose for yourself in that 
 respect ; I merely wished to say that I could afford you some 
 useful hints as to your conduct on the ground. In the first 
 instance, look to your powder. Dry it yourself, overnight, on a 
 plate, which you may keep hot over a vessel of warm water. 
 Insert your charge at the breech of the pistol, and let your ball 
 be covered with kid leather, softened with the finest salad oil. 
 See that your barrel is polished and free from dust. I have 
 known many a fine fellow lose his life by purchasing his ammuni- 
 tion at a grocer's on the morning of the duel. They bring it him 
 out of some cask in a damp cellar, and of course it hangs fire. Do 
 you avoid that fault. Then, when you come to the ground — level 
 
220 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ground, of course — fix your eye on some object beyond your foe, 
 and bring him in a line with that ; then let your pistol hang by 
 your side, and draw an imaginary line from the mouth of the 
 barrel to the third button of your opponent's coat. When the 
 word is given, raise your weapon rapidly along that line, and fire 
 at the button. He will never hear the shot.' 
 
 ' Tell me, Mr. Creagh,' said Kyrle, in a grave tone, after he had 
 heard these murderous directions to the end, 'are not you a 
 friend of Mr. Cregan?' 
 ' 'Yes. Very old friends.' 
 
 . * Do you not dine at his table, and sleep under his roof from 
 day»to day ? ' 
 
 'Pray, what is the object of these curious questions ? ' 
 . ' It is this,' said Kyrle, fixing his eyes upon the man ; ' I find it 
 impossible to express the disgust I feel at hearing you, the pro- 
 fessed and bounden friend of that family, thus practise upon the 
 life of one of its chief members — the son of your benefactor. 
 Away, sir, with your bloody science to those who will become 
 your pupils ! I hope the time will come in Ireland when you 
 and your mean and murderous class shall be despised and 
 trampled on as you deserve.' 
 
 'How am I too take this, Mr. Daly ?' 
 
 'As you will!' exclaimed Kyrle, driven wholly beyond the 
 bounds of self-possession, and tossing a desperate hand towards 
 the duellist. ' I have done with you.' 
 
 ' Not yet, please the fates,' Creagh said, in his usual restrained 
 tone, while Kyrle Daly galloped away in the direction of his 
 father's house. ' To-morrow morning, perhaps, you may be 
 enabled to say that with greater certainty. He is a fine young 
 fellow. I didn't think it was in him. Now, who shall I have ? 
 Connolly? Cregan? I owe it to Connolly, as I performed the 
 same office for him a short time since ; and yet, I 'd like to 
 pay old Cregan the compliment. Well, I can think about it as 
 I ride along.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 HOW KYRLE DALY'S WARLIKE ARDOUR WAS CHECKED BY AN 
 UNTOWARD INCIDENT 
 
 A JOYOUS piece of news awaited Kyrle Daly at the door of his own 
 home. Lowry Looby met him on the avenue, his little arms out- 
 stretched, and his huge mouth expanded with an expression of 
 delighted astonishment. 
 
 ' Oh, Master Kyrle !' he said, 'you 're just come in time. I was 
 goin' off for you. Hurry in — hurry in, sir ! There's a new little 
 sister within waiting for you this way.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 221 
 
 And your mistress, Lowry ? ' said Kryle, springing from his horse 
 and tossing his reins to the servant. 
 
 ' Finely, finely, sir, thank Heaven. 5 
 
 'Thank Heaven, indeed!' echoed Daly, hurrying on, with a 
 flushed and gladdened face, towards the hall door. Everything 
 of self, his disappointment, the treachery of his friend, the loss of 
 his mistress, and his dilemma with the duellist, were all forgotten in 
 his joy at the safety of his mother. 
 
 The door stood open, and the hall was crowded with servants, 
 children, and tenants. In the midst of a hundred exclamations of 
 wonder, delight, and affection, which broke from the lips of the 
 group, the faint cry of a baby was heard, no louder than the wail 
 of a young kitten. He saw his father holding the little stranger in 
 his arms, and looking in its face with a smile, which he was in vain 
 endeavouring to suppress. The old kitchen-maid stood on his 
 right, with her apron to her eyes, crying for joy. One or two 
 younger females, the wives of tenants, were on the other side, gazing 
 on the red and peevish little face of the innocent, with a smile of 
 maternal sympathy and compassion. A fair-haired girl clung to her 
 father's skirt, and petitioned loudly to be allowed to nurse it for a 
 moment. Another looked rebukingly upon her, and told her to be 
 silent. North-east and Charles had clambered upon a chair, to over- 
 look the throng which they could not penetrate. Patcy stood near 
 the parlour door, jumping with all his might, and clapping his hands 
 like one possessed. There appeared only one discontented figure on 
 the scene. It was that of little Sally, hitherto the pet and plaything 
 of the family, who stood in a distant corner, with her face turned 
 to the wall, her lip pouting, and her blue eye filling up with 
 jealous tears. 
 
 The moment Kyrle made his appearance at the door, the uproar 
 was redoubled. ' Kyrle ! Kyrle ! Here's Kyrle ! Kyrle, look at 
 your sister ! look at your sister ! ' exclaimed a dozen voices, while 
 the group at the same moment opened, and admitted him into the 
 centre. 
 
 ' Poor little darling ! ' said Kyrle, patting it on the cheek. * Is 
 it not better to take it in out of the cold, sir ? ' 
 
 ' I think so, Kyrle. Nurse ! Where 's the nurse ? ' 
 
 The door of Mrs. Daly's sleeping chamber opened, and a woman 
 appeared on the threshold, looking rather anxious. She ran 
 hastily through the hall, got a bowl of water in the kitchen, and 
 hurried back again into the bedroom. 
 
 'Why doesn't she come?' said Mr. Daly. 'The little thing 
 cries so, I am afraid it is pinched by the air.' 
 
 ' I suppose she is busy with my aunt O'Connell and her patient 
 yet,' said Kyrle. 
 
 A hurried tramping of feet was now heard in the bedroom, and 
 the sound of rapid voices in anxiety and confusion. A dead silence 
 sunk upon the hall. Mr. Daly and his son exchanged a glance 
 
222 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 of thrilling import. A low moan was the next sound that proceeded 
 from the room. The husband placed the child in the arms of the 
 old woman, and hurried to the chamber door. He was met at the 
 threshold by his sister, Mrs. O'Connell (a grave-looking lady in 
 black), who placed her hand against his breast, and said, with great 
 agitation of manner : 
 
 1 Charles, you must not come in yet.' 
 
 1 Why so, Mary ? How is she ? ' 
 
 'Winny,' said Mrs. O'Connell, addressing the old woman who 
 held the infant, ' take the child into the kitchen until the nurse can 
 come to you.' 
 
 ' How is Sally ?' repeated the anxious husband. 
 
 ' You had better go into the parlour, Charles. Recollect yourself 
 now, my dear Charles, remember your children ' 
 
 The old man began to tremble. ' Mary,' he said, ' why will you 
 not answer me ? How is she ? ' 
 
 ' She is not better, Charles.' 
 
 'Not better!' 
 
 1 No, far otherwise.' 
 
 1 Far otherwise ! Come ! woman, let me pass into the room. 5 
 
 1 You must not, indeed you must not, Charles ! ' exclaimed his 
 sister, flinging her arms round his neck and bursting into tears. 
 1 Kyrle, Kyrle ! speak to him ! ' 
 
 Young Daly caught his father's arm. 'Well, well,' said the 
 latter, looking round him with a calm, yet ghastly smile, ' if you 
 are all against me, I must, of course, submit.' 
 
 ' Come with me to the parlour,' said Mrs. O'Connell, ' and I will 
 explain to you.' 
 
 She took him by the arm, and led him, with a vacant counten- 
 ance and passive demeanour, through the silent and astonished 
 group. They entered the parlour, and the door was closed by Mrs. 
 O'Connell. Kyrle Daly remained fixed like a statue, in the same 
 attitude in which his aunt had left him, and a moment of intense 
 and deep anxiety ensued. The rare and horrid sound, the scream 
 of an old man in suffering, was the first that broke on that porten- 
 tous stillness. It acted like a spell upon the group in the hall. 
 They were dispersed in an instant. The women ran shrieking in 
 various directions. The men looked dismayed and uttered hurried 
 sentences of wonder and affright. The children terrified by the con- 
 fusion, added their shrill and helpless wailings to the rest. The 
 death-cry re-echoed in the bedroom, in the parlour, and in the 
 kitchen. From every portion of the dwelling the funeral shriek 
 ascended to the Heavens ; and Death and Sorrow, like armed 
 conquerors, seemed to have possessed themselves by sudden 
 storm of this little hold, where peace and happiness had reigned 
 so long and calmly. 
 
 Kyrle's first impulse on hearing his father's voice, made him 
 rush to the bedroom of his mother. There was no longer any 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 223 
 
 opposition at the door, and he entered with a throbbing heart. 
 The nurse was crying aloud, and wringing her hands at the fire- 
 place. Mrs. Leahy, the midwife, was standing near the bed-side 
 with a troubled and uneasy countenance, evidently as much con- 
 cerned for the probable injury to her own reputation as for the 
 affliction of the family. Kyrle passed them both and drew back 
 the curtain of the bed. His mother was lying back quite dead, 
 and with an expression of languid pain upon her features. 
 
 1 I never saw a case o' the kind in my life,' muttered Mrs. Leahy. 
 'I have attended hundreds in my time, and I never saw the like. 
 She was sitting up in her bed, sir, as well as I 'd wish to see her, 
 an' I just stepped to the fire to warm a little gruel, when I heard 
 Mrs. O'Connell calling me ; I ran to the bed, an' sure there I found 
 her dying ! She just gave one moan, and 'twas all over. I never 
 heard of such a case. All the skill in the world wouldn't be any 
 good in such a business.' 
 
 Kyrle Daly felt no inclination to dispute the point with her. A 
 heavy, dizzy sensation was in his brain, which made his actions 
 and his manners resemble those of a person who walks in his sleep. 
 He knelt down to pray, but a feeling like lethargy disqualified him 
 for any exercise of devotion. He rose again, and walked list- 
 lessly into the hall. 
 
 Almost at the same moment, Mr. Daly appeared at the parlour 
 door, followed by his aged sister, who was still in tears. The old 
 man glanced at his children, and waved his hands before him. 
 1 Take them from my sight,' he said, in a low voice ; c let the 
 orphans be removed ; go now, my children, we never shall be happy 
 here again.' 
 
 1 Charles, my dear Charles ! ' said his sister, in a tone of gentle 
 remonstrance, while she laid her hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 ' Well, Mary, I will do whatever you like. Heaven knows I am 
 not fit to direct myself now. Ha ! Kyrle, are you returned ? I 
 remember I wrote you word to come home to conclude the Christ- 
 mas with us. I did not think you would have so mournful a home 
 to come to. When did you come ? ' 
 
 ' You forget, Charles, that you saw Kyrle a while ago,' said Mrs. 
 O'Connell. 
 
 'Did I? I had forgotten it,' returned Mr. Daly, tossing his 
 head. He extended his hand to Kyrle, and burst into tears. 
 Kyrle could not do so. He passed his father and aunt, and 
 entered the parlour, which was now deserted. He sat down at a 
 small table before the window, and leaning on his elbow, looked 
 out upon the face of the river. The wintry tide was flowing against 
 a sharp and darkening gale, and a number of boats, with close- 
 reefed sails and black hulls, heeling to the blast, were beating 
 through the yellow waves ; the sky was low and dingy ; the hills 
 of Cratloe rose on the other side in all their bleak and barren 
 wildness of attire. A harsh wind stirred the dry and leafless wood- 
 
224 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 bines that covered the front of the cottage, and every object in the 
 landscape seemed to wear a character of dreariness and discomfort. 
 
 Here he remained for several hours in the same dry and stolid 
 mood of reflection. Not a single tear, not a single sound of 
 sorrow, was added by him to the general clamour of the house- 
 hold. He never before had been tried by an occasion of this 
 nature, and his present apathy filled him with alarm and astonish- 
 ment. He listened to the wailings of the women and children, 
 and he looked on the moistened faces of those who hurried past his 
 chair from time to time, until he began to accuse himself of want 
 of feeling and affection. 
 
 While he sat thus silent, the door was opened, and Lowry 
 Looby thrust in his head to inform him that the family were assem- 
 bled to say a litany in the other room. Kyrle rose, and proceeded 
 thither without reply or question, while Lowry, oppressed with 
 grief, made his retreat into the kitchen. Here he was met by the 
 nurse, who asked him for some halfpence, that she might lay them, 
 according to custom, on the lips and eyes of the corpse. 
 
 * I didn't like,' she said, ' to be tazing any o' the family about 
 it, an' they in throuble.' 
 
 1 Surely, surely,' said Lowry, while he searched his pockets for 
 the coin. * Ah, nurse ! so that 's the way ye let her go between ye ! 
 Oh, asthora, Mrs. Daly ! an' 'tis I that lost the good misthress in 
 you this day ! Soft and pleasant be your bed in Heaven this 
 night ! An' so it will. You never refused to feed the hungry 
 here, an' God won't refuse to feed you where you are gone. You 
 never turned the poor out o' your house in this world, an' God 
 won't turn you out of His house in the other. Soft and pleasant 
 be your bed in Heaven this night, Mrs. Daly ! Winny, eroo, 
 wasn't it you was telling me that the misthress's three first 
 childher died at nurse ? ' 
 
 Old Winny was sitting by the fireside, dandling the now for- 
 gotten little infant in her arms, and lulling it with an ancient ditty, 
 of which the following beautiful fragment formed the burthen : 
 
 * Gilli beg le m' onum thu ! 
 Gilli beg le m' chree ! 
 Coth yani me von gilli beg, 
 'N heur ve thu more a creena ? ' 
 
 ' My soul's little darling you are ! 
 My heart's little darling ! 
 What will I do without my little darling, 
 When you 're grown up and old ? ' 
 
 'They did,' she said, in answer to Lowry's question, 'all before 
 Master North-aist went off so fast as they wor wained.' 
 
 1 See that 1 ' said Lowry. ' She cried — I wasn't in the family 
 then — but still I know she cried a pottle for every one o' them. 
 An' see how it is now — she has them three little angels waitin' to 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 225 
 
 recaive her at the gate of Heaven this day. Here is the money, 
 nurse, an' I wish every coin of it was goold for the use you 're 
 going to make of it.' 
 
 The nurse left the kitchen, and Lowry took his seat upon the 
 settle-bed, where he remained for some time, looking downwards 
 and striking the end of his walking-stick against the floor, gently 
 and at regular intervals. The crying of the child disturbed his 
 meditations, and he frequently lifted his head, and stared with a 
 look of stern remonstrance at the unconscious innocent. 
 
 1 The Lord forgive you, you little disciple ! ' said Lowry, ' 'tis 
 little you know what harm you done this day ! Do all you can 
 — grow up as fine as a queen, an' talk like an angel — 'twill set you 
 to fill up the place o' the woman you took away from us this day. 
 Howl your tongue, again I tell you, 'tis we that have raison to 
 cry, an' not you.' 
 
 The news of this unexpected visitation became diffused 
 throughout the country with a speed resembling that of sound 
 itself. Friend after friend dropped in as evening fell, and the little 
 parlour was crowded before midnight. It was a dreadful night 
 without, the same (it will be remembered) on which Eily O'Connor 
 left the cottage in the Gap. The thunder clattered close overhead, 
 the rain fell down in torrents, and the reflection of the frequent 
 lightning-flashes danced upon the glasses and bowl, around which 
 the company were seated in the parlour. It was yet too soon 
 for the report to have reached the ears of the real friends of the 
 family, whose condolence might have been more efficacious than 
 that of the humbler crowd of distant relatives and dependents 
 who were now assembled in the house of mourning. Kyrle con- 
 sidered this, and yet he could not avoid a certain dreary and 
 desolate feeling, as he looked round upon the throng of persons 
 by whom their hearth was girded. But though he could not 
 receive from them the delicate condolence which his equals 
 might have afforded, their sympathy was not less cordial and 
 sincere. 
 
 The night passed away in silence and watching. A few con- 
 versed in low whispers, and some pressed each other, by signs, 
 to drink ; but this courtesy was for the most part declined by 
 a gathering of the brows and a shake of the head. The grey 
 and wintry morning found the dwelling thronged with pale, un- 
 washed, and lengthened faces. Some strayed out on the little 
 lawn, to breathe the river air. Others thronged the room of 
 death, where an early mass was celebrated for the soul of the 
 departed. At intervals a solitary cry of pain and grief was heard 
 to break from some individual of the crowd, but it was at once 
 repressed by the guests, with low sounds of anger and surprise. 
 The family were silent in their woe, and it was thought daring in 
 a stranger to usurp their prerogative of sorrow. 
 
 The arrivals were more frequent in the course of the second 
 
 P 
 
226 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 evening, and a number of gigs, curricles, and outside jaunting- 
 cars were laid by in the yard. No circumstance could more fully 
 demonstrate the estimation in which this family was held, than 
 the demeanour of the guests as they entered the house. Instead 
 of the accustomed ceremonials which friends use at meeting, they 
 recognised each other in silence and with reserve, as in a house 
 of worship. Sometimes a lifting of the eyelid and a slight eleva- 
 tion of the hand, expressed their dismay and their astonishment ; 
 and if they did exchange a whisper, it was only to give expression 
 to the same feeling. * It was a dreadful loss ! Poor man ! 
 What will become of the children ? ' 
 
 About nightfall on the second evening, Kyrle was standing at 
 the window of the room in which the corpse was laid out. The 
 old nurse was lighting the candles that were to burn on either 
 side of the death-bed. The white curtains were festooned with 
 artificial roses, and a few were scattered upon the counterpane. 
 Kyrle was leaning with his arm against the window-sash, and 
 looking out upon the river, when Mrs. O'Connell laid her hand 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 ' Kyrle,' said she, ' I wish you would speak to your father, and 
 make him go to bed to-night. It would be a great deal too much 
 for him to go without rest the two nights successively.' 
 
 1 I have already spoken to him,- aunt, and he has promised 
 me that he will retire early to his room. We ought to be all 
 obliged to you, aunt, for your attention ; it is in conjunctures like 
 this that we discover our real friends. I am only afraid that you 
 will suffer from your exertions. Could you not find somebody 
 to attend to the company to-night, while you are taking a little 
 rest?' 
 
 * Oh ! I am an old nurse-tender,' said Mrs. O'Connell. ' I am 
 accustomed to sit up. Do not think of me, Kyrle.' 
 
 She left the room, and Kyrle resumed his meditative posture. 
 Up to this moment he had not shed a single tear, and the nurse 
 was watching him, from time to time, with an anxious and uneasy 
 eye. As he remained looking out, an old man, dressed in dark 
 frieze, and with a stooping gait, appeared upon the little 
 avenue. The eye of Kyrle rested on his figure, as he walked 
 slowly forward, assisting his aged limbs with a seasoned black- 
 thorn stick. He figured, involuntarily, to his own mind, the 
 picture of this poor old fellow in his cottage, taking his hat and 
 stick, and telling his family that he would ' step over to Mrs. 
 Daly's wake.' To Mrs. Daly's wake ! His mother, with whom he 
 had dined on the Christmas Day just past, in perfect health 
 and security ! The incident was slight, but it struck the spring 
 of nature in his heart. He turned from the window, threw him- 
 self into a chair, extended his arms, let his head hang back, and 
 burst at once into a loud and hysterical passion of grief. 
 
 Instantly the room was thronged with anxious figures. All 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 227 
 
 gathered around his chair with expressions of compassion and 
 condolence. 
 
 ' Come out — come out into the air, Masther Kyrle,' said the 
 nurse, while she added her tears to his. 'Don't, a'ra gal. Don't 
 now, asthora ma chree. Oh ! then, 'tis little wondher you should 
 feel your loss.' 
 
 1 Kyrle,' said Mrs. O'Connell, in a voice nearly as convulsive as 
 his whom she sought to comfort, ' remember your father, Kyrle ; 
 don't disturb him.' 
 
 ' Let me alone — oh, let me alone, aunt Mary,' returned the 
 young man, waving his hands, and turning away his head, in deep 
 suffering. '1 tell you I shall die if you prevent me.' And he 
 abandoned himself once more to a convulsive fit of weeping. 
 
 1 Let him alone, as he says,' whimpered old Winny. ' I 'm sure I 
 thought it wasn't natural he should keep it on his heart so long. 
 It will do him good. Oh, vo, vo ! it is a frightful thing to hear a 
 man crying.' 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Daly appeared amid the group. He walked up 
 to Kyrle's chair, and took him by the arm. The latter checked 
 his feelings on the instant, and arose with a calm and ready obedi- 
 ence. As they passed the foot of the bed, the father and son 
 paused, as if by a consent of intelligence. They exchanged one 
 silent glance, and then flinging themselves each on the other's 
 neck, they wept long, loudly, and convulsively together. There 
 was no one now to interfere. No one dared at this moment to 
 assume the office of comforter, and every individual acted the 
 part of a principal in the affliction. The general wail of sorrow 
 which issued from the room was once more echoed in the 
 other parts of the dwelling,, and the winds bore it to the ear of 
 Hardress Cregan, as he approached the avenue. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 HOW HARDRESS MET A FRIEND OF EILY'S AT THE WAKE 
 
 He entered the house with that species of vulgar resolution which 
 a person feels who is conscious of deserving a repulse, and deter- 
 mined to outface it ; but his bravery was wholly needless. Poor 
 Kyrle was busy now with other thoughts than those of Cregan's 
 treachery. 
 
 He was shown into the parlour, in which the gentlemen were 
 seated round the fire, and listening to the mournful clamour which 
 yet had hardly subsided in the distant room. The table was 
 covered with decanters of wine, bowls of whisky-punch, and long 
 
228 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 glasses. A large turf fire blazed in the grate, and Lowry Looby 
 was just occupied in placing on the table a pair of plated 
 candlesticks almost as long as himself. Mr. Barnaby Cregan, 
 Mr. Connolly, Doctor Leake, and several other gentlemen were 
 seated at one side of the fire. On the other stood a vacant chair, 
 from which Mr. Daly had been summoned a few minutes before 
 by the voice of his son in suffering. A little farther back, on a 
 row of chairs which was placed along the wall, the children were 
 seated — some of them with countenances touchingly dejected, and 
 a few of the very youngest appearing still more touchingly un- 
 conscious of their misfortune. The remainder of the circle (which, 
 though widened to the utmost limit, completely filled the room) 
 consisted of the more fortuneless connections of the family, 
 their tradesmen, and some of the more comfortable class of tenants. 
 One or two persons took upon themselves the office of attending 
 to the company, supplying them with liquor, and manufacturing 
 punch, according as the fountain was exhausted. 
 
 When Hardress appeared at the door, his eye met that of 
 Connolly, who beckoned to him in silence, and made room for 
 him upon his own chair. He took his place, and looked round 
 for some members of the family. It was, perhaps, rather to his 
 relief than disappointment, that he could not discern Kyrle Daly 
 or his father among the company. 
 
 Shortly afterwards two or three clergymen made their appear- 
 ance, and were with difficulty accommodated with places. While 
 Hardress was occupied in perusing the countenances of these 
 last, he felt his arm grasped, and turning round, received a nod 
 of recognition, and a hand shake (such as was then in fashion) 
 from Dr. Leake. 
 
 'A dreadful occasion this, doctor,' whispered Hardress. 
 
 The doctor shut his eyes, knit his brows, thrust out his lips, 
 and shook his head with an air of deep reproof. Laying his hand 
 familiarly on Hardress's knee, and looking fixedly in his face, 
 said : 
 
 ' My dear Cregan, 'tis a warning — 'tis a warning to the whole 
 country. This is what comes of employing unscientific persons.' 
 
 Some whispering conversation now proceeded amongst the 
 guests, which, however, was suddenly interrupted by the appear- 
 ance of Kyrle Daly at the parlour door. He walked across the 
 room with that port of mournful ease and dignity which men are 
 apt to exhibit under any deep emotion, and took possession of the 
 vacant chair before alluded to. Not forgetful in his affliction of 
 the courtesy of a host, he looked around to see what new faces had 
 entered during his absence. He recognised the clergymen, and 
 addressed them with a calm yet cordial politeness. 
 
 1 1 hope,' he said, smiling courteously, yet sadly, as he looked 
 upon the circle : ' I hope the gentlemen will excuse my father 
 for his absence. He was anxious to return, but I prevented him. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 229 
 
 I thought a second night's watching would have been too severe 
 a trial of his strength.' 
 
 A general murmur of assent followed this appeal, and the 
 
 speaker, resting his forehead on his hand, was silent for an instant. 
 
 ' I wish you would follow his example, Kyrle,' said Mr. Cregan. 
 
 I I am sure we can all take care of ourselves, and you must want 
 rest.' 
 
 1 It is madness,' said Connolly, ' for the living to injure their 
 health, when it can be of no possible use.' 
 
 * Pray, do not speak of it,' said Kyrle ; * if I felt in the least 
 degree fatigued, I should not hesitate. Lowry,' he added, calling 
 to his servant, who started and turned round on his heel, with a 
 serious eagerness that would at any other time have been comic in 
 its effect — ' Lowry, will you tell Mrs. O'Connell to send in some tea ? 
 Some of the gentlemen may wish to take it.' 
 
 Lowry disappeared, and Kyrle relapsed into his attitude of 
 motionless dejection. A long silence ensued, the guests con- 
 versing only by secret whispers, signs, and gestures, and significant 
 contortions of the face. It was once more broken by Kyrle, who, 
 looking at Mr. Cregan, said, in a restrained and steady voice : 
 'Has Hardress returned from Killarney yet, Mr. Cregan?' 
 
 Hardress felt his blood rush through his veins, like that of a 
 convict, when he hears from the bench those fearful words : ' Bring 
 him up for judgment ! ' He made a slight motion in his chair, 
 while his father answered the question of Kyrle. 
 
 ' Hardress is here,' said Mr. Cregan ; ' he came while you were 
 out.' - 
 
 ' Here ! is he ? I ought to be ashamed of myself,' said Kyrle, 
 rising slowly from his chair, and meeting his old friend halfway 
 with an extended hand. They looked to the eye of the guests, pale 
 cold, and passionless, like two animated corpses. ' But Hardress,' 
 continued Kyrle, with a ghastly lip, ' will excuse me, I hope. Did 
 you leave Mrs. Cregan well ?' 
 
 1 Quite well,' muttered Hardress, with a confused bow. 
 
 c I am glad of it,' returned Kyrle, in the same tone of calm, dig- 
 nified, and yet mournful politeness. 'You are fortunate, Hardress, 
 in that. If I had met you yesterday, I would have answered a 
 similar question with the same confidence. And see how short ' 
 
 A sudden passion choked his utterance ; he turned aside, and 
 both the young men resumed their seats in silence. 
 
 There was something to Hardress infinitely humiliating in this 
 brief interview. The manner of Kyrle Daly, as it regarded him, 
 was merely indifferent. It was not cordial, for then it must neces- 
 sarily have been hypocritical, but neither could he discern the 
 slightest indication of a resentful feeling. He saw that Kyrle 
 Daly was perfectly aware of his treason ; he saw that his esteem 
 and friendship were utterly extinct ; and he saw, likewise, that 
 he had formed the resolution of never exchanging with him a 
 
230 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 word of explanation or reproach, and of treating him in future as 
 an indifferent acquaintance, who could not be esteemed, and ought 
 to be avoided. This calm avoidance was the stroke that cut him 
 to the quick. 
 
 Lowry now entered with tea, and a slight movement took place 
 amongst the guests. Many left their places, and order being re- 
 stored, Hardress found himself placed between two strangers, of 
 a rank more humble than his own. He continued to sip his tea for 
 some time in silence, when a slight touch on his arm made him turn 
 round. He beheld on his right an old man dressed in dark frieze, 
 with both hands crossed on the head of his walking-stick, his chin 
 resting upon them, and his eye fixed upon Hardress with an air of 
 settled melancholy. It was the same old man whose appearance 
 in the avenue had produced so deep an effect on Kyrle Daly — 
 Mihil O'Connor, the ropemaker. 
 
 * I beg your pardon, sir,' he said gently ; c but I think I have 
 seen your face somewhere before now. Did you ever spend an 
 evening at Garryowen ? ' 
 
 If, as he turned on his chair, the eye of Hardress had encoun- 
 tered that of the corpse, which now lay shrouded and coffined in 
 the other room, he could not have experienced a more sudden re- 
 vulsion of affright. He did not answer the question of the old 
 man (his father-in-law ! the plundered parent !), but remained 
 staring and gaping on him in silence. Old Mihil imagined that 
 he was at a loss, and labouring to bestir his memory. ' Don't you 
 remember, sir, 5 he added, ' on a Patrick's Eve, saving an old man 
 and a girl from a parcel o' the boys in Mungret Street ? ' 
 
 * I do,' answered Hardress in a low and hoarse voice. 
 
 ' I thought I remembered the face and the make,' returned Mihil. 
 'Well, sir, I'm the same old man, and many's the time, since 
 that night, that I wished (if it was Heaven's will) that both she 
 and I had died that night upon the spot together. I wished that 
 when you seen us that time, you passed us by, and never riz a hand 
 to save us — always if it was Heaven's will, for I 'm submissive ; the 
 will of Heaven be done, for I 'm a great sinner, and I deserved 
 great punishment, and great punishment I got ; great punishment 
 that 's laid on my old heart this night ! ' 
 
 ' 1 pity you ! ' muttered Hardress involuntarily. 'I pity you, 
 although you may not think it.' 
 
 'For what?' exclaimed the old man, still in a whisper, elevating his 
 person, and planting his stick upright upon the floor. ' For what 
 would you pity me ? You know nothing about me, man, that you 'd 
 pity me for. If I was to tell you my story, you'd pity me, I know ; for 
 there isn't that man living, with a heart in his breast, that wouldn't 
 feel it. But I won't tell it to you, sir. I 'm tired of telling it, that 's 
 what I am. _ I 'm tired of talking of it, an' thinking of it, an' 
 dreaming of it, an' I wisht I was in my grave, to be done with it 
 for ever for a story — always, always,' he added, lifting his eyes 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 231 
 
 in devout fear — ' always, if it was Heaven's will. Heaven forgi' 
 me ! I say what I oughtn't to say, sometimes, thinkin' of it.' 
 
 * I understand,' muttered Hardress incoherently. The old man 
 did not hear him. 
 
 * An' still, for all,' Mihil added, after a pause, { as I spoke of it at 
 all, I '11 tell you something of it. That girl you saw that night 
 with me — she was a beautiful little girl, sir, wasn't she ? ' 
 
 'Do you think so?' Hardress murmured, still without knowing 
 what he said. 
 
 ' Do I think so ? ' echoed the father, with a grim smile. * It 's little 
 matter what her father thought. The world knew her for a beauty, 
 but what was the good of it ? She left me there ; afther that night, 
 an' went off with a stranger.' 
 
 Hardress again said something, but it resembled only the 
 delirious murmurs of a person on the rack. 
 
 ' Oh, vo, Eily ! that night, that woful night ! ' continued the old 
 man. * I 'm ashamed o' myself, to be always this way, like an 
 ould woman, moaning and ochoning among the neighbours ; like 
 an ould goose, that would be cackling afther the flock, or a fool of a 
 little bird, whistling upon a bough of a summer evening, afther 
 the nest is robbed.' 
 
 'How close this room is !' said Hardress ; 'the heat is suffo- 
 cating.' 
 
 ' I thought at first,' continued Mihil, ' that it is dead she was, 
 but a letther come to a neighbour o' mine to let me know that she 
 was alive and hearty. I know how it was. Some villyan that 
 enticed her off. I sent the neighbour westwards to look afther 
 her, an' I thought he'd be back to-day, but he isn't. I tould him 
 to call at my brother's, the priest's, in Castle Island. Sure, he 
 writes me word, he seen her himself of a Christmas Day last, an' 
 that she tould him she was married, and coming home shortly. 
 Ayeh, I 'm afraid the villyan decaived her, an' that she 's not 
 rightly married ; for I made it my business to inquire of every 
 priest in town and counthry, an' none of 'em could tell me a word 
 about it. She decaived me, an' I 'm afeered he 's decaivin' her. 
 There let him ! there let him ! But there 's a throne in Heaven, 
 and there 's One upon it, an' that man, an' my daughter, an' I will 
 stand together before that throne one day ! ' 
 
 ' Let me go ! ' cried Hardress aloud, and breaking from the circle 
 with violence. ' Let me go ! let me go ! — can any one bear this ? ' 
 
 Such an incident, amid the general silence, and on this solemn 
 occasion, could not fail to produce a degree of consternation 
 amongst the company. Kyrle looked up with an expression of 
 strong feeling. 'What's the matter?' 'What has happened?' 
 was asked by several voices. ' It is highly indecorous.' ' It is 
 very unfeeling,' was added by many more. 
 
 Hardress stayed not to hear their observations, but struggled 
 through the astonished crowd, and reached the door. Kyrle, after 
 
232 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 looking in vain for an explanation, once more leaned down with 
 his forehead on his hand, and remained silent. 
 
 i He 's a good young gentleman,' said Mihil O'Connor, looking 
 after Hardress and addressing those who sat around him. ' I was 
 telling him the story of my daughter. He's a good young gentle- 
 man — he has great nature.' 
 
 The unfortunate Hardress in the meantime strayed onward 
 through the hall of the cottage, with the feeling of a man who has 
 just escaped from the hands of justice. He entered another room 
 appropriate to the female guests, where Mrs. O'Connell presided 
 at the tea-table. The gradation of ranks in this apartment was 
 similar to that in the other, but the company were not quite so 
 scrupulous in the maintenance of silence. A general and very 
 audible whispering conversation was carried on, in which a few 
 young gentlemen, who were sprinkled among the ladies, took no in- 
 active part. A hush, of some moments' duration, took place on the 
 entrance of Hardress, and a hundred curious eyes were turned on 
 his figure. His extreme paleness, the wildness of his eyes, and the 
 ghastly attempt at courtesy which he made as he entered, occa- 
 sioned a degree of general surprise. He passed on, and took his 
 seat by the side of Mrs. O'Connell, who, like Mihil, placed his 
 agitation to the account of sympathy, and entered him at once 
 upon her list of favourites. 
 
 A number of young ladies were seated on the right of this good 
 lady, and at a distance from the long table, round which were 
 placed a number of females of a humbler rank, dressed out in all 
 their finery, and doing honour to Mrs. O'Connell's tea and coffee. 
 One or two young gentlemen were waiting on the small circle of 
 ladies, who sat apart near the fire, with tea, cakes, toast, etc. The 
 younger of the two, a handsome lad, of a cultivated figure, seemed 
 wholly occupied in showing off his grace and gallantry. The other, 
 a grave wag, strove to. amuse the ladies by paying a mock cere- 
 monious attention to the tradesmen's wives and daughters at the 
 other side of the fire, and to amuse himself by provoking the ladies 
 to laugh. 
 
 Revolutions in private, as in public life, are occasions which call 
 into action the noblest and meanest principles of our nature — the 
 extremes of generosity and selfishness. As Lowry Looby took 
 away the tea-service, he encountered, in the hall and kitchen, a few 
 sullen and discontented faces. Some complained that they had 
 not experienced the slightest attention since their arrival, and 
 others declared, they had not got ' as much as one cup o' tay.' 
 
 ' Why, then, mend ye ! ' said Lowry, ' why didn't ye call for it ? 
 Do you think people that 's in trouble that way, has nothing else to 
 do but to be thinkin' o' ye an' o' yer aitin' an drinkin' ? What talk 
 it is ! There 's people in this world, I b'lieve, that thinks more o 5 
 their own little finger than o' the lives an' fortunes o' all the rest.' 
 
 So saying, he took a chair before the large kitchen fire, which, 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 233 
 
 like those in the two other apartments, was surrounded by a class 
 of watchers. On a wooden form at one side were seated the female 
 servants of the house, and opposite to them the hearse-driver, the 
 mutes, the drivers of two or three hack-carriages, and one or two 
 of the gentlemen's servants. The table was covered with bread, 
 jugs of punch, and Cork porter. A few, exhausted by the preceding 
 night's watching, and overpowered by the heat of the fire, were 
 lying asleep in various postures, on the settle-bed at the farther end. 
 
 1 'Twill be a good funeral,' said the hearse-driver, laying aside 
 the mug of porter, from which he had just taken a refreshing 
 draught. 
 
 ' If it isn't, it ought,' said Lowry ; 'they're people, sir, that are 
 well known in the counthry.' 
 
 1 Surely, surely,' said one of the hack-coachmen, taking a pipe 
 from the corner of his mouth, ' an' well liked, too, by all accounts.' 
 
 A moan from the females gave a mournful assent to this 
 proposition. 
 
 ' Ah, she was a queen of a little woman,' said Lowry. ' She was 
 too good for this world. Oh, vo ! where 's the use o' talking at 
 all ! Sure 'twas only a few days since I was saltin' the bacon at the 
 table over, an' she standin' a near me, knitting. "I'm afraid, 
 Lowry," says she, " we won't find that bacon enough ; I 'm sorry I 
 didn't get another o' them pigs killed." Little she thought that 
 time that they 'd outlast herself. She never lived to see 'em in 
 pickle ! ' 
 
 A pause of deep affliction followed this speech, which was once 
 more broken by the hearse-driver. 
 
 ' The grandest funeral,' said he, ' that ever I see in my life, was 
 that of the Marquis of Watherford, father to the present man. It 
 was a sighth for a king. There was six men marching out before 
 the hearse, with goold sticks in their hands, an' as much black silk 
 about 'em as a lady. The coffin was covered all over with black 
 velvet an' goold, an' there was his name "above upon the top of it, 
 on a great goold plate intirely, that was shining like the sun. I 
 never saw such a sighth before nor since. There was forty-six 
 carriages after the hearse, an' every one of 'em belonging to a lord, 
 or an estated man at the laste. It flogged all the shows I ever 
 see since I was able to walk the ground.' 
 
 The eyes of the whole party were fixed in admiration upon the 
 speaker, while he made the above oration with much importance 
 of look and gesture. Lowry, who felt that poor Mrs. Daly's funeral 
 must necessarily shrink into insignificance in comparison with this 
 magnificent description, endeavoured to diminish its effect upon the 
 imaginations of the company by a few philosophical remarks. 
 
 ' 'Twas a great funeral, surely,' he began. 
 
 c Great !' exclaimed the hearse-driver ; 'it was worth walking to 
 Watherford to see it.' 
 
 ' Them that has money, 5 added Lowry, ' can easily find means to 
 
234 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 sport it. An' still, for all, now, sir, if a man was to look into the 
 rights o' the thing, what was the good o' all that ? What was the 
 good of it for him that was in the hearse, or for them that wor afther 
 it ? The Lord save us, it isn't what goold an' silver they had upon 
 their hearses, they '11 be axed where they are going ; only what use 
 they made of the goold an' silver that was given them in this world. 
 'Tisn't how many carriages was afther 'em, but how many good 
 actions went before 'em ; nor how they were buried, they '11 be axed, 
 but how they lived. Them are the questions, the Lord save us, 
 that '11 be put to us all, one day ; an' them are the questions that 
 Mrs. Daly could answer this night as well as the Marquis of 
 Watherford, or any other lord or marquis in the land.' 
 
 The appeal was perfectly successful : the procession of the 
 marquis, the gold sticks, the silks, the velvet, and the forty-six 
 carriages were forgotten ; the hearse-driver resumed his mug of 
 porter, and the remainder of the company returned to their attitudes 
 of silence and dejection. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 HOW THE WAKE CONCLUDED 
 
 It was intended that the funeral should proceed at daybreak. 
 Towards the close of a hurried breakfast, which the guests took by 
 candle-light, the tinkling of a small silver bell summoned them to 
 an early mass, which was being celebrated in the room of the dead. 
 As Hardress obeyed its call, he found the apartment already 
 crowded, and a number of the domestics and other dependents 
 of the family kneeling at the door and in the hall. The low mur- 
 mur of the clergyman's voice was only interrupted occasionally by 
 a faint moan, or a short, thick sob, heard amid the crowd. The 
 density of the press around the door prevented Hardress from 
 ascertaining the individuals from whom those sounds of affliction 
 proceeded. 
 
 When the ceremony had concluded, and when the room became 
 less thronged, he entered and took his place near the window. 
 There was some whispering between Mrs. O'Connell, his father, 
 Hepton Connolly, and one or two other friends of the family. They 
 were endeavouring to contrive some means for withdrawing Kyrle 
 and his father from the apartment, while the most mournful crisis 
 of this domestic calamity was carried on — the removal of the coffin 
 from the dwelling of its perished inmate. Mr. Daly seemed to 
 have some suspicion of an attempt of this kind, for he had taken 
 his seat close by the bed's head, and sat erect in his chair, with a 
 look of fixed and even gloomy resolution. Kyrle was standing at 
 the head of the coffin, his arms crossed upon the bed, his face buried 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 235 
 
 between them, and his whole frame as motionless as that of one in 
 a deep slumber. The priest was unvesting himself at the table near 
 the window, which had been elevated a little, so as to serve for an 
 altar. The clerk was at his side, placing the chalice, altar-cloths, 
 and vestments, in a large ticken-bag, according as they were folded. 
 A few old women still remained kneeling at the foot of the bed, 
 rocking their persons from side to side, and often striking their 
 bosoms with the cross of the long rosary. The candles were now 
 almost burnt down and smouldering in their sockets, and the winter 
 dawn, which broke through the open window, was gradually over- 
 mastering their yellow and imperfect light. 
 
 ' Kyrle,' said Hepton Connolly in a whisper, touching the arm of 
 the afflicted son, ' come with me into the parlour for an instant ; I 
 want to speak to you.' 
 
 Kyrle raised his head, and stared on the speaker, like one who 
 suddenly wakes from a long sleep. Connolly took him by the sleeve, 
 with an urgent look, and led him passively out of the apartment. 
 
 Mr. Daly saw the manoeuvre, but he did not appear to notice it. 
 He kept the same rigid, set position, and looked straight forwards 
 with the same determined and unwinking glance as if he feared 
 the slightest movement might unhinge his resolution. 
 
 * Daly,' said Mr. Cregan, advancing to his side, ' Mr. Neville, the 
 clergyman, wishes to speak with you in the middle room.' 
 
 * I will not leave this ! ' said the widower, in a low, short, and 
 muttering voice, while his eyes rilled up with a gloomy fire, and his 
 manner resembled that of a tigress who suspects some invasion of 
 her young, but endeavours to conceal that suspicion until the first 
 stroke is made — ' I will not stir from this, sir, if you please.' 
 
 Mr. Cregan turned away at once, and cast a desponding look at 
 Mrs. O'Connell. That lady lowered her eyelids significantly, and 
 glanced at the door. Mr. Cregan at once retired, beckoning to 
 his son that he might follow him. 
 
 Mrs. O'Connell now took upon herself the task which had proved 
 so complete a failure in the hands of Mr. Cregan. She leaned 
 over her brother's chair, laid her hand on his, and said in an 
 earnest voice: 
 
 ' Charles, will you come with me to the parlour for one moment ?' 
 
 ' I will not,' replied Mr. Daly, in the same hoarse tone — ' I will 
 not go, ma'am, if you please.' 
 
 Mrs. O'Connell pressed his hand, and stooped over his shoulder. 
 ' Charles,' she continued, with increasing earnestness, ' will you 
 refuse me this request ? ' 
 
 * If you please,' said the bereaved husband, i I will not go — indeed, 
 ma'am, I won't stir ! ' 
 
 1 Now is the time, Charles, to show that you can be resigned. I 
 feel for you — indeed I do— but you must deny yourself. Remember 
 your duty to Heaven, and to your children, and to yourself. Come 
 with me, my dear Charles.' 
 
236 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 The old man trembled violently, turned round on his chair, and 
 fixed his eyes upon his sister. 
 
 1 Mary,' said he, with a broken voice, c this is the last half hour 
 that I shall ever spend with Sally in this world, and do not take me 
 from her.' 
 
 ' I would not,' said the good lady, unable to restrain her tears ; ' I 
 would not, my dear Charles. But you know her well. You know 
 how she would act if she were in your place. Act that way, Charles, 
 and that is the greatest kindness you can show to Sally now.' 
 
 1 Take me where you please,' cried the old man, stretching out 
 his arms, and bursting into a fit of convulsive weeping. 'Oh, 
 Sally ! ' he exclaimed, turning round, and stretching his arms to- 
 wards the coffin, as he reached the door — ' Oh, Sally ! is this the 
 way that we are parted, after all ? This day, I thought your friends 
 would have been visiting you and your babe in health and happi- 
 ness. They are come to visit you, my darling, but it is in your 
 coffin, not in your bed, they find you ! They are come, not to your 
 babe's christening, but to your own funeral. For the last time now, 
 good-bye, my darling Sally. It is not now to say good-bye for an 
 hour, or good-bye for a day, or for a week — but for ever and for ever. 
 God be with you, Sally ! For ever and for ever ! They are little 
 words, Mary ! ' he added, turning to his weeping sister, ' but there 's 
 a deal of grief in them. Well, now, Sally, my days are done for 
 this world. It is time for me now to think of a better life. I am 
 satisfied. Far be it from me to murmur. My life was too happy, 
 Mary, and I was becoming too fond of it. This will teach me to 
 despise a great many things that I valued highly until yesterday, 
 and to warn my children to despise them likewise. I believe, Mary, 
 if everything in this world went on as we could wish, it might tempt 
 us to forget that there was another before us. This is my comfort, 
 and it must be my comfort now for evermore. Take me where 
 you please now, Mary, and let them take her, too, wherever they 
 desire. Oh ! Sally, my poor love, it is not to-day, nor to-morrow, 
 nor the day after, that I shall feel your loss ; but when weeks and 
 months are gone by, and when I am sitting all alone by the fireside, 
 or when I am talking of you to my orphan children. It is then, 
 Sally, that I shall feel what happened yesterday ! That is the time 
 when I shall think of you, and of all our happy days, until my heart 
 is breaking in my bosom !' These last sentences the old man 
 spoke standing erect, with his hands clenched and trembling above 
 his head, his eyes filled up and fixed on the coffin, and every feature 
 swollen and quivering with strong emotion. As he concluded, he 
 sank, exhausted by the passionate lament, upon the shoulder of his 
 sister. 
 
 Almost at the same instant, little Sally came peeping in at 
 the door, with a face of innocent wonder and timidity. Mrs. 
 O'Connell, with the quick feeling of a woman, took advantage of 
 the incident to create a diversion in the mind of her brother. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 237 
 
 * My dear Charles,' she said, 'do try and conquer this dejection. 
 You will not be so lonely as you think. Look there, Charles ; you 
 have got a Sally still to care for you.' 
 
 The aged father glanced a quick eye around him, and met the 
 sweet and simple gaze of the little innocent, upturned to seek 
 his own. He shook his sister's hand forcibly, and said with 
 vehemence : 
 
 ' Mary, Mary ! I thank you ! From my heart I am obliged to 
 you for this ! ' 
 
 He caught the little child to his breast, devoured it with kisses 
 and murmurs of passionate fondness, and hurried with it, as with 
 a treasure, to a distant part of the dwelling. 
 
 Mr. Cregan, in the meanwhile, had been engaged, at the 
 request of Mrs. O'Connell, in giving out the gloves, scarfs, and 
 cypresses, in the room which, on the preceding night, had been 
 allotted to the female guests. In this matter, too, the selfishness 
 of some unworthy individuals was made to appear, in their 
 struggles for precedence, and in their dissatisfaction at being 
 neglected in the allotment of the funeral favours. In justice, 
 however, it should be stated that the number of those unfeeling 
 individuals was inconsiderable. 
 
 The last and keenest trial was now begun. The coffin was 
 borne on the shoulders of men to the hearse, which was drawn 
 up at the hall door. The hearse driver had taken his seat, the 
 mourners were already in the carriages, and a great crowd of 
 horsemen and people on foot were assembled around the front of 
 the house, along the avenue, and on the road. The female 
 servants of the family were dressed in scarfs and huge head- 
 dresses of white linen. The housemaid and Winny sat on the 
 coffin, and three or four followed on an outside jaunting-car. In 
 this order the procession began to move ; and the remains of this 
 kind mistress, and affectionate wife and parent, were borne away 
 for ever from the mansion which she had blessed so many years 
 by her gentle government. 
 
 The scene of desolation which prevailed from the time at which 
 the coffin was first taken from the room, until the whole pro- 
 cession had passed out of sight, it would be a vain effort to 
 describe. The shrieks of the women and children pierced the 
 ears and the hearts of the multitude. Every room presented a 
 picture of affliction. Female figures flying to and fro, with 
 expanded arms, and cries of heartbroken sorrow ; children 
 weeping and sobbing aloud in each other's arms ; men clenching 
 their hands close, and stifling the strong sympathy that was 
 making battle for loud utterance in their breasts ; and the low 
 groans of exhausted agony which proceeded from the mourning 
 coaches that held the father, Kyrle Daly, and the two nearest 
 sons. In the midst of these affecting sounds, the hearse began 
 to move, and was followed to a long distance on its way by the 
 
238 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 wild lament that broke from the open doors and windows of the 
 now forsaken dwelling. 
 
 ' Oh, misthress ! ' exclaimed Lowry Looby, as he stood at the 
 avenue gate, clapping his hands and weeping, while he gazed, not 
 without a sentiment of melancholy pride, on the long array which 
 lined the uneven road, and saw the black hearse-plumes becoming 
 indistinct in the distance, while the rear of the funeral train was 
 yet passing him by — ' Oh, misthress ! misthress ! 'tis now I see 
 that you are gone in airnest. I never would believe that you 
 wor lost, until I saw your coffin goin' out o' the doores ! ' 
 
 From the date of this calamity a change was observed to have 
 taken place in the characters and manners of this amiable family. 
 The war of instant affliction passed away, but it left deep and 
 perceptible traces in the household. The Dalys became more 
 grave and more religious ; their tone of conversation of a deeper 
 turn, and the manner, even of the younger children, more staid 
 and thoughtful. Their natural mirth (the child of good nature 
 and conscious innocence of heart) was not extinguished ; the 
 flame lit up again as time rolled on, but it burned with a calmer, 
 fainter, and perhaps a purer radiance. Their merriment was 
 frequent and cordial, but it never again was boisterous. With 
 the unhappy father, however, the case was different. He never 
 rallied : the harmony of his existence was destroyed, and he 
 seemed to have lost all interest in those occupations of rural 
 industry which had filled up a great proportion of his time from 
 boyhood. Still, from a feeling of duty, he was exact and diligent 
 in the performance of those obligations, but he executed them as 
 a task, not as a pleasure. He might still be found at morning 
 superintending his workmen at their agricultural employments, but 
 he did not join so heartily as of old in the merry jests and tales 
 which made their labour light. It seemed as if he had, on that 
 morning, touched the perihelium of his existence, and from that 
 hour the warmth and sunshine of his course was destined to 
 decline from day to day. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 HOW HARDRESS AT LENGTH RECEIVED SOME NEWS OF EILY 
 
 The marriage of Hardress Cregan and Anne Chute was postponed 
 for some time in consequence of the affliction of their old friends. 
 Nothing, in the meantime, was heard of Eily or her escort ; and 
 the remorse and the suspense endured by Hardress began to affect 
 his mind and health in a degree that excited great alarm in both 
 families. His manner to Anne still continued the same as before 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 239 
 
 they were contracted ; now tender, passionate, and full of an 
 intense affection, and now sullen, short, intemperate, and gloomy. 
 Her feeling, too, towards him, continued still unchanged. His 
 frequent unkindness pained her to the soul, but she attributed all 
 to a natural or acquired weakness of temper, and trusted to time 
 and to her own assiduous gentleness to cure it. He had yet done 
 nothing to show himself unworthy of her esteem, and while this 
 continued to be the case, her love could not be shaken by mere 
 infirmities of manner, the result, probably, of his uncertain health, 
 for which he had her pity, rather than resentment. 
 
 But on Mrs. Cregan it produced a more serious impressiom. In 
 her frequent conversations with her son, he had, in the agony of 
 his heart, betrayed the workings of a deeper passion and a darker 
 recollection than she had ever imagined possible. It became 
 evident to her, from many hints let fall in his paroxysms of anxiety, 
 that Hardress had done something to put himself within the 
 power of outraged justice, as well as that of an avenging con- 
 science. From the moment on which she arrived at this discovery, 
 she avoided as much as possible all farther conversation on those 
 topics with her son, and it was observed that she, too, had become 
 subject to fits of abstraction and of seriousness in her general 
 manner. 
 
 While the fortunes of the family remained thus stationary, the 
 day arrived on which Hepton Connolly was to give his hunting 
 dinner. Hardress looked forward to this occasion with some 
 satisfaction, in the hope that it would afford a certain degree of 
 relief to his mind, under its present state of depression ; and 
 when the morning came he was one of the earliest men upon the 
 ground. 
 
 The fox was said to have kennelled in the side of a hill near the 
 river -side, which on one side was grey with limestone crag, and 
 on the other covered with a quantity of close furze. Towards the 
 water, a miry and winding path among the underwood led down- 
 ward to an extensive marsh or corcass, which lay close to the 
 shore. It was overgrown with a dwarfish rush, and intersected 
 with numberless little creeks and channels, which were never filled 
 except when the spring-tide was at the full. On a green and 
 undulating champaign above the hill were a considerable number 
 of gentlemen mounted, conversing in groups, or cantering their 
 horses around the plain, while the huntsmen, whippers-in, 
 and dogs were busy among the furze, endeavouring to make the 
 fox break cover. A crowd of peasants, boys, and other idlers 
 were scattered over the green, awaiting the commencement of the 
 sport, and amusing themselves by criticising, with much sharp- 
 ness of sarcasm, the appearance of the horses, and the action and 
 manners of their riders. 
 
 The search after the fox continued for a long time without 
 avail. The gentlemen became impatient, began to look at their 
 
240 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 watches, and to cast from time to time an apprehensive glance 
 at the heavens. This last movement was not without a cause ; 
 the morning, which had promised fairly, began to change and 
 darken. It was one of those sluggish days, which frequently 
 usher in the spring season in Ireland. On the water, on land, in 
 air, on earth, everything was motionless and calm. The boats 
 slept on the bosom of the river. A low and dingy mist concealed 
 the distant shores and hills of Clare. Above the eye could 
 discern neither cloud nor sky. A heavy haze covered the face of 
 the heavens, from one horizon to the other. The sun was wholly 
 veiled in mist, his place in the heavens being indicated only by 
 the radiance of the misty shroud in that direction. A thin, drizzling 
 shower, no heavier than a summer dew, descended on the party, 
 and left a hoary and glistening moisture on their dresses, on the 
 manes and forelocks of the horses, and on the face of the 
 surrounding landscape. 
 
 * No fox to-day, I fear,' said Mr. Cregan, riding up to one of the 
 groups before mentioned, which comprised his son Hardress 
 and Mr. Connolly. * At what time,' he added, addressing the 
 latter, ' did you order dinner ? I think there is little fear of our 
 being late for it' 
 
 'You all deserve this,' said a healthy-looking old gentleman, 
 who was one of the group ; ' feather-bed sportsmen every one of 
 you. I rode out to-day from Limerick myself, was at home before 
 seven, went out to see the wheat shaken in, and on arriving at the 
 ground at ten, found no one there but this young gentleman, 
 whose thoughts seem to be hunting on other ground at this 
 moment. When I was a young man, daybreak never found me 
 napping that way.' 
 
 1 Good people are scarce,' said Connolly ; it is right we 
 should take care of ourselves. Hardress, will you canter this 
 way?' 
 
 1 He is cantering elsewhere,' said the same old gentleman, 
 looking on the absent boy. ' Mind that sigh. Ah ! she had the 
 heart of a stone.' 
 
 ' I suspect he is thinking of his dinner, rather,' said his father. 
 
 ' If Miss Chute had asked him to make a circuit with her,' 
 said Connolly, ' she would not have found it so hard to get an 
 answer.' 
 
 'Courage, sir,' exclaimed the old gentleman, 'she is neither 
 wed nor dead.' 
 
 'Dead, did you say?' cried Hardress, starting from his reverie. 
 ' Who says it ? Ah, I see.' 
 
 A burst of laughter from the gentlemen brought the young man 
 to his recollection, and his head sunk in silence and confusion. 
 
 'Come, Hardress,' continued Connolly, f although you are not 
 in love with me, yet we may try a canter together. Hark ! What 
 is that ? What are the dogs doing now ? ' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 241 
 
 ' They have leit the cover on the hill,' cried a gentleman who 
 was galloping past, ' and are trying the corcass.' 
 
 ' Poor Dalton ! ' said Mr. Cregan ; ' that was the man who would 
 have had old Reynard out of cover before now. 5 
 
 'Poor Dalton !' exclaimed Hardress, catching up the word with 
 passionate emphasis, ' poor — poor Dalton ! Oh, days of my 
 youth ! ' he added, turning aside on his saddle, that he might not 
 be observed, and looking out upon the quiet river, ' Oh, days — 
 past, happy days ! my merry boyhood and my merry youth ! — my 
 boat ! the broad river, the rough west wind, the broken waves, 
 and the heart at rest ! Oh, miserable wretch ! what have you 
 now to hope for ? My heart will burst before I leave this field ! ' 
 
 ' The dogs are chopping,' said Connolly ; ' they have found him. 
 Come ! come away ! 5 
 
 ' 'Tis a false scent,' said the old gentleman. ' Ware hare ! ' 
 
 * Ware hare ! ' was echoed by many voices. A singular hurry 
 was observed amongst the crowd upon the brow of the hill, which 
 overlooked the corcass, and presently all descended to the 
 marsh. 
 
 'There is something extraordinary going forward/ said 
 Cregan ; what makes all the crowd collect upon the marsh ? ' 
 
 A pause ensued, during which Hardress experienced a degree 
 of nervous anxiety, for which he could not account. The hounds 
 continued to chop in concert, as if they had found a strong scent, 
 and yet no fox appeared. 
 
 At length a horseman was observed riding up the miry pass be- 
 fore mentioned, and galloping towards them. When he ap- 
 proached, they could observe that his manner was flurried and 
 agitated, and his countenance wore an expression of terror and 
 compassion. He tightened the rein suddenly, as he came upon 
 the group. 
 
 ' Mr. Warner, 5 he said, addressing the old gentleman already 
 alluded to, ' I believe you are a magistrate ? ' 
 
 Mr. Warner bowed. 
 
 ' Then come this way, sir, if you please. A terrible occasion 
 makes your presence necessary on the other side of the hill. 5 
 
 ' No harm, sir, to any of our friends, I hope ? 5 said Mr. Warner, 
 putting spurs to his horse and galloping away. The answer of 
 the stranger was lost in the tramp of the hoofs, as they rode 
 away. 
 
 Immediately after two other horsemen came galloping by. 
 One of them held in his hand a straw bonnet, beaten out of shape, 
 and draggled in the mud of the corcass. Hardress just caught the 
 word ' horrible,' as they rode swiftly by. 
 
 'What's horrible? 5 shouted Hardress, rising on his stirrup. 
 
 The two gentlemen were already out of hearing. He sunk 
 down again on his seat, and glanced aside at his father and 
 Connolly. ' What does he call horrible ? 5 he repeated. 
 
 Q 
 
242 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 4 1 did not hear him,' said Connolly. ' Come down upon the 
 corcass, and we shall learn.' 
 
 They galloped in that direction. The morning was changing 
 fast, and the rain was now descending in much greater abundance. 
 Still there was not a breath of wind to alter its direction, or to 
 give the slightest animation to the general lethargic look of nature. 
 As they arrived on the brow of the hill, they perceived the crowd 
 of horsemen and peasants collected into a dense mass around 
 one of the little channels before described. Several of those in 
 the centre were stooping low, as if to assist a fallen person. The 
 next rank, with their heads turned aside over their shoulders, 
 were employed in answering the questions of those behind them. 
 The individuals who stood outside were raised on tiptoe, and en- 
 deavoured, by stretching their heads over the shoulders of their 
 neighbours, to peep into the centre. The whipper-in, meanwhile, 
 was flogging the hounds away from the crowd, while the dogs 
 reluctantly obeyed. Mingled with the press were the horsemen, 
 bending over their saddle-bows, and gazing downward on the 
 centre. 
 
 1 Bad manners to ye ! ' Hardress heard the whipper-in exclaim, 
 as he passed, ' what a fox ye found us this morning. How bad ye 
 are, now, for a taste o' Christian's flesh ! ' 
 
 As he approached nearer to the crowd he was enabled to gather 
 farther indications of the nature of the transaction, from the 
 countenance and gestures of the people. Some had their hands 
 elevated in strong fear, many brows were knitted in eager 
 curiosity, some raised in wonder, and some expanded in affright. 
 Urged by an unaccountable impulse, and supported by an energy, 
 he knew not whence derived, Hardress alighted from his horse, 
 threw the reins to a countryman, and penetrated the group with 
 considerable violence. He dragged some by the collars from 
 their places, pushed others aside with his shoulder, struck those 
 who proved refractory with his whip-handle, and in a few moments 
 attained the centre of the ring. 
 
 Here he paused, and gazed in motionless horror upon the 
 picture which the crowd had previously concealed. 
 
 A small space was kept clear in the centre. Opposite to Har- 
 dress stood Mr. Warner, the magistrate and coroner of the 
 county, with a small note-book in his hand, in which he made 
 some entries with a pencil. On his right stood the person who 
 had summoned him to the spot. At the feet of Hardress was a 
 small pool, in which the waters now appeared disturbed and thick 
 with mud, while the rain, descending straight, gave to its surface 
 the semblance of ebullition. On the bank at the other side, which 
 was covered with sea-pink and a species of short moss peculiar to 
 the soil, an object lay on which the eyes of all were bent with a 
 fearful and gloomy expression. It was for the most part con- 
 cealed beneath a large blue mantle, which was drenched in wet 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 243 
 
 and mire, and lay so heavy on the thing beneath as to reveal the 
 lineaments of a human form. A pair of small feet, in Spanish- 
 leather shoes, appearing from below the end of the garment 
 showed that the body was that of a female ; and a mass of long, 
 fair hair, which escaped from beneath the capacious hood, de- 
 monstrated that this death, whether the effect of accident or 
 malice, had found the victim untimely in her youth. 
 
 The cloak, the feet, the hair, all were familiar objects to the eye 
 of Hardress. On very slight occasions, he had often found it ab- 
 solutely impossible to maintain his self-possession in the presence 
 of others. Now, when the full solution of all his anxieties was 
 exposed before him ; now, when it became evident that the guilt 
 of blood was upon his head ; now, when he looked upon the 
 shattered corpse of Eily, of his chosen and once beloved wife, 
 murdered in her youth, almost in her girlhood, by his connivance, 
 it astonished him to find that all emotion came upon the instant 
 to a dead pause within his breast. Others might have told him 
 that his face was rigid, sallow, and bloodless as that of the corpse 
 on which he gazed. But he himself felt nothing of this. Not a 
 sentence that was spoken was lost upon his ear. He did not even 
 tremble, and a slight anxiety for his personal safety was the only 
 sentiment of which he was perceptibly conscious. It seemed 
 as if the great passion, like an engine embarrassed in its action, 
 had been suddenly struck motionless, even while the impelling 
 principle remained in active force. 
 
 1 Has the horse and car arrived?' asked Mr. Warner, while he 
 closed his note-book. i Can anyone see it coming? We shall all 
 be drenched to the skin before we get away.' 
 
 * Can we not go to the nearest inn, and proceed with the in- 
 quest,' said a gentleman in the crowd, 'while some one stays 
 behind to see the body brought after ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir,' said Mr. Warner, with some emphasis, c the inquest 
 must be held super visum corporis, or it is worth nothing.' 
 
 ' Warner,' whispered Connolly to Cregan, with a smile, ' is afraid 
 of losing his four-guinea fee. He will not let the body out of his 
 sight.' 
 
 'You know the proverb,' returned Cregan, '"a bird in the 
 hand," etc. What a fine fat fox he has caught this morning ! ' 
 
 At this moment the hounds once more opened in a chopping 
 concert ; and Hardress, starting from his posture of rigid calm- 
 ness, extended his arms, and burst at once into a passion of 
 wild fear. 
 
 ' The hounds ! the hounds ! ' he exclaimed. ' Mr. Warner, do 
 you hear them ? Keep off the dogs ! They will tear her if ye let 
 them pass ! Good sir, will you suffer the dogs to tear her? I 
 had rather be torn myself than look upon such a sight. Ye may 
 stare as ye will, but I tell you all a truth, gentlemen. A truth, I 
 say— upon my life, a truth ! ' 
 
244 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' There is no fear/ said Warner, fixing a keen eye upon him. 
 
 'Ay, but there is, sir, by your leave,' cried Hardress. ' Do you 
 hear them now? Do you hear that yell for blood ? I tell you I 
 hate that horrid cry. It is enough to make the heart of a Chris- 
 tian burst. Who put the hounds upon that horrid scent— that 
 false scent ? I am going mad, I think. I say, sir, do you hear 
 that yelling now? Will you tell me now there is no fear? 
 Stand close ! Stand close, and hide me — her, I mean. Stand 
 close !' 
 
 ' I think there is none whatever,' said the coroner, probing 
 him. 
 
 4 And I tell you,' cried Hardress, grasping his whip, and aban- 
 doning himself to an almost delirious excess of rage, ' I tell you 
 there is. If this ground should open before me, and I should hear 
 the hounds of Satan yelling upward from the deep, it could not freeze 
 me with a greater fear ! But, sir, you can pursue what course you 
 please,' continued Hardress, bowing and forcing a smile; 'you 
 are here in office, sir. You are at liberty to contradict as you 
 please, sir ; but I have my remedy- You know me, sir, and I 
 know you. I am a gentleman. Expect to hear farther from me 
 on this subject.' 
 
 So saying, and forcing his way through the crowd, with as much 
 violence as he used in entering, he 'vaulted with the agility of a 
 Mercury into his saddle, and galloped as if he were on a steeple- 
 chase, in the "direction of Castle Chute. 
 
 ' If you are a gentleman,' said Mr. Warner, ' you are as ill- 
 tempered a gentleman as ever I met, or something a great deal 
 worse.' 
 
 ' Take care what you say, sir,' said Mr. Cregan, riding rapidly 
 up, after a vain effort to arrest his son's flight, and after picking 
 up from a straggler, not three yards from the scene of action, the 
 exaggerated report that Hardress and the coroner had given each 
 other the lie. ' Take care what you say, sir,' he said. ' Remem- 
 ber, if you please, that the gentleman, ill-tempered or otherwise, 
 is my son.' 
 
 'Mr. Cregan,' exclaimed the magistrate, at length growing 
 somewhat warm, ' if he were the son of the lord lieutenant, I will 
 not be interrupted in my duty. There are many gentlemen here 
 present ; they have witnessed the whole occurrence, and if they 
 will" tell you that I have done or said anything unbecoming a 
 gentleman, I am ready to give you, or your son either, the 
 satisfaction of a gentleman.' 
 
 With this pacificatory and Christian-like speech the exemplary 
 Irish peace-preserver turned upon his heel, and went to meet the 
 carman, who was now within a few paces of the crowd. 
 
 While the pitying and astonished multitude were conveying the 
 shattered remains of Eily O'Connor to the nearest inn, her miser- 
 able husband was flying with the speed of fear in the direction of 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 245 
 
 Castle Chute. He alighted at the Norman archway, by which 
 Kyrle Daly had entered on the day of his ejection, and, throwing 
 the reins to Falvey, rushed without speaking up the stone stair- 
 case. That talkative domestic still retained a lingering preference 
 for the discarded lover, and saw him with grief supplanted by this 
 wild and passionate young gentleman. He remained for a 
 moment, holding the rein in his hand, and looking back with a 
 gaze of calm astonishment at the flying figure of the rider. He 
 then compressed his lips — moved to a little distance from the 
 horse — and began to contemplate the wet and reeking flanks and 
 trembling limbs of the beautiful animal. The creature presented 
 a spectacle calculated to excite the compassion of a practised 
 attendant upon horses. His eyes were wide and full of fire — his 
 nostrils expanded, and red as blood. His shining coat was wet 
 from ear to flank, and corded by numberless veins that were now 
 swollen to the utmost by the accelerated circulation. As he panted 
 and snorted in his excitement, he scattered the flecks of foam over 
 the dress of the attendant. 
 
 ' Oh ! murther, murther ! ' exclaimed the latter, after uttering 
 that peculiar sound of pity which is used by the vulgar in Ireland 
 and in some continental nations. 'Well, there's a man that 
 knows how to use a horse ! Look at that crather ! Well, he 
 ought to be ashamed of himself, so he ought — any gentleman to 
 use a poor dumb crather that way. As if the hunt wasn't hard 
 enough upon her, without bringin' her up in a gallop to the very 
 doore ! ' 
 
 ' An' as if my throuble wasn't enough besides,' grumbled the 
 groom, as he took the rein out of Falvey's hand. * He ought to 
 stick to his boating, that 's what he ought, an' to lave horses for 
 those that knows how to use 'em.' 
 
 'Who rode that* horse?' asked old Dan Dawley, the steward, 
 as he came along sulky and bent by age to the hall door. 
 
 ' The young masther we 're gettin',' returned Falvey, 
 
 * Umph ! ' muttered Dawley, as he passed into the house, 'that's 
 the image of the thratement he '11 give all that he gets into his 
 power.' 
 
 ' It 's thrue for you,' said Falvey. 
 
 Dawley paused, and looked back over his shoulder. ' It 's thrue 
 for me ! ' he repeated gruffly. ' It 's you that say that, an' you were 
 the first to praise him when he came into the family.' 
 
 ' It stood to raison I should,' said Falvey. ' I liked him betther 
 than Master Kyrle himself, for bein' an off-hand gentleman, an' 
 aisily spoken to. But sure a Turk itself couldn't stand the way 
 he's goin' on of late days !' 
 
 Dawley turned away with a harsh grunt ; the groom led out the 
 heated steed upon the lawn, and Falvey returned to make the 
 cutlery refulgent in the kitchen. 
 
246 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 HOW HARDRESS MADE A CONFIDANTE 
 
 Hardress Cregan, in the meantime, had proceeded to the antique 
 chamber, mentioned in a former chapter, which led to the drawing- 
 room in the more modern part of the mansion. He flung himself 
 into a chair which stood near the centre of the apartment, and 
 remained motionless for some moments, with hands clasped and 
 eyes fixed upon the floor. There were voices and laughter in the 
 drawing-room, and he could hear the accents of Anne Chute resist- 
 ing the entreaties of Mrs. Cregan and her mother, while they 
 endeavoured to prevail on her to sing some favourite melody. 
 
 'Anne,' said Mrs, Chute, ' don't let your aunt suppose that you 
 can be disobliging. What objection is there to your singing that 
 song?' 
 
 ' One, I am sure, which aunt Cregan won't blame me for, mamma. 
 Hardress cannot endure to hear it.' 
 
 * But Hardress is not here now, my dear.' 
 
 'Ah! ah! aunt. Is that your principle? Would you teach me 
 to take advantage of his absence, then, to foster a little will of my 
 own?' 
 
 1 Go — go — you giddy girl,' said Mrs. Chute. ' Have you the 
 impudence to make your aunt blush ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Anne,' said Mrs. Cregan, ' if you never make a more 
 disobedient use of your husband's absence than that of singing a 
 little song which you love, and which you can't sing in his 
 presence, you will be the best wife in Ireland.' 
 
 1 Very well, aunt, very well. You ought to know the standard 
 of a good wife. You have had some experience, or my uncle (I 
 should say) has had some experience of what a good wife ought 
 to be. Whether his knowledge in that way has been negatively 
 or positively acquired, is more than I '11 venture to say.' 
 
 Hardress heard her run a tender prelude along the keys of her 
 instrument, before she sung the following words : 
 
 My Mary of the curling hair, 
 
 The laughing teeth and bashful air, 
 
 Our bridal morn is dawning fair, 
 
 With blushes in the skies. 
 Shule! Shule! Shule, agra! 
 Shule asucur, agus shule, aroon. 
 
 Come ! come ! Come, my darling ; 
 Come softly, and come, my love ! 
 
 My love ! my pearl ! 
 
 My own dear girl ! 
 My mountain maid, arise ! 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 247 
 
 Wake, linnet of the osier grove ! 
 Wake, trembling, stainless, virgin dove ! 
 Wake, nestling of a parent's love, 
 
 Let Moran see thine eyes. 
 Shule! Shule! etc. 
 
 I am no stranger, proud and gay, 
 To win thee from thy home away, 
 And find thee, for a distant day, 
 
 A theme for wasting sighs. 
 Shule! Shule! etc. 
 
 But we were known from infancy ; 
 Thy father's hearth was home to me ; 
 No selfish love was mine for thee, 
 
 Unholy and unwise. 
 Shule ! Shule ! etc. 
 
 And yet (to see what love can do !) 
 
 Though calm my hope has burned, and true, 
 
 My cheek is pale and worn for you, 
 
 And sunken are mine eyes ! 
 Shule ! Shule ! etc. 
 
 But soon my love shall be my bride, 
 And happy by our own fireside, 
 My veins shall feel the rosy tide, 
 That lingering Hope denies. 
 Shule ! Shule ! etc. 
 
 My Mary of the curling hair, 
 
 The laughing teeth and bashful air, 
 
 Our bridal morn is dawning fair, 
 
 With bliishes in the skies. 
 Shule I Shule I Shule, agra ! 
 Shule asucur,agus shule, aroon I 
 
 My love ! my pearl ! 
 
 My own dear girl !- 
 My mountain maid, arise ! 
 
 After the song was ended, Hardress heard the drawing-room door 
 open and shut, and the stately and measured pace of his mother 
 along the little lobby, and on the short flight of stairs which led 
 to the apartment in which he sat. She appeared at the narrow 
 stone doorway, and used a gesture of surprise when she beheld him. 
 
 ' What ! Hardress ! ' she exclaimed, 'already returned ! Have 
 you had good sport to-day ? ' 
 
 1 Sport ! ' echoed Hardress, with a burst of low, involuntary 
 laughter, and without unclasping his wreathed hands, or raising 
 his eyes from the earth ; ' yes, mother, very good sport. Sport, I 
 think, that may bring my neck in danger one day.' 
 
 ' Have you been hurt, then, child ? ' said Mrs. Cregan, compas- 
 sionately bending over her son. 
 
 Hardress raised himself in his seat, and fixed his eye upon her's 
 for a few moments in gloomy silence. 
 
248 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' I have,' he said. ' The hurt that I feared so long, I have got 
 at length. I am glad you have come. I wished to speak with 
 you.' 
 
 ' Stay a moment, Hardress. Let me close those doors. Servants 
 are so inquisitive, and apt to pry.' 
 
 'Ay, now,' said Hardress, 'now, and from this time forth, we 
 must avoid those watchful eyes and ears. What shall I do, mother ? 
 Advise me, comfort me ! Oh ! I am utterly abandoned now ; I 
 have no friend, no comforter but you ! That terrible hope, that 
 looked more like a fear, that kept my senses on the rack from 
 morn to morn, is fled, at last, for ever. I am all forsaken now.' 
 
 ' My dear Hardress,' said his mother, much distressed, ' when 
 will you cease to afflict yourself and me with those fancies ? For- 
 saken, do you say ? Do your friends deserve this from you ? You 
 ask me to advise you and my advice is this. Lay aside those 
 thoughts, and value, as you ought to do, the happiness of your con- 
 dition. Who, with a love like Anne, with a friend like your amiable 
 college companion, Daly, and with a mother at least devoted in 
 intention, would deliver himself up, as you do, to fantastic dreams 
 of desolation and despair? If, as you seem to hint, you have a 
 cause for suffering in your memory, remember, Hardress, that you 
 are not left on earth for nothing. All men have something to be 
 pardoned, and all time here is capable of being improved in the 
 pursuit of mercy.' 
 
 ' Go on,' said Hardress, setting his teeth, and fixing a wild stare 
 upon his parent, ' you but remind me of my curses. With a love 
 like Anne ! One whisper in your ear. I love her not. While I 
 was mad I did ; and in my senses, now, I am dearly suffering for 
 that frantic treason. She was the cause of all my sin and sorrow, 
 my first and heaviest curse. With such a friend ! Why, how you 
 laugh at me ! You know how black and weak a part I have 
 played to him, and yet you will remind me that he was my friend. 
 That 's kindly done, mother. Listen ! ' he continued, laying a 
 firm grasp upon his mother's arm — ' Before my eyes, wherever I 
 turn me, and whether it be dark or light, I see One, painting the 
 hideous portrait of a fiend. Day after day, he comes and adds a 
 deeper and blacker tint to the resemblance. Mean fear and 
 selfish pride, the coarser half of love, worthless inconstancy, black 
 falsehood, and red-handed murder, those are the colours that he 
 blends and stamps upon my soul. I am stained in every part. 
 The proud coward that loved and was silent, when already com- 
 mitted by his conduct, and master of the conquest that he feared 
 to claim. The hypocrite that volunteered a friendship, to which 
 he proved false almost without a trial. The night-brawler, the 
 drunkard, the faithless lover, and the perjured husband ! Where 
 — who has ever run a course so swift and full of sin as mine ? 
 You speak of Heaven and mercy ! Do you think I could so long 
 have endured my agonies without remembering that ? No ; but 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 249 
 
 a cry was at its gates before me, and I never felt that my prayer 
 was heard. What that cry was, I have this morning learned. 
 Mother,' he added, turning quickly around with great rapidity of 
 voice and action, ' I am a murderer ! ' 
 
 Mrs. Cregan never heard the words. The look and gesture, 
 coupled with the foregoing speech, had pre-informed her, and she 
 fell back, in a deathlike faint, into the chair. 
 
 When she recovered, she found Hardress kneeling by her side, 
 pale, anxious, and terrified, no longer supported by that horrid 
 energy which he had shown before the revealment of his secret, 
 but motionless and helpless— desolate as an exploded mine. For 
 the first time the mother looked upon her child with a shudder 
 in which remorse was mingled deeply with abhorrence. She 
 waved her hand two or three times, as if to signify that he should 
 retire from her sight. It was so that Hardress understood and 
 obeyed the gesture. He took his place behind the chair of his 
 parent, awaiting with gaping lip and absent eye the renewal of 
 her speech. The unhappy mother, meanwhile, leaned forward in 
 her seat, covering her face with her hands, and maintained for 
 several minutes that silent communion with herself which was 
 usual with her when she had received any sudden shock. A long 
 pause succeeded. 
 
 'Are you still in the room?' she said at length, as a slight 
 movement of the guilty youth struck upon her hearing. 
 
 Hardress started, as a schoolboy might at the voice of his pre- 
 ceptor, and was about to come forward, but the extended pm of 
 his parent arrested his steps. 
 
 ' Remain where you are,' she said ; ' it will be a long time now 
 before I shall desire to look upon my son.' 
 
 Hardress fell back, stepping noiselessly on tiptoe, and letting 
 his head hang dejectedly upon his breast. 
 
 ' If those things are not dreams,' Mrs. Cregan again said, in 
 that calm, restrained tone which she always used when her mind 
 was undergoing the severest struggle ; ' if you have not been 
 feeding a delirious fancy, and can restrain yourself to plain terms 
 for one quarter of an hour, let me hear you repeat this unhappy 
 accident. Nay, come not forward, stay where you are, and say 
 your story there. Unfortunate boy ! We are a miserable pair ! ' 
 
 She again leaned forward with her face buried in her expanded 
 hands, while Hardress, with a low, chidden, and timid voice and 
 attitude, gave her in a few words the mournful history which she 
 desired. So utterly abandoned was he by that hectoring energy 
 which he displayed during his former conversations with his 
 parent, that more than half the tale was drawn from him by 
 questions, as from a culprit fearful of adding to the measure of 
 his punishment. 
 
 When he had concluded, Mrs. Cregan raised her head with a 
 look of great and evident relief. 
 
250 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' Why, Hardress,' she said, ' I have been misled in this. I 
 overleaped the mark in my surmise. You are not then the actual 
 actor of this horrid work ? ' 
 
 * I was not the executioner,' said Hardress. ' I had a deputy,' 
 he added, with a ghastly smile. 
 
 ' Nor did you, by word or act, give warrant for the atrocity of 
 which you speak?' 
 
 1 Oh ! mother, if you esteem it worth your while to waste any 
 kindness on me, forbear to torture my conscience with that 
 wretched subterfuge. I am the murderer of Eily ! It matters not 
 that my finger has not gripped her throat, nor my hand been 
 reddened with her blood. My heart, my will has murdered her. 
 My soul was even beforehand with the butcher who has sealed 
 our common ruin by his bloody disobedience. I am the murderei 
 of Eily ! No, not in act, as you have said, nor even in word ! 
 I breathed my bloody thoughts into no living ear. The dark and 
 hell-born flame was smouldered where it rose, within my own 
 lonely breast. Not through a single chink or cleft in all my 
 conduct could that unnatural rage be evident. When he tempted 
 me aloud, aloud I answered, scorned, and defied him ; and, when 
 at our last fatal interview I gave him that charge which he has 
 stretched to bloodshed, my speech was urgent for her safety.' 
 
 < Ay?' 
 
 ' Ay, mother, it is truth ! I answer you as I shall answer at that 
 dreadful bar, before that Throne the old man told me of, when he 
 and she shall stand to blast me there ! ' 
 
 He stood erect, and held up his hand, as if already pleading to 
 the charge. Mrs. Cregan at the same moment rose, and was 
 about to address him with equal energy and decision of manner. 
 
 1 But still,' he added, preventing her, ' still I am Eil^s mur- 
 derer. If I had an enemy who wished to find me a theme for 
 lasting misery, he could not choose a way more certain than that 
 of starting a doubt upon that subtle and worthless distinction. I 
 am Eily's murderer ! That thought will ring upon my brain, 
 awake or asleep, for evermore. Are these things dreams ? Oh, 
 I would give all the world of realities to find that I had dreamed 
 a horrid dream, and awake, and die ! ' 
 
 * You overrate the measure of your guilt,' said Mrs. Cregan, 
 and was about to proceed when Hardress interrupted her. _ 
 
 1 Fool that I was ! ' he exclaimed, with a burst of grief and 
 self-reproach, ' fool, mad fool, and idiot that I was ! How blind 
 to my own happiness ! For ever longing for that which was 
 beyond my reach, and never able to appreciate that which I 
 possessed. In years gone by, the present seemed always stale, 
 and flat, and dreary ; the future and the past alone looked beauti- 
 ful. Now I must see them all with altered eyes. The present is 
 my refuge, for the past is red with blood, and the future burning 
 hot with shame and fire.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 251 
 
 ' Sit down, and hear me, Hardress, for one moment.' 
 
 1 Oh, Eily ! ' the wretched youth continued, stretching out his 
 arms to their full extent, and seeming to apostrophise some 
 listening spirit : ' Oh, Eily ! my lost, deceived, and murdered 
 love ! Oh, let it not be thus without recall ! Tell me not that the 
 things done in those hideous months are wholly without remedy ! 
 Come back ! Come back ! my own abused and gentle love ! If 
 tears, and groans, and years of self-inflicted penitence can wash 
 away that one accursed thought, you shall be satisfied. Look 
 there ! ' he suddenly exclaimed, grasping his mother's arm with 
 one hand, and pointing with the other to a distant corner of the 
 room. 'That vision comes to answer me!' He followed a 
 certain line with his finger through the air, as if tracing the course 
 of some hallucination. ' As vivid, and as ghastly real, as when I 
 saw it lying, an hour hence, on the wet, cold bank ; the yellow 
 hair uncurled ; the feet exposed — the feet that I first taught to 
 stray from duty ! the dank, blue mantle, covering and clinging 
 round the horrid form of death that lay beneath. Four times I 
 have seen it since I left the spot, and every time it grows more 
 deadly vivid. From this time forth my fancies shall be changed ; 
 for gloomy visions, gloomier realities ; for ghastly fears, a ghastlier 
 certainty.' 
 
 Here he sunk down into the chair which his mother had drawn 
 near her own, and remained for some moments buried in deep 
 silence. Mrs. Cregan took this opportunity of gently bringing 
 him into a more temperate vein of feeling ; but her feelings 
 carried her beyond the limit which she contemplated. 
 
 'Mistake me not,' she said, ' unhappy boy ! I would not have you 
 slight your guilt. It is black and deadly, and such as Heaven 
 will certainly avenge. But neither must you fly to the other and 
 worse extreme, where you can only cure presumption by despair. 
 You are not so guilty as you deem. That you willed her death 
 was a dark and deadly sin ; but nothing so hideous as the atro- 
 cious act itself. One thing, indeed, is certain, that, however this 
 affair may terminate, we are an accursed and miserable pair for 
 this world. I m you, and you in me ! Most weak and wicked 
 boy ! It was the study of my life to win your love and confidence, 
 and my reward has been distrust, concealment, and ' 
 
 'Do you reproach me, then?' cried Hardress, springing madly 
 to his feet, clenching his hand, and darting an audacious scowl 
 upon his parent. ' Beware, I warn you ! I am a fiend, I grant 
 you ; but it was by your temptation that I changed my nature. 
 You, my^ mother ! you have been my fellest foe ! I drank in 
 pride with your milk, and passion under your indulgence. You 
 sport with one possessed and desperate. This whole love-scheme, 
 that has begun in trick and cunning, and ended in blood, was all 
 your work ! And do you now ' 
 
 'Hold !' cried his mother, observing the fury of his eye, and 
 
252 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 his hand raised and trembling, though not with the impious pur- 
 pose she affected to think. ' Monster ! would you dare to strike 
 your parent ? ' 
 
 As if he had received a sudden blow, Hardress sunk down at 
 her feet, which he pressed between his hands, while he lowered 
 his forehead to the very dust. ' Mother ! ' he said, in a changing 
 and humble voice, 'my first, my constant, and forbearing friend, you 
 are right. I am not quite a demon yet. My brain may fashion 
 wild and impious words, but it is your son's heart that still beats 
 within my bosom. I did not dream of such a horrid purpose.' 
 
 After a silence of some minutes, the wretched young man arose, 
 with tears in his eyes, and took his seat in the chair. Here he 
 remained fixed in the same absent posture, and listening, but with 
 a barren attention, to the many soothing speeches which were 
 addressed to him by his mother. At length, rising hastily from 
 his seat, with a look of greater calmness than he had hitherto 
 shown, he said : 
 
 ' Mother, there is one way left for reparation. I will give my- 
 self up.' 
 
 1 Hold, madman ! ' 
 
 'Nay, hold, mother. I will do it. I will not bear this fire 
 upon my brain. I will not still add crime to crime for ever. If 
 I have outraged justice it is enough'. I will not cheat her. Why 
 do you hang upon me ? I am weak and exhausted ; a child could 
 stay me now — a flaxen thread could fetter me. Release me, 
 mother ! There is peace, and hope, and comfort, in this thought. 
 Elsewhere, I can find nought but fire and scourges. Oh ! let me 
 make this offering of a wretched life to buy some chance of quiet. 
 I never shall close an eye in sleep again until I lie on a dungeon 
 floor. I never more shall smile until I stand upon the scaffold. 
 Well, well, you will prevail — you will prevail, 5 he added, as his 
 mother forced him back into the chair which he had left ; ' but 
 I may find a time. My life, I know, is forfeited.' 
 
 1 It is not forfeited. 5 * 
 
 1 Not forfeited ! Hear you, just Heaven, and judge ! The 
 ragged wretch, that pilfers for his food, must die — the starving 
 father, who counterfeits a wealthy name to save his children from 
 a horrid death, must die — the goaded slave, who, driven from a 
 holding of his fathers, avenges his wrong upon the usurper's 
 property, must die — and I, who have pilfered for my passion — I, 
 the hypocrite, the false friend, the fickle husband, the coward, 
 traitor, and murderer (I am disgusted while I speak)— my life has 
 not been forfeited ! I alone stand harmless beneath these bloody 
 laws ! I said I should not smile again, but this will force a laugh 
 in spite of me.' 
 
 Mrs. Cregan prudently refrained from urging the subject 
 farther for the present, and contented herself with appealing to 
 his affectionate consideration of her own feelings, rather than 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 253 
 
 reminding him of his interest in the transaction. This seemed 
 more effectually to work upon his mind. He listened calmly and 
 with less reluctance, and was about to express his acquiescence, 
 when a loud and sudden knocking at the outer door of the 
 chamber made him start from his chair, turn pale, and shake in 
 every limb, like one convulsed. Mrs. Cregan, who had herself 
 been startled, was advancing towards the door, when the knocking 
 was heard again, though not so loud, against that which led to 
 the drawing-room. Imagining that her ear, in the first instance, 
 had deceived her, she turned on her steps, and was proceeding 
 toward the latter entrance, when the sound was heard at both 
 doors together, and with increased loudness. Slight as this 
 accident appeared, it produced so violent an effect upon the 
 nerves of Hardress that it was with difficulty he was able to reach 
 the chair which he had left, without falling to the ground. The 
 doors were opened — the one to Anne Chute, and the other to Mr. 
 Cregan. 
 
 'Dinner is on the table, aunt, 5 said the former. 
 
 ' And I am come on the very point of time, to claim a neighbour's 
 share of it,' said Mr. Cregan. 
 
 1 We are more fortunate than we expected,' said Anne. ' We 
 thought you would have dined with Mr. Connolly.' 
 
 ' Thank you for that hint, my good niece.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir, don't be alarmed ; you will not find us unprovided, 
 notwithstanding. Mr. Hardress Cregan,' she continued, moving 
 towards his chair with a lofty and yet playful carriage, ' will 
 you allow me to lead you to the dining-room ?' 
 
 ' He is ill, Anne — a little ill,' said Mrs. Cregan in a low voice. 
 
 1 Dear Hardress ! you have been thrown ! ' exclaimed Anne, 
 suddenly stooping over him with a look of tender interest and 
 alarm. 
 
 1 No, Anne,' said Hardress, shaking her hand in grateful 
 kindness ; ' I am not so indifferent a horseman. I shall be better 
 presently.' 
 
 'Go in — go in, ladies,' said Mr. Cregan. 'I have a word on 
 business to say to Hardress. We will follow you in three minutes.' 
 
 The ladies left the room, and Mr. Cregan, drawing his son 
 into the light, looked on his face for some moments with silent 
 scrutiny. 
 
 ' I don't know what to make of it,' he said at length, tossing his 
 head. ' You 're not flagging, Hardress— are you ? ' 
 
 ' Flagging, sir ? ' 
 
 'Yes. You do not feel a little queer about the heart now in 
 consequence of this affair?' 
 
 Hardress started, and shrunk back. 
 
 ' Whew !' The old sportsman gave utterance to a prolonged sound 
 that bore some resemblance to a whistle. ' 'Tis all up 1 That start 
 spoke volumes. You've dished yourself for ever. Let nobody 
 
254 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 see you. Go — go along into some corner, and hide yourself ; go 
 to the ladies ; that 's the place for you. What a fool I was to 
 
 leave a pleasant dinner-party, and come here to look after a 
 
 Well, I have seen you stand fire stoutly once. So it is with all 
 cowards. The worm will turn when trod upon ; and you were 
 primed with strong drink, moreover. But how dared you — this is 
 my chief point— this — how dared you stand up, and give any gentle- 
 man the lie, when you have not the heart to hold to your words ? 
 What do you stare at ? — Answer me.' 
 
 ' Give any gentleman the lie ! ' echoed Hardress. 
 1 Yes, to be sure. Didn't you give Warner the lie a while ago 
 upon the corcass?' 
 1 Not I, I am sure.' 
 
 ' No ! What was your quarrel, then ? ' 
 ' We had no quarrel. You are under some mistake.' 
 ' That 's very strange. That 's another affair. It passes all that 
 I have ever heard. The report all over the ground was that you 
 had exchanged the lie, and some even went so far as to say that 
 you had horsewhipped him. It leaves me at my wit's end.' 
 At this moment Falvey put his head in at the door, and said : 
 4 Dinner, if ye plase, gentlemen ; the ladies is waitin' for ye.' 
 This summons ended the conversation for the present, and 
 Hardress followed his father into the dining-room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 HARDRESS FINDS THAT CONSCIENCE IS THE SWORN FOE OF 
 VALOUR 
 
 He who, when smitten by a heavy fever, endeavours, with burst- 
 ing head and aching bones, to maintain a cheerful seeming among 
 a circle of friends, may imagine something of Hardress Cregan's 
 situation on this evening. His mother contrived to sit near him 
 during the whole time, influencing his conduct by word and 
 gesture, as one would regulate the movements of an automaton. 
 
 The company consisted only of that lady, her son, her husband, 
 and the two ladies of the mansion. The fire burned cheerfully in 
 the grate, the candles were lighted, Anne's harpsichord was 
 thrown open, and, had the apartment at that moment been un- 
 roofed by Le Viable Boiteux, in the sight of his companion, Don 
 Cleofas would have pronounced it a scene of domestic happiness 
 and comfort. 
 
 It appeared, from the conversation which took place in the 
 course of the evening, that the coroner had not even found any one 
 to recognise the body, and the jury, after giving the case a long 
 consideration, had come to the only conclusion for which there 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 255 
 
 appeared to be satisfactory evidence. They had returned a 
 verdict of ' Found drowned.' 
 
 'He would be a sharp lawyer,' continued Mr. Cregan, 'that 
 could take them up on that verdict. I thought there were some 
 symptoms of murder in the case, and wished them to adjourn the 
 inquest, but I was overruled. After all, I '11 venture to say it was 
 some love business. She had a wedding-ring on.' 
 
 'Be calm,' whispered Mrs. Cregan, laying her hand on her son's 
 arm. ' Some young husband, perhaps, who found he had made a 
 bad bargain. Take care of yourself, Anne ; Hardress may learn 
 the knack of it.' 
 
 Hardress acknowledged the goodness of this jest by a hideous 
 laugh. 
 
 ' It was a shocking business ! ' said Mrs. Chute. ' I wonder, 
 Hardress, how you can laugh at it. Depend upon it, it will 
 not terminate in that way. Murder is like fire — it will out at 
 some cleft or another.' 
 
 ' That is most likely to be the case in the present instance,' said 
 Mr. Cregan, for the clothes, in all likelihood, will be identified, 
 and Warner has sent an advertisement to all the newspapers and 
 to the parish chapels, giving an account of the whole transaction. 
 It is, indeed, quite certain, that the case will be cleared up, and 
 the foul play, if there be any, discovered. Whether the perpe- 
 trators will be detected or not, is a different question.' 
 
 Mrs. Cregan, who was in an agony during this conversation, 
 felt a sudden relief when it was ended by Anne Chute's calling 
 on her uncle for a song. 
 
 Mr. Cregan, who was always very funny among young people, 
 replied that he would with all his heart. And accordingly, with 
 a prefatory hem, he threw back his head, raised his eyes to the 
 cornice, dropt his right leg over the left knee, and treated the 
 company to the following effusion, humouring the tune with his 
 head, by slightly jerking it from side to side : 
 
 Gilli ma chree, 
 
 Sit down by me ; 
 We now are joined, and ne'er shall sever ; 
 
 This hearth 's our own, 
 
 Our hearts are one, 
 And peace is ours for ever ! 
 
 When I was poor, 
 
 Your father's door 
 Was closed against your constant lover. 
 
 With care and pain 
 
 I tried in vain 
 My fortunes to recover. 
 I said, 'To other lands I '11 roam, 
 
 Where fate may smile on me, love ! ' 
 I said, * Farewell, my own old home ! ' 
 And I said ' Farewell to thee, love ! ' 
 
 Sing Gilli ma chree, etc. 
 
256 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 I might have said, 
 
 ' My mountain maid, 
 Come, live with me, your own true lover ; 
 
 I know a spot, 
 
 A silent cot, 
 Your friends can ne'er discover, 
 Where gently flows the waveless tide, 
 
 By one small garden only ; 
 Where the heron waves his wings so wide, 
 And the linnet sings so lonely, 
 
 Sing Gilli ma chree, etc. 
 
 I might have said, 
 
 ' My mountain maid, 
 A father's right was never given, 
 
 True hearts to curse 
 
 With tyrant force, 
 That have been blest in Heaven.' 
 But, then, I said, ' In after years, 
 
 When thoughts of home shall find her, 
 My love may mourn, with secret tears. 
 Her friends thus left behind her.' 
 
 Sing Gilli ma chree, etc. 
 
 ' Oh, no,' I said, 
 * My own dear maid, 
 For me, though all forlorn, for ever, 
 That heart of thine, 
 Shall ne'er repine 
 O'er slighted duty — never. 
 From home and thee though wandering far, 
 
 A dreary fate be mine, love ; 
 I 'd rather live in endless war, 
 
 Than buy my peace with thine, love. ' 
 Sing Gilli ma chree, etc. 
 
 Far, far away, 
 
 By night and day, 
 I toiled to win a golden treasure : 
 
 And golden gains 
 
 Repaid my pains 
 In fair and shining measure. 
 I sought again my native land ; 
 
 Thy father welcomed me, love ; 
 I poured my gold into his hand, 
 
 And my guerdon found in thee, love ! 
 
 Sing Gilli ma chree, 
 
 Sit down by me ; 
 We now are joined, and ne'er shall sever ; 
 
 This hearth 's our own, 
 
 Our hearts are one, 
 And peace is ours for ever. 
 
 It was not until he courted rest and forgetfulness in the solitude 
 of his chamber that the hell of guilt and memory began to burn 
 within the breast of Hardress. Fears, which until this moment 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 257 
 
 he had despised as weak and childish, now oppressed his imagi- 
 nation with all the force of a real and imminent danger. The 
 darkness of his chamber was crossed by horrid shapes, and the 
 pillow seemed to burn beneath his cheek, as if he lay on fire. If 
 he dozed, he seemed to be rocked on his bed, as if borne upward 
 on the back of a flying steed, and the cry of hounds came yelling 
 on his ear with a discord even more terrible than that which rung 
 upon the ear of the hunted Acteon, in the exquisite fiction of the 
 ancients. That power of imagination, in which he had been 
 often accustomed to take pride, as in a high intellectual endow- 
 ment, became now his most fearful curse ; and, as it had been a 
 chief instrument in his seduction, was also made a principal 
 engine of retribution. 
 
 Several circumstances, trifling in themselves, but powerful in 
 their operation upon the mind of the guilty youth, occurred in the 
 course of the ensuing week, to give new fuel to the passion which 
 preyed upon his nerves. A few of these we will relate, if only for 
 the purpose of showing how slight a breath may shake the peace 
 of him who has suffered it to be sapped in the foundation. 
 
 When the first agony of his remorse went by, the love of life — 
 triumphant even over that appalling passion — made him join his 
 mother in her fears of a discovery, and her precautions for its pre- 
 vention. He sought, therefore, many opportunities of misleading 
 the observation of his acquaintances, and affected to mingle in 
 their amusements with a greater carelessness than he had ever 
 assumed during the period of his uncertainty respecting Eily's 
 fate. ■ -■-- 
 
 A small party had been formed one morning for the purpose of 
 snipe-shooting, and Hardress was one of the number. In a rushy 
 swamp (adjoining the little bay which had been selected as the 
 scene of the saddle-race so many months before), the game were 
 said to exist in great quantities, and thither, accordingly, the 
 sportsmen first repaired. A beautiful, but only half-educated 
 pointer, which Hardress procured in Kerry, in his eagerness for 
 sport, had repeatedly broken out of bound, in disregard of all the 
 menaces and entreaties of his owner, and by these means, on 
 many occasions narrowly escaped destruction. At length, while 
 he was indulging in one of those wild gambols, a bird rose, with a 
 sudden shriek, from the very feet of Hardress, and flew forward, 
 darting and wheeling in a thousand eccentric circles. Hardress 
 levelled and fired. The snipe escaped ; but a mournful howl of 
 pain from the animal before alluded to, seemed to announce that 
 the missile had not sped upon a fruitless errand. In a few seconds 
 the poor pointer was seen crawling out of the rushes, and turning 
 at every step to whine and lick its side, which was covered with 
 blood. The slayer ran, with an aching heart, towards the unfor- 
 tunate creature, and stooped to assist and to caress it. But the 
 wound was past all remedy. The poor quadruped whimpered 
 
 R 
 
258 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 and fawned upon his feet, as if to disarm the suspicion of resent- 
 ment, and died in the action. 
 
 ' Oh, murther, murther ! 5 said Pat Falvey, who accompanied the 
 party ; ' the poor thing was all holed with the shot ! Oh, look at 
 the limbs stiffening, and the light that 's gatherin' in the eyes ! 
 There 's death, now, Masther Hardress, the Lord save us ! — 
 there 's death ! ' 
 
 1 Where ? ' said Hardress, looking round with some wildness of 
 eye, and a voice which was indicative at the same time of anger 
 and of bodily weakness. 
 
 1 There, before your eye, sir,' said Falvey. ' There 's what we '11 
 all have to go through one time or another, the Christian as well 
 as the baste ! 'Twould be well for some of us if we had as 
 little to answer for as that poor pointher, afther our doin's in 
 this world. 5 
 
 'The other gentlemen had now collected around, with many 
 expressions of condolence on the fate of the poor servant of the 
 chase. Hardress appeared to be affected in a peculiar manner 
 by the transaction which he had witnessed. His glances were 
 vague and unsettled, his cheek was deadly pale, and his limbs 
 trembled exceedingly. This was the first shot he had fired in the 
 course of the day ; and the nature of the sport in which he was en- 
 gaged had not once occurred to him until he saw the blood flowing 
 at his feet. To a mind like his, always sensitive and reflective, and 
 rendered doubly so by the terrific associations of the last few 
 months, the picture of death in this poor quadruped was scarcely 
 less appalling than it might have been in the person of a fellow- 
 mortal. He felt his head grow dizzy as he turned away from the 
 spot ; and, after a few feeble paces, he fell senseless among the 
 rushes. 
 
 The gentlemen hastened to his relief, with looks of astonish- 
 ment rather than of pity. Some there were imperfectly ac- 
 quainted with his character, or perplexed by the extraordinary 
 change which it had lately undergone, who winked and sneered 
 apart when he was lifted from the earth ; and though no one 
 ventured openly to impute any effeminacy of character to the young 
 gentleman, yet, whenever they spoke of the occurrence in the 
 course of the day, it was not without exchanging a conscious smile. 
 On another occasion a boating party was formed, when Hardress, 
 as usual, took the rudder in hand. His father, on entering the 
 little vessel, was somewhat surprised at seeing a new boatman 
 seated on the forecastle. 
 
 ' Hello !' he said, ' what's your name, my honest fellow?' 
 
 ' Larry Kett, sir, plase your honour,' returned the man, a sturdy 
 old person, with a face as black as a storm. 
 
 ' Why, Hardress ! had you a quarrel with your little hunchback ? J 
 
 Hardress stooped suddenly down, as if for the purpose of 
 arranging a block, and after a little silence replied : 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 259 
 
 c No quarrel, sir ; but he chose to seek another service, and I do 
 not think I have made a bad exchange.' 
 
 The conversation changed, and the party (among whom was 
 Anne Chute) proceeded on their excursion, The wind freshened 
 considerably in the course of the forenoon, and before they had 
 reached that part of the river which flowed by the dairy-cottage 
 of Mr. Daly, it blew a desperate gale. The boatman, more 
 anxious for the comfort of the ladies than really apprehensive for 
 the boat, suggested the expediency of putting about on the home- 
 ward course before the tide should turn. 
 
 'If you hold on,' said the man, with a significant look, 'until 
 the wind an' tide come conthrary, there 'ill be a swell in the 
 channel, that it is as much as you can do to come through it with 
 the two reefs.' 
 
 Hardress assented, but it was already too late. They were 
 now a considerable distance below the cottage, with a strong 
 westerly wind, and a tide within twenty minutes of the flood. 
 
 1 What are you doing, Masther Hardress ? ' said the boatman. 
 ' Won't you haul home the mainsheet and jib ? ' 
 
 Hardress, whose eyes had been fixed on the rocky point before 
 the cottage, started suddenly, and proceeded to execute the 
 nautical manoeuvre in question. The little vessel, as docile to 
 her helm as a well-mounted hunter to his rider, threw her bow 
 away from the wind, and rushed roaring through the surges with 
 a fuller and a fiercer energy. After suffering her to run for a few 
 minutes before the wind, Hardress commenced, with due caution, 
 the dangerous process of jibbing or shifting the mainsail from one 
 side of the vessel to the other. 
 
 ' Down with yer heads, ladies, if ye plase ; take care of the 
 boom.' 
 
 All the heads were lowered, and the boom swung rapidly 
 across, and the vessel heeled with the sudden impulse, until her 
 leeward gunwale sipped the brine. 
 
 'Give her a free sheet, now, Masther Hardress,' said Kett, 'and 
 we '11 be up in two hours.' 
 
 All boatmen know that it requires a much steadier hand and 
 more watchful eye to govern a vessel when the wind is fair than 
 when it is adverse. A still greater nicety of attention was re- 
 quisite in the present instance, as the wind was high, and the now 
 returning tide occasioned, as the boatman predicted, a heavy 
 sea in the channel. It was, therefore, with considerable chagrin 
 that Larry Kett perceived his master's mind wandering, and his 
 attention frequently altogether withdrawn from the occupation 
 which he had in hand. That nervous disease, to which he had 
 become a slave for many weeks, approached a species of paroxysm 
 when Hardress found himself once more upon the very scene 
 where he had first encountered danger with the unfortunate Eily, 
 and before that dwelling, beneath whose roof he had plighted, to 
 
260 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 his forgotten friend, the faith which he had since betrayed. It 
 was impossible his reason could preserve its calmness amid those 
 terrible remembrances. As the shades of evening fell, assisted 
 by the gloomy clouds that scowled upon the brow of Heaven, he 
 became subject to the imaginative weakness of a child. The faces 
 of his companions darkened and grew strange in his eye. The 
 roar of the waters was redoubled, and the howling of the wind 
 along the barren shores brought to his mind the horrid cry of the 
 hounds, by which his guilt and his misery had been so fearfully 
 revealed. The shapes of those whom he had wronged seemed to 
 menace him from the gloomy chasms that gaped around between 
 the enormous billows, and the blast came after with a voice of 
 reproach, as if to hurry him onward to a place of dreadful retri- 
 bution. Sometimes the corpse of Eily, wrapped in the blue 
 mantle which she generally wore, seemed to be rolled downward 
 from the ridge of a foaming breaker ; sometimes the arms seemed 
 stretched to him for aid ; and sometimes the pale and shrouded 
 figure of Mrs. Daly seemed, from the gloom, to bend a look on 
 him of quiet sadness and upbraiding. While wholly absorbed in 
 the contemplation of these phantoms, a rough grasp was suddenly 
 laid upon his arm, and a rough voice shouted in his ear : 
 
 1 Are you deaf or dreaming ? Mind your hand, or you '11 put 
 us down ! ' - 
 
 Hardress looked around like one who suddenly awakes from 
 slumber, and saw his father looking on him with an inflamed and 
 angry countenance. In his reverie a change had taken place, 
 of which he was totally unconscious. A heavy shower drove full 
 upon the party, the sky had grown still darker, and the wind had 
 risen still higher. The time had long gone by when the spirits 
 of Hardress caught fire from the sight of danger, and when his 
 energies were concentrated by difficulty, as the firmness of an 
 arch is augmented by the weight which it is made to sustain. 
 The suddenness of his father's action startled him to the very 
 heart : the strange and, as it appeared to him, sudden change in 
 the weather, confirmed the disorder of his senses, and springing 
 forward, as a culprit might do from the sudden arrest of an 
 officer of justice, he abandoned the rudder, and fled with murmurs 
 of affright into the centre of the boat, where he sank exhausted 
 upon the ballast. 
 
 The scene of confusion which ensued it is not needful that we 
 should describe. Larry Kett, utterly unable to comprehend what 
 he beheld, took charge of the helm, while the remainder of the 
 party busied themselves in restoring Hardress to some degree of 
 composure. There was no remark made at the time, but when 
 the party were separating, some touched their foreheads and 
 compressed their lips in a serious manner ; while others, in secret 
 whispers, ventured, for the first time, to couple the name of 
 Hardress Cregan with that epithet which is so deeply dreaded 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 261 
 
 by young men, that they will burst the ties of moral justice, of 
 religion, of humanity, and even incur the guilt of murder, to 
 avoid its imputation — the epithet of coward. 
 
 Never was there a being more constitutionally formed for deeds 
 of courage and of enterprise than Hardress, and yet (such is the 
 power of conscience) never was a stigma affixed with greater 
 justice. He hurried early to his room, where he passed a night 
 of feverish restlessness, secured indeed, from the observation of 
 others, but still subjected to the unwinking gaze of memory, whose 
 glance, like the diamond eyes of the famous idol, seemed to follow 
 him whithersoever he turned, with the same deadly and avenging 
 expression. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 HOW THE SITUATION OF HARDRESS BECAME MORE CRITICAL 
 
 Another occurrence, mingled with somewhat more of the 
 ridiculous, but not less powerful in its effect upon the mind of 
 Hardress, took place in a few days afterwards. 
 
 In the lack of some equally exciting exercise, and in order to 
 form a pretext for his frequent absence from the castle, Hardress 
 was once more tempted to take up his gun, and look for shore- 
 fowl in the neighbourhood. One morning when he was occupied 
 in drawing a charge in the hall, Falvey came running in to let 
 him know that a flock of May-birds had pitched in one of the 
 gullies in the creek, which was now almost deserted by the fallen 
 tide. 
 
 'Are there many?' said Hardress, a little interested. 
 
 ' Oceans, oceans of 'em, sir,' was the reply of the figurative 
 valet. 
 
 ' Very well ; do you take this bag, and follow me to the shore. 
 I think we shall get at them conveniently from behind the lime- 
 kiln.' 
 
 This was a commission which Falvey executed with the worst 
 grace in the world. This talkative person was, in fact, a perfect, 
 and even absurd coward, nor did he consider the absence of any 
 hostile intention as a security, when the power of injury was in 
 his neighbourhood. His dread of firearms, like that of Friday, 
 approached to a degree of superstition, and it would appear from 
 his conduct that he had anything but a steady faith in the com- 
 mon opinion that a gun must throw its contents in the direction 
 of the bore. Accordingly, it was always with considerable reluc- 
 tance and apprehension that he accompanied his young master on 
 his shooting excursions. He followed him now with a dejected face, 
 
262 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 and a sharp and prudent eye, directed ever and anon at the 
 loaded weapon which Hardress balanced in his hand. 
 
 They approached the game under cover of a low, ruined 
 building, which had been once used as a lime-kiln, and now 
 served as a blind to those who made it an amusement to scatter 
 destruction among the feathered visitants of the little creek. 
 Arrived at this spot, Hardress perceived that he could take the 
 quarry at a better advantage from a sandbank some distance on 
 the right. He moved, accordingly, in that direction, and Falvey, 
 after conjecturing how he might best get out of harm's way, crept 
 into the ruined kiln, and took his seat on the loose stones at the 
 bottom. The walls, though broken down on every side, were yet 
 of a sufficient height to conceal his person, when in a sitting 
 posture, from all observation of man or fowl. Rubbing his hands 
 in glee, and smiling to find himself thus snugly ensconced from 
 danger, he awaited with an anxiety, not quelled, indeed, but yet 
 somewhat diminished, the explosion of the distant engine of 
 death. 
 
 But his evil genius, envious of his satisfaction, found means of 
 putting his tranquillity to nought. Hardress altered his judg- 
 ment of the two stations, and accordingly crept back to the lime- 
 kiln with as little noise as he had used in leaving it. He 
 marvelled what had become of Falvey ; but, reserving the search 
 for him until he had done his part upon the curlews, he went on 
 his knee, and rested the barrel of his piece on the grass-covered 
 wall of the ruin, in such a manner that the muzzle was two inches 
 above the head of the unseen, and smiling, and unconscious 
 Falvey. Having levelled on the centre of the flock, he fired, and 
 an uproar ensued which it is almost hopeless to describe. Half 
 a dozen of the birds fell without hearing the shot ; several fluttered 
 a few paces, and then sunk gasping on the slob. The great mass 
 of the flock rose screaming into the calm air, and were chorussed 
 by the whistling of myriads of sea-larks, red-shanks, and other 
 diminutive waterfowl. But the most alarming strain in the con- 
 cert was played by poor Falvey, who gave himself up for dead on 
 hearing the shot fired close to his ear in so unexpected a manner. 
 He sprang at one bound clear out of the lime-kiln, and fell flat on 
 his face and hands upon the short grass, roaring and kicking his 
 heels in the air like one in the agonies of the colica pictorum. 
 Terrified to the soul by this startling incident, Hardress threw 
 down his gun, and fled as from the face of a fiend. 
 
 In the meantime the cries of the prostrate Falvey attracted to 
 his relief a stranger, who had hitherto lain concealed under a pro- 
 jection of the bank. He jumped upon the wall of the kiln, and 
 remained gazing for some moments on the fallen man, with an 
 expression which partook more of curiosity than of compassion. 
 Seeing the gun, he imagined that Falvey had fired the shot him- 
 self, and experienced some injury from the recoil. It was with a 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 263 
 
 kind of sneer, therefore, that he took up the weapon, and pro- 
 ceeded to question the sufferer. 
 
 * What 's de matter wid you, man alive ? What makes you be 
 roarin' dat way ? ' 
 
 1 1 'm hot ! ' returned Falvey, with a groan. ' I 'm hot. The 
 masther holed me with the shot. Will I get the priest ? Will I 
 get the priest itself?' 
 
 1 Where did he hole you ? ' 
 
 1 There, in the lime-kiln, this minute. Will I get the priest ? ' 
 
 ' I mane, where are you hot ? In what part o' your body ? ' 
 
 ' Oyeh, it is all one,' said Falvey, a little perplexed by the 
 question. ' I felt it in the very middle o' my heart. Sure I know 
 I 'm a gone man ! ' 
 
 'How do you know it, ayeh? Straighten yourself, an' sit up a 
 bit. I don't see any signs of a hole.' 
 
 Falvey sat up, and began to feel his person in various places, 
 moaning the whole time in the most piteous tone, and looking 
 occasionally on his hands, as if expecting to find them covered 
 with blood. After a minute examination, however, no such 
 symptom could be discovered. 
 
 1 Ah, dere 's nothin' de matter wid you, man,' said the stranger. 
 ' Stand up, man ; you 're as well as ever you wor.' 
 
 1 Faiks, maybe so,' returned Falvey, rising and looking about 
 him with some briskness of eye. ' But sure I know,' he added, 
 suddenly drooping, ' 'tis the way always with people when they 
 are holed by a gun ; they never feel it until the moment they 
 dhrop.' ■ '-- 
 
 1 Well, an' isn't it time for you to tink of it when you begin to 
 feel it?' returned the stranger. 
 
 1 Faiks, maybe so,' returned Falvey, with increasing confidence. 
 ' That I may be blest,' he added, swinging his arms, and moving 
 a few paces with greater freedom, ' that I may be blest if I feel 
 any pain ! Faiks, I thought I was hot. But there's one thing, 
 anyway ; as long as ever I live, I never again will go shooting 
 with any man, gentle or simple, during duration.' 
 
 1 Stay a minute,' said the stranger ; ' won't you go out for the 
 curlews ? 
 
 ' Go out for 'em yourself, an' have 'em if you like,' returned 
 Falvey ; ' it 's bother enough I got with them for birds.' 
 
 He took up the gun and pouch, and walked slowly away, while 
 the stranger, after slipping off his shoes and stockings, and turning 
 up the knees of his under-garment, walked out for the game. He 
 had picked up one or two of the birds, and was proceeding 
 farther along the brink of the gully, when a sudden shout was 
 heard upon the rocky shore on the other side of the creek. The 
 stranger started and looked, like a frightened deer, in that direc- 
 tion, where Falvey beheld a party of soldiers running down the 
 rocks, as if with the purpose of intercepting his passage round 
 
264 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 a distant point by which the highroad turned. The stranger, 
 possibly aware of their intention, left his shoes, the game, and all, 
 behind him, and fled rapidly across the slob, in the direction of 
 the point. It was clear the soldiers could not overtake him. 
 They halted, therefore, on the shore, and, levelling their pieces 
 with deliberation, fired several shots at the fugitive, as after a 
 runaway prisoner. With lips a-gape with horror, Falvey beheld 
 the shining face of the mud torn up by the bullets within a few 
 feet of the latter. He still, however, continued his course unhurt, 
 and was not many yards distant from the opposite shore, when 
 (either caught by a trip, or brought down by some bullet better 
 aimed) he staggered and fell in the marl. He rose again, and 
 again sank down upon his elbow, panting for breath, and over- 
 powered by fatigue and fear. Falvey delayed to see no more, 
 being uncertain at whom their muskets would be next directed. 
 Lowering his person as far as might be consistent with a suit- 
 able speed, he ran along the hedgeways in the direction of the 
 castle. 
 
 In the meantime Hardress, full of horror at the supposed 
 catastrophe, had hurried to his sleeping-room, where he flung 
 himself upon the bed, and sought, but found not, relief in excla- 
 mations of terror and of agony. ' What ! ' he muttered through 
 his clenched teeth, ' shall my hands' be always bloody ? Can I 
 not move but death must dog my steps ? Must I only breathe to 
 suffer and destroy ? ' 
 
 A low and broken moan, uttered near his bedside, made him 
 start with a superstitious apprehension. He looked round, and 
 beheld his mother kneeling at a chair, her face pale, excepting 
 the eyes, which were inflamed with tears. Her hands were 
 wreathed together, as if with a straining exertion, and sobs came 
 thick and fast upon her breath, in spite of all her efforts to restrain 
 them. In a few minutes, while he remained gazing on her in 
 some perplexity, she arose, and, standing by his bedside, laid her 
 hand quietly upon his head. 
 
 'I have been trying to pray, 5 she said, 'but I fear in vain. It 
 was a selfish prayer — it was offered up for you. If you fear death 
 and shame, you will soon have cause to tremble. For a mother 
 who loves her son, guilty as he is, and for a son who would not 
 see his parents brought to infamy, there have been fearful tidings 
 here since morning.' 
 
 Hardress could only look the intense anxiety which he felt, to 
 learn what those tidings were. 
 
 'Ina few words,' said Mrs. Cregan, ' the dress of that unhappy 
 girl has been recognised, and by a train of circumstances (com- 
 mand yourself awhile !) — circumstances which this sick head of 
 mine will hardly allow me to detail, suspicion has fallen upon 
 your former boatman and his family. Do you know where he is ? ' 
 
 1 1 have not seen him since the — the — I know not. My orders 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 265 
 
 were that he should leave the country, and I gave him money for 
 the purpose. 5 
 
 1 Thank Heaven for that ! ' Mrs. Cregan exclaimed, with her 
 usual steady energy, while she clasped her hands together, and 
 looked upward with a wrapt fervour of expression. The action, 
 however, was quickly altered to a chilly shudder. She looked 
 suddenly to the earth, veiling her eyes with her hand, as if a 
 rapid light had dazzled her. ' Thank Heaven ! ' she repeated, in 
 a tone of terrified surprise. ' Oh ! mighty Being, Origin of 
 justice, and Judge of the guilty, forgive me for that impious 
 gratitude ! Oh ! Dora Cregan, if any one had told you in your 
 youth that you should one day thank Heaven to find a murderer 
 safe from justice ! I do not mean you, my child,' she said, turning 
 to Hardress ; you are no murderer.' 
 
 Hardress made no reply, and Mrs. Cregan remained silent for 
 a few minutes, as if deliberating on the course which it would be 
 necessary for her to adopt. The deception practised on Anne 
 Chute was not among the least of those circumstances which 
 made her situation one of agonising perplexity. But her fate had 
 been already decided, and it would be only to make the ruin of 
 her son assured, if she attempted now to separate the destiny 
 of Anne from theirs. 
 
 ' We must hasten this marriage,' Mrs. Cregan continued, after 
 a silence of some minutes, ' and, in the meantime, endeavour to 
 get those people, the Naughtens, out of the way. They will be 
 sought for without delay. Mr. Warner has been inquiring for you, 
 that he might obtain information of your boatman. I told him 
 that you had parted with the man long since, and you did not 
 know whither he had gone. Do you think you could sustain an 
 interview with him ? ' 
 
 Hardress, who was now sitting upon the bedside, pale, and 
 with features distorted by terror, replied to this question by a chilly 
 shudder and a vacant stare. 
 
 ' We must keep him out, then,' said his mother ; ' or, if he must 
 see you, it shall be in your chamber. There is still one way by 
 which you might be saved — the way which you proposed yourself, 
 though I was not then sufficiently at ease to perceive its advantages. 
 Go boldly forward and denounce this wretch ; lay all the infor- 
 mation in your power before the magistrates, and aid the officers 
 of justice in bringing him to punishment.' 
 
 Hardress turned his dull and bloodshot eyes upon his mother, 
 as if to examine whether she was serious in this proposition. If a 
 corpse, rigid in death, could be stimulated to a galvanic laugh, 
 one might expect to find it such a hideous convulsion as Hardress 
 used on discovering that she did not mock. 
 
 ' No, mother,' he said, curbing the Sardonic impulse, * I am not 
 innocent enough for that.' 
 
 'Why will you so perversely wrong yourself?' said Mrs. Cregan 
 
266 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 1 Neither in your innocence, nor in your culpability, do you seem 
 to form a true estimate of your conduct. You are not so guilty 
 as ' 
 
 'Very true, mother,' said Hardress, impatient of the subject, 
 and cutting it short with a burst of fierceness, scarcely less shock- 
 ing than his laughter. ' If the plea of conscious guilt will not 
 suffice, you may take my refusal upon your own ground. I am 
 too innocent for that. I am not fiend enough for such a treachery. 
 Pray let me hear no more of it, or I shall sicken. There 's some 
 one has knocked three times at the room door. I am quite weary 
 of playing the traitor, and if I had nothing but pure heart-sickness 
 to restrain me, I should yet long for a reform. My brain will bear 
 no more ; a single crime will crush it now. Again ! There 's some 
 one at the door.' 
 
 'Well, Hardress, I will speak with you of this at night.' 
 
 1 With all my heart. You say things sometimes that go near to 
 drive me mad, but yet you always talk to me as a friend, for my 
 own sake, and kindly. Mother ! ' he added, suddenly laying his 
 hand on her arm, as she passed him, and as the light fell brighter 
 on her thin and gloomy features : * Mother, how changed you are 
 since this unhappy act ! You are worn out with fears and sorrows. 
 It has been my fate or fault (I will not contend for the distinction) 
 to scatter poison in the way of all who knew me. A lost love for 
 one ; for another, falsehood, desertion, death ; for a third, duplicity 
 and ingratitude ; and even for you, my mother, ill health, a sink- 
 ing heart, and a pining frame. I can promise nothing now. My 
 mind is so distracted with a thousand images and recollections 
 (each one of which, a year since, I would have thought sufficient 
 to unsettle my reason), that I know not how to offer you a word of 
 comfort. But if these gloomy days should be destined to pass 
 away, and (whether by penitence or some sudden mercy) my heart 
 should once again be visited with a quieter grief, I will then 
 remember your affection.' 
 
 There was a time when this speech would have been moonlight 
 music to the ear of Mrs. Cregan. Now, her esteem for Hardress 
 being fled, and a good deal of self-reproach brought in to sour the 
 feeling with which she regarded his conduct, it was only in his 
 moments of danger, of anger, or distress, that her natural affec- 
 tions were forcibly aroused in his behalf. Still, however, it did 
 not fail to strike upon her heart. She sunk weeping upon his 
 neck, and loaded him with blessings and caresses. 
 
 ' 1 do not look for thanks, Hardress,' she said at length, dis- 
 engaging herself, as if in reproof of her weakness, ' because I do 
 the part of a mother. All that you have said, my child, in my re- 
 gard, is very vain and idle. A quiet, at least a happy, fireside is 
 a blessing that I never more can enjoy, nor do I even hope for it. 
 It is not because I think your guilt not worthy of the extreme pun- 
 ishment of the laws, that therefore I should deem it possible we 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 267 
 
 can either of us forget our share in the horrid deed that has been 
 done. Let us not disguise the truth from our own hearts. We 
 are a wretched and a guilty pair, with enough of sin upon our hands 
 to make our future life a load of fear and penitence. 5 
 
 1 1 did but speak it,' said the son, with some peevishness of tone, 
 'in consideration of your suffering.' 
 
 * I wish, Hardress, that you had considered me a little more 
 early.' 
 
 'You did not encourage me to a confidence, 5 said Hardress. 
 'You repressed it.' 
 
 * You should not, 5 retorted the mother, 'have needed encourage- 
 ment under circumstances so decisive. Married ! If you had 
 breathed a word of it to me I would have sooner died than urge 
 you as I did. 5 
 
 ' I told you I was pledged.' 
 
 ' You did : ay, there, indeed, my son, your reproach strikes 
 home. I thought that you would only break a verbal truth, and 
 most unjustly did I wish that you should break it. How fearfully 
 has Heaven repaid me for that selfish and unfeeling act ! But 
 you were all too close and secret for me. Go — go, unhappy boy ; 
 you taunt me with the seduction which was only the work of your 
 own shameful passion.' 
 
 This painful dialogue, which, perhaps, would have risen to a 
 still more bitter tone of recrimination, was broken off by a renewal 
 of the summons at the door. It appeared as if the applicant for 
 admission had gone away in despair, and again returned after a 
 fruitless search elsewhere. On opening the door, Mrs. Cregan 
 encountered the surly visage of Dan Dawley, who informed her 
 that her presence was required in the ball-room ; such was the 
 name given to that apartment in which Hardress had made to her 
 a confession of his guilt. When she had left the chamber, Har- 
 dress, who grew momentarily more weak and ill, prepared him- 
 self for bed, and bade the old steward send him one of the servants. 
 This commission the surly functionary discharged on returning to 
 the servants' hall, by intimating his master's desire to Pat Falvey, 
 who had entered some time before. 
 
 Mrs. Cregan, in the meantime, proceeded to the chamber above 
 mentioned, which she could only reach by passing through the 
 narrow hall and winding staircase near the entrance. The former 
 presented a scene calculated to alarm and perplex her. A number 
 of soldiers, with their soaped and powdered queues, and musket- 
 barrels shining like silver, were stuck up close to the wall on 
 either side, like the wax figures in the shop of a London tailor. 
 On the gravel before the door she could see a number of country 
 people, who had collected about the door, wondering what could 
 have brought ' the army ' to Castle Chute. From the door of the 
 kitchen and servants' hall a number of heads were thrust out, with 
 faces indicative of a similar degree of astonishment and curiosity. 
 
268 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Passing through this formidable array, Mrs. Cregan ascended 
 the stairs, and was admitted at the door of the ball-room by a 
 figure as solemn and formidable as those below. The interior of 
 the room presented a scene of still more startling interest. A 
 table was spread in the centre, around which were standing Mr. 
 Warner the magistrate, Mr. Barnaby Cregan, Captain Gibson, 
 and a clerk. At the farther end of the table, his arm suspended 
 in a cotton handkerchief, stood a low, squalid, and ill-shaped 
 figure, his dress covered with mud, and his face, which was 
 soiled with blood and marl, rather expressive of surprise and 
 empty wonder than of apprehension or of suffering. 
 
 Mrs. Cregan, who recognised the figure, paused for a moment 
 in a revulsion of the most intense anxiety, and then walked calmly 
 forward with that air of easy dignity which she could assume even 
 when her whole nature was at war within her. This power of 
 veiling her inward struggles, even to the extremity of endurance, 
 made her resemble a fair tower sapped in the foundation, which 
 shows no symptom of a weakness up to the very instant of destruc- 
 tion, and is a ruin even before the sentiment of admiration has 
 faded on the beholder's mind. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 HOW THE DANGER TO THE SECRET OF HARDRESS WAS AVERTED 
 BY THE INGENUITY OF IRISH WITNESSES 
 
 Mr. Warner informed her that it was no longer necessary that 
 her son's assistance should be afforded them, as they had had the 
 good fortune to apprehend the object of their suspicions. They 
 should, however, he said, be compelled to await the arrival of their 
 witnesses, for nothing had been gained by putting the fellow on 
 his examination. His answers were all given in the true style of 
 an Irish witness, seeming to evince the utmost frankness, yet in- 
 variably leaving the querist in still greater perplexity than before 
 he put the question. Every hour, he said, they expected the 
 arrival of this man's brother and sister from Killarney, and they 
 should then have an opportunity of confronting them with him 
 and with the previous witnesses. 
 
 * I have already sent off a messenger,' continued Mr. Warner, 
 'to my own little place, to see if they have yet arrived, in order 
 that they may be brought hither and examined on the spot. The 
 inconvenience to Mrs. Chute, I hope she will excuse, and my 
 principal reason for wishing to see you, Mrs. Cregan, was that 
 you might bear our explanation to that lady. On occasions of 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 26$ 
 
 this kind all good subjects are liable to be trespassed on, perhaps 
 more than courtesy might warrant. 5 
 
 1 I will answer for my sister,' said Mrs. Cregan coldly ; ' she 
 will not, of course, withhold any accommodations in her power. 
 But this man — has he been questioned, sir?' 
 
 ' He has.' 
 
 * Might I be allowed to see the examination ? ' 
 
 'By all means, Mrs. Cregan. Mr. Houlahan, will you hand 
 that book to the lady ? ' 
 
 Mr. Houlahan, after sticking his pen behind his ear, rose and 
 delivered the volume accordingly, with a smirk and bow, which 
 he meant for a wonder of politeness. The lady, whose thoughts 
 were busy with other matters than Mr. Houlahan's gallantry, re- 
 ceived it, nevertheless, with a calm dignity, and opening her read- 
 ing-glass, stooped to the page which that gentleman had pointed 
 out. She glanced with assumed indifference over the details of 
 the examination of Daniel Mann, while she devoured its meaning 
 with an agonising closeness of scrutiny. The passage which con- 
 cerned her most was the following : 
 
 1 Questioned, If he were known to the deceased Eily 
 
 O'Connor ; answereth, He hath met such a one in Garryowen, but 
 knoweth nothing farther. Questioned, If he heard of her death ; 
 answereth, Nay. Questioned, If he knoweth a certain Lowry 
 Looby, living; answereth, Yes. Questioned, Whether Eily 
 O'Connor did not lodge for a time in the house of Philip 
 Naughten, Killarney ; answereth, How should he be aware of 
 his brother-in-law's lodgers ? Saith, He knoweth not. Questioned, 
 If he were not present in said Naughten's house, when said Eily, 
 deceased, said Looby being then in Naughten's kitchen, did give 
 a letter to Poll Naughten, sister to prisoner, addressed to Dunat 
 O'Leary, haircutter, Garryowen, and containing matter in the 
 handwriting of said Eily ; answereth, How should he (prisoner) 
 see through a stone wall ? Saith, He was in the kitchen. Saith, 
 Looby was a fool, and that his eyes were not fellows. Saith, He 
 knoweth not who was in the said inner room. Questioned, Why 
 he was discharged out of the employment of his master, Mr. Har- 
 dress Cregan ; answereth, He knoweth not. Questioned, Where 
 he hath been residing since he left his master's service ; answereth, 
 It is a token that examinant doth not know, or he would not ask. 
 And the like impertinent and futile answers, with sundry speeches 
 little to the purpose, hath the prisoner responded to all subsequent 
 inquiries.' 
 
 With a feeling of relief Mrs. Cregan returned the book to the 
 clerk, and glancing towards the prisoner, observed that his eye 
 was fixed on hers with a look of shrewd and anxious inquiry. To 
 this glance she returned one equally comprehensive in its 
 meaning. It told him she was fully in the counsels of her son, 
 and prepared him to be guided by her eye. 
 
270 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 At the same moment the sentinel was heard presenting arms 
 at the door, and a corporal entered to say that Mr. Warner's 
 messenger had returned, and that the witnesses might be expected 
 in a few minutes. 
 
 1 All 's right, then,' said Mr. Warner, who entered on a scrutiny 
 of this kind with the same professional gout which might make 
 Xenophon find excitement amid the difficulties and intricacies of 
 his famous retreat. ' Remove the prisoner. We shall examine 
 them apart, and see if their stories will bear the jangling. If they 
 are all as much given to the negative as this fellow, I am afraid 
 we shall find it hard to make them jar.' 
 
 This was a moment of intense anxiety to Mrs. Cregan. She 
 saw no probability of being able to communicate with the 
 prisoners (for such were all the witnesses at present) ; and she 
 comprehended all the importance of preventing, at least, the 
 chance of Hardress's name being mingled up with the account of 
 the unknown visitor at the cottage of the Naughtens. 
 
 A little experience, however, in the proceedings of Irish law 
 courts would have given her more courage and comfort on this 
 subject. The peasantry of Ireland have, for centuries, been at 
 war with the laws by which they are governed, and watch their 
 operation in every instance with a jealous eye. Even guilt itself, 
 however naturally atrocious, obtains a commiseration in their 
 regard, from the mere spirit of opposition to a system of government 
 which they consider as unfriendly. There is scarcely a cottage in 
 the south of Ireland where the very circumstance of legal denuncia- 
 tion would not afford, even to a murderer, a certain passport to 
 concealment and protection. To the same cause may be traced, 
 in all likelihood, the shrewdness of disguise, the closeness, the 
 affected dulness, the assumed simplicity, and all the inimitable 
 subtleties of evasion and of wile which an Irish peasant can dis- 
 play when he is made to undergo a scene of judicial scrutiny, in 
 which he will frequently display a degree of gladiatorial dexterity 
 which would throw the spirit of Machiavelli into ecstacies. 
 
 While Mrs. Cregan remained endeavouring to control the 
 workings of her apprehension, a bustle was heard outside the 
 door, in which the sound of a female voice, raised high in anger 
 and remonstrance, overtopped the rest in loudness, like a soprano 
 voice in a chorus. 
 
 ' Let me in ! ' she exclaimed, in a fierce tone : ' do you want to 
 thrust your scarlet jacket between the tree and the rind ? Let me 
 in, you tall ramrod, or I'll pull the soap and powder out of your 
 wig. If I had you on the mountains, I 'd cut the pig's tail from 
 your pole, and make a show o' you. Do, do — draw your bay'net 
 on me, you cowardly object. It's like the white blood o' the 
 whole of ye ! I know fifty lads of your size, that would think as 
 little of tripping you up on a fair-green, and making a highroad 
 of your powdered carcass, as I do of snapping my fingers in your 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 271 
 
 face! That for your rusty bay'net, you woman's match!' Here 
 she burst into the room and confronted the magistrate, while the 
 sentinel muttered, as he recovered his guard, ' Well, you 're a rum 
 one, you are, as ever I see.' 
 
 * Danny, a'ra gal ! Oh vo, ohone, achree, asthora ! is that the 
 way with you ? What did you do to 'em ? — what 's the matther ?' 
 
 1 Dat de hands may stick to me, Poll, if I know,' returned the 
 prisoner, while she moaned and wept over him with a sudden 
 passion of grief. ' Dey say 'tis to kill some one I done. Dey say 
 one Eily O'Connor was a lodger of ours westwards, an' dat I tuk 
 her out of a night an' murdered her. Isn't dat purty talk? Sure 
 you know yourself we had no lodgers.' 
 
 1 Remove that prisoner,' said Mr. Warner ; ' he must not be 
 present at her examination.' 
 
 ' I '11 engage I have no longin' for it,' returned Danny. ' She 
 knows right well that it is all talks, an 5 'tis well I have found a 
 friend at last dat '11 see me out o' trouble.' 
 
 Danny was removed, and the examination of Poll Naughten 
 was commenced by the magistrate. She had got but one hint 
 from her brother to guide her in her answers, and on all 
 other topics she came to the resolution of admitting as little as 
 possible. 
 
 ' Your name is Poll Naughten ? Stay, she is not sworn. 
 Hand her the book.' 
 
 She took the volume with an air of surly assurance, and re- 
 peated the form of the oath. 
 
 * She did not kiss it,' whispered Mr. Houlahan, with a sagacious 
 anxiety ; ' she only kissed her thumb. I had my eye upon her.' 
 
 1 Had you ? Well, gi' me the book till I plaze that gentleman. 
 Is that the way you'd like to lip the leather? 5 she said, after a 
 smack that went off like a detonating cap. ' Is that done to your 
 liking, sir?' 
 
 Mr. Houlahan treated this query with silence, and the exami- 
 nation proceeded. 
 
 1 Poll Naughten is your name — is it not ?' 
 
 * Polly Mann they christened me for want of a betther, an' for 
 want of a worse I took up with Naughten.' 
 
 'You live in the Gap of Dunloe ? ' 
 ' Iss, when at home.' 
 
 I Did you know the deceased Eily O'Connor?' 
 ' Eily who ? ' 
 
 ' O'Connor.' 
 
 I I never knew a girl o' that name.' 
 
 1 Take care of your answers. We have strong evidence.' 
 ' If you have it as sthrong as a cable, you may make the most 
 of it. You have my answer.' 
 
 '■Do you know a person of the name of Looby?' 
 ' I do, to be sure, for my sins, I believe.' 
 
272 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 'Do you remember his being in your house in last autumn ?' 
 
 * I do, well ; an' I 'd give him his tay the same night if it wasn't 
 for raisins.' 
 
 * Did you give him a letter on that evening?' 
 
 * He made more free than welcome, a dale. I can tell him 
 that.' 
 
 'Answer my question. Did you give him a letter ?' 
 
 ' Oyeh, many 's the thing I gev him, and I 'm sorry I didn't give 
 him a thing more along with 'em, an' that 's a good flakinV 
 
 'Well, I don't deny you credit for your good wishes in that 
 respect, but still I wait to have my question answered. Did you 
 give Looby a letter on that evening ? ' 
 
 ' Listen to me now, plase your honour. That the head may go 
 to the grave with me ' 
 
 ' Those asseverations, my good woman, are quite superfluous. 
 You should remember you are on your oath.' 
 
 ' Well, I am ; sure I know I am upon my oath, an' as I am upon 
 it, an' by the vartue* o' that oath, I swear I never swopped a word 
 with Lowry Looby from that day to this.' 
 
 'Whew!' said the magistrate, 'there's an answer. Hear me, 
 my good woman. If you won't speak out, we shall find a way to 
 make you speak.' 
 
 1 No use in wasting blows upon .a willing horse. I can do no 
 more than speak to the best of my ability.' 
 
 ' Very well. I ask you again, therefore, whether Looby received 
 a letter from you on that evening.' 
 
 ' Does Lowry say I gev him a letther ? ' 
 
 1 You will not answer, then ? ' 
 
 1 To be sure I will. What am I here for ? ' 
 
 ' To drive me mad, I believe. 5 
 
 ' Faiks, I can't help you,' said Poll, ' when you won't listen 
 to me.' 
 
 1 Well, well, speak on.' 
 
 ' I will, then, without the word of a lie. I '11 tell you that whole 
 business, and let Lowry himself conthradict me if he daar to do 
 it. 5 Tis as good as six years ago, now, since I met that boy at 
 one o' the Hewsan's wakes.' 
 
 * Well, what has that to do with an answer to a plain question ? ' 
 ' Easy a minute, can't you, an' 1 '11 tell you. He behaved very 
 
 polished that night, an' I seen no more of him until the day you 
 spake of, when he came into the cottage from Killarney.' 
 
 ' Woman,' said the magistrate, ' remember that you have 
 sworn to tell the whole truth ; not only the truth, but the whole 
 truth.' 
 
 ' Ah, then, gentleman an' lady, d'ye hear this ? Did anybody 
 ever hear the peer o' that? Sure, it's just the whole truth I 'm 
 tellin' him, an' he won't listen to the half of it.' 
 
 * Go on,' said Mr. Warner, in a tone of resignation. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 27J 
 
 * Sure that 's what I want to do, if I 'd be let. I say this, an' I '11 
 stand to it : Lowry gave me impidence that I wouldn't stand 
 from his masther, an' I did (let him make the most of it), I 
 admit it, I did give him a sthroke or two. I did. I admit it.' 
 
 'And after the sthrokes, as you call them, you gave him a letter?' 
 
 'Whatletther?' 
 
 ' I see ; you are very copious of your admissions. Are you 
 Philip Naughten's wife ? ' 
 
 < I am.' 
 
 1 Ay, now we 're upon smooth ground. You can give an answer 
 when it suits you. I 'm afraid you are too many for me. What 
 shall we do with this communicative person ? ' he said, turning to 
 the other gentlemen. 
 
 'Remand her,' said Captain Gibson, whose face was purple 
 from suppressed laughter, ' and let us have the husband.' 
 
 ' With all my heart,' returned Mr. Warner. ' Take that woman 
 into another room, and bring up Philip Naughten. Take care, 
 moreover, that they do not speak upon the way.' 
 
 Poll was removed, a measure which she resented by shrill and 
 passionate remonstrances, affecting to believe herself very ill- 
 treated. Her husband was next admitted, and, from his humble, 
 timid, and deprecating manner, at once afforded the magistrate 
 some cause of gratulation ; and Mrs. Cregan of deep and 
 increasing anxiety. 
 
 He approached the table with a fawning smile upon his coarse 
 features, and a helpless, conciliating glance at every individual 
 around him. 
 
 'Now we shall have something,' said Mr. Warner; 'this fellow 
 has a more tractable eye. Your name is Philip Naughten, is it not ? J 
 
 The man returned an answer in Irish, which the magistrate cut 
 short in the middle. 
 
 ' Answer me in English, friend. We speak no Irish here. Is 
 your name Philip Naughten ? ' 
 
 ' The wisha, vourneen ' 
 
 ' Come, come — English. Swear him to know whether he does 
 not understand English. Can you speak English, fellow ?' 
 
 ' Not a word, plase your honour. 5 
 
 A roar of laughter succeeded this escapade, to which the prisoner 
 listened with a wondering and stupid look. Addressing himself in 
 Irish to Mr. Cregan, he appeared to make an explanatory speech, 
 which was accompanied by a slight expression of indignation. 
 
 ' What does the fellow say ? ' asked Mr. Warner. 
 
 ' Why,' said Cregan, with a smile, ' he says he will admit that he 
 couldn't be hung in English before his face, 1 but he does not know 
 enough of the language to enable him to tell his story in English. 
 
 1 A common phrase, meaning that the individual understood enough of the 
 language to refute any calumny spoken in his presence, which, if uncontradicted, 
 might leave him in danger of the halter. 
 
 S 
 
274 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 1 Well, then, I suppose we must have it in Irish. Mr. Houlahan, 
 will you act as interpreter ? ' 
 
 The clerk, who thought it genteel not to know Irish, bowed, and 
 declared himself unqualified. 
 
 ' Wisha, then,' said a gruff voice at a little distance, in a dark 
 corner of the room, 'it isn't but what you had opportunities enough 
 of learning it. If you went to foreign parts, what would they say to 
 you, do you think, when you 'd tell 'em you didn't know the language 
 of the counthry where you were born ? You ought to be ashamed 
 o' yourself, so you ought' 
 
 This speech, which proceeded from the unceremonious Dan 
 Dawley, produced some smiling at the expense of the euphuistic 
 secretary, after which the steward himself was sworn to discharge 
 the duties of the office in question. 
 
 The preliminary queries having been put and answered, the 
 interpreter proceeded to ask, at the magistrate's suggestion, whether 
 the witness was acquainted with the deceased Eily O'Connor. 
 
 But if it had been the policy of Mrs. Naughten to admit as little. 
 as possible, it seemed to be the policy of her husband to admit no- 
 thing at all. The subterfuge of the former in denying a knowledge 
 of Eily, under her maiden name (which, she imagined, saved her 
 from the guilt of perjury), was an idea too brilliant for her husband. 
 He gaped upon the interpreter in silence for some moments, and 
 then looked on the magistrate as if to gather the meaning of the 
 question. 
 
 ' Repeat it for him,' said the latter. 
 
 Dawley did so. 
 
 "Tis the answer he makes me, plase your honour,' he said, 'that 
 he 's a poor man that lives by industhering. 5 
 
 'That's no answer. Repeat the question once more, and tell 
 him I shall commit him for trial if he will not answer it.' 
 
 Again the question was put, and listened to with the same 
 plodding, meditative look, and answered with a countenance of 
 honest grief, and an apparent anxiety to be understood, which 
 would have baffled the penetration of any but a practised observer. 
 So earnest was his manner, that Mr. Warner really believed he was 
 returning a satisfactory answer. But he was disappointed. 
 
 ' He says,' continued the interpreter, ' that when he was a young 
 man he rented a small farm from Mr. O'Connor of Crag-beg near 
 Tralee. He has as much thricks in him, plase your honour, as a 
 rabbit. I'd as lieve be brakin' stones to a paviour as putting 
 questions to a rogue of his kind.' 
 
 Threats, promises of favour, lulling queries, and moral expedi- 
 ents of every kind, were used to draw him out into the communi- 
 cative frankness which was desired. But he remained as adamant. 
 He could or would admit nothing more than that he was a poor 
 man, who lived by his industry, and that he had rented a small 
 farm from Mr. O'Connor of Crag-beg. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 275 
 
 The prisoners, therefore, after a short consultation, were all 
 remanded, in order that time might be afforded for confronting 
 them with the friends of the unhappy Eily. Mrs. Cregan, with the 
 feeling of one who has stood all day before a burning furnace, 
 hurried to the room of Hardress to indulge the tumult which was 
 gathering in her bosom ; and the gentlemen, by a special invitation 
 (which could no more be declined without offence in the Ireland 
 of those days than in a Persian cottage), adjourned to the consola- 
 tions of Mrs. Chute's dining-parlour. Separate places of confine- 
 ment were allotted to the prisoners ; a sentinel was placed over 
 each, and the remainder of the party, notwithstanding the remon- 
 strances of Captain Gibson, were all entertained like princes in the 
 servants 5 hall. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 HOW HARDRESS TOOK A DECISIVE STEP FOR HIS OWN SECURITY 
 
 The hospitalities of Castle Chute were on this evening called into 
 active exercise. If the gravest occasion of human life, the vigil of 
 the dead, was not in those days always capable of restraining the 
 impetuous spirit of enjoyment so much indulged in Irish society, 
 how could it be expected that a mere anxiety for the interests of 
 justice could interrupt the flow of their social gaiety ? Before mid- 
 night the house rang with laughter, melody, and uproar, and in an 
 hour after every queue in the servants' hall was brought into a 
 horizontal position. Even the three that stalked on guard were 
 said to oscillate on their posts with an ominous motion, as the bells 
 in churches forebode their fall when shaken by an earthquake. 
 Hardress continued too unwell to make his appearance, and this 
 circumstance deprived the company of the society of Anne Chute, 
 and indeed of all the ladies, who took a quiet and rather mournful 
 cup of tea by the drawing-room fire. The wretched subject of 
 their solicitude lay burning on his bed, and listening to the boister- 
 ous sounds of mirth that proceeded from the distant parlour, with 
 the ears of a dreaming maniac. 
 
 The place in which his boatman was confined had been a stable, 
 but was now become too ruinous for use. It was small and roughly 
 paved. The rack and manger were yet attached to the wall, and 
 a few slates displaced upon the roof admitted certain glimpses of 
 moonshine, which fell cold and lonely on the rough, unplastered 
 wall and eaves, making the house illustrious, like that of Sixtus V. 
 Below, on a heap of loose straw, sat the squalid prisoner, warming 
 his fingers over a small fire, heaped against the wall ; and listening 
 in silence to the unsteady tread of the sentinel, as he strode back 
 
276 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 and forward before the stable door, and hummed, with an air of 
 suppressed and timid joviality, the words : 
 
 ' We won't go home till morning, 
 We won't go home till morning, 
 We won't go home till morning, 
 Until the dawn appears ! ' 
 
 A small square window, closed with a wooden bar and shutters, 
 was to be found above the rack, and opened on a hay yard, which, 
 being raised considerably above the level of the stable-floor, lay 
 only a few feet beneath this aperture. Danny Mann was in the 
 act of devouring a potato, reeking hot, which he had cooked in 
 the embers, when a noise at the window made him start, and set 
 his ears like a watchdog. It was repeated. He stood on his feet, 
 and crept softly into a darker corner of the stable, partly in super- 
 stitious apprehension, and partly in obedience to an impulse of 
 natural caution. In a few minutes one of the shutters was gently 
 put back, and a flood of mild light was poured into the prison. 
 The shadow of a hand and head were thrown with great distinct- 
 ness of outline on the opposite wall ; the other shutter was put back 
 with the same caution, and in a few moments nearly the whole 
 aperture was again obscured, as if by the body of some person 
 entering. Such, in fact, was the case ; and the evident substan- 
 tiality of the figure did not remove the superstitious terrors of the 
 prisoner, when he beheld a form wrapt in white descending by the 
 bars of the rack, after having made the window close again, and 
 the apartment, in appearance, as gloomy as ever. 
 
 The intruder stood at length upon the floor, and the face, which 
 was revealed in the brown firelight, was that of Hardress Cregan. 
 The ghastliness of his mouth and teeth, the wildness of his eyes, 
 and the strangeness of his attire (for he had only wrapped the 
 counterpane around his person), might, in the eyes of a stranger, 
 have confirmed the idea of a supernatural appearance. But these 
 circumstances only tended to arouse the sympathy and old attach- 
 ment of his servant. Danny Mann advanced towards him slowly, 
 his hands wreathed together, and extended as far as the sling which 
 held the wounded arm would allow ; his jaw dropt— half in pity 
 and half in fear, and his eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' Masther Hardress,' he said at length, 'is it you I see that way ?' 
 
 Hardress remained for some time motionless as a statue, as if 
 endeavouring to summon up all his corporeal energies to support 
 him in the investigation which he was about to make. 
 
 ' Won't you speak to me, masther ? ' continued the boatman ; 
 'won't you speak a word itself? 'Twas all my endeavour since I 
 came hether to thry an' get 'em to let me speak to you. Say a 
 word, masther, if it is only to tell me 'tis yourself dat 's dere ! ' 
 
 ' Where is Eily ? ' murmured Hardress, still without moving, and 
 in a tone that seemed to come from the recesses of his breast, like 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 277 
 
 a sound from a sepulchre. The boatman shrank aside, as if from 
 the eye of Justice itself. So sudden had the question struck upon 
 his conscience, that the inquirer was obliged to repeat it before he 
 could collect his breath for an answer. 
 
 ' Masther Hardress, I tought, after I parted you dat time ' 
 
 1 Where is Eily ?' muttered Hardress, interrupting him. 
 
 1 Only listen to me, sir, one moment ' 
 
 'Where is Eily?' 
 
 4 Oh, vo! vo!' 
 
 Hardress drew the counterpane around his head, and remained 
 for several minutes silent in the same attitude. During that time 
 the drapery was scarcely seen to move, and yet hell raged beneath 
 it. A few moans of deep but smothered agony were all that might 
 be heard from time to time. So exquisite was the sense of suffer- 
 ing which these sounds conveyed, that Danny sank trembling on 
 his knees, and responded to them with floods of tears and sobbing. 
 
 ' Masther Hardress,' he said, ' if dere 's anything dat I can do to 
 make your mind aisy, say de word. I know dis is my own busi- 
 ness, an' no one else's. An' if dey find me out itself, dey '11 never 
 be one straw de wiser of who advised me to it. If you tink I 'd 
 tell, you don't know me. Dey may hang me as high as dey like ; 
 dey may flake de life out o' me, if dey plase ; but dey never 'il get a 
 word outside my lips of what it was dat made me do it. Didn't 
 dey try me to-day, an' didn't I give 'em a sign of what I 'd do ?' 
 
 * Peace, hypocrite ! ' said Hardress, disgusted at a show of 
 feeling to which he gave no credit. ' Be still, and hear me. For 
 many years it has been my study to heap kindnesses upon you. 
 For which of those was it that you came to the determination of 
 involving me in ruin, danger, and remorse, for all my future life — 
 a little all it may be, certainly ? ' 
 
 It would seem from the manner in which Danny gaped and 
 gazed on his master while he said these words, that a reproach 
 was one of the last things he had expected to receive from Hardress. 
 Astonishment, blended with something like indignation, took place 
 of the compassion which before was visible upon his countenance. 
 
 * I don't know how it is, Masther Hardress,' he said. ' Dere are 
 some people dat it is hard to plase. Do you remember saying any 
 thing to me at all of a time in de room in de masther's, at Killarney, 
 Masther Hardress ? Do you remember givin' me a glove at all ? 
 I had my token surely for what I done.' 
 
 So saying, he drew the glove from his waistcoat, and handed it 
 to his master ; but the latter rejected it with a revulsion of strong 
 dislike. 
 
 i I tought I had ears to hear at dat time, and brains to under- 
 stand,' said Danny, as he replaced the fatal token in his bosom, 
 'an' I'm sure it was no benefit to me dat dere should be a hue- 
 and-cry over de mountains after a lost lady, an' a chance of a 
 hempen cravat, for my trouble. But I had my warrant — dat was 
 
278 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 your very word, Masther Hardress — warrant, wasn't it? "Well, 
 when you go," says you, " here is your warrant," an' you ga' me de 
 glove. Worn't dem your words ? ' 
 
 1 But not for death,' said Hardress. ' I did not say for death.' 
 
 ' I own you didn't,' returned Danny, who was aroused by what 
 he considered a shuffling attempt to escape out of the transaction. 
 1 1 own you didn't ; I felt for you, an' I wouldn't wait for you to 
 say it. But did you mane it ? ' 
 
 ' No ! ' Hardress exclaimed, with a burst of sudden energy. ' As 
 I shall answer it in that bright Heaven, I did not. If you crowd 
 in among my accusers at the judgment-seat, and charge me with 
 that crime, to you, and to all, I shall utter the same disclaimer 
 that I do at present, I did not mean to practise on her life. As 
 I shall meet with her before that Judge, I did not. I even bade 
 you to avoid it. Did I not warn you not to touch her ?' 
 
 'You did,' said Danny Mann, with a scorn which made him 
 eloquent beyond himself, 'an' your eye looked murder while you 
 said it. After dis, I never more will look in any man's face to 
 know what he manes. After dis, I won't believe my senses. If 
 you '11 persuade me to it, I '11 own dat dere is noting as I see it. 
 You may tell me I don't stand here, nor you dere, nor dat de moon 
 is shining trough dat roof above us, nor de fire burning at my 
 back, an' I '11 not gainsay you after dis. But listen to me, Masther 
 Hardress. As sure as dat moon is shining, an' dat fire burning, 
 an' as sure as I 'm here an' you dere, so sure de sign of death was 
 on your face dat time, whatever way your words went.' 
 
 ' From what could you gather it ? ' said Hardress, with a depre- 
 cating accent. 
 
 ' From what ? From everything. Listen hether. Didn't you 
 remind me den of my own offer on de Purple Mountain a while 
 before, an' tell me dat, if I was to make dat offer again, you 'd tink 
 different ? An' didn't you give me de token dat you refused me 
 den ? Ah, dis is what makes me sick, after I putting my neck 
 into de halter for a man. Well, it 's all one. An' now to call me 
 out o' my name, an' to tell me I done it for harm ! Dear knows, 
 it wasn't for any good I hoped for it, here or hereafter, or for any 
 pleasure I took in it, dat it was done. And talkin' of hereafter, 
 Masther Hardress, listen to me. Eily O'Connor is in Heaven, an' 
 she has told her story. Dere are two books kept dere, dey tell us, 
 of all our doings, good an' bad. Her story is wrote in one o' 
 dem books, an' my name (1 5 m sore afeerd) is wrote after it ; an' 
 take my word for dis, in whichever o' dem books my name is 
 wrote, your own is not far from it.' 
 
 As he spoke these words, with an energy beyond what he had 
 ever shown, the fire fell in, and caused a sudden light to fill the 
 place. It shone, ruddy brown, upon the excited face and uplifted 
 arm of the deformed, and gave him the appearance of a fiend 
 denouncing on the head of the affrighted Hardress the sentence 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 279 
 
 of eternal woe. It glared likewise upon the white drapery of the 
 latter, and gave to his distorted and terrified features a look of 
 ghastliness and fear that might have suited such an occasion well. 
 The dreadful picture continued but for a second, yet it remained 
 engraved upon the mind of Hardress, and, like the yelling of the 
 hounds, haunted him, awake and dreaming, to his death. The fire 
 again sunk low, the light grew dim. It came like a dismal vision, 
 and like a vision laded. 
 
 They were aroused from the pause to which the slight acci- 
 dent gave occasion by hearing the sentinel arrest his steps as he 
 passed the door, and remain silent in his song, as if in the act 
 of listening. 
 
 ' All right within there ? ' said the sentinel, with his head to the 
 door. 
 
 'All's right your way, but not my way,' returned Danny sulkily. 
 
 In a few minutes they heard him shoulder his musket 
 once again, and resume his walk, humming with an air of indiffer- 
 ence the same old burthen : 
 
 ' We won't go home till morning, 
 Until the dawn appears.' 
 
 Hardress remained gazing on his servant for some moments, 
 and then said in a whisper : 
 
 ' He has not heard us, as I feared. It is little worth, at this 
 time, to consider on whom the guilt of this unhappy act must fall. 
 We must at least avoid the shame, if possible. Could I depend 
 upon you once again, if I assisted in your liberation, on the under- 
 standing that you would at once leave the country ? ' 
 
 The eyes of the prisoner sparkled with a sudden light. ' Do you 
 tink me a fool ?' he said. ' Do you tink a fox would refuse to run 
 to earth wid de dogs at his brush ? ' 
 
 'Here, then,' said Hardress, placing a purse in his hand, 4 I 
 have no choice but to trust you. This window is unguarded. 
 There is a pathway through the hay yard and thence across the 
 field in the direction of the road. Depart at once and without 
 farther question.' 
 
 ' But what 5 11 1 do about dat fellow ? ' said Danny. * Dat sentry 
 comes constant dat way; you hear him now asking me if all's 
 right.' 
 
 ' I will remain here and answer for you,' said Hardress, ' until you 
 have had time to escape. In the meantime, use your utmost speed, 
 and take the road to Cork, where you will be sure to find vessels 
 ready to sail. If ever we should meet again on Irish soil, it must 
 be for the death of either, most probably of both.' 
 
 'An' is dis de way we part after all ! ' said Danny. ' Well, den, 
 be it so. Perhaps, after you tink longer of it, master, you may 
 tink better of me.' So saying, he sprang on the manger, and 
 ascended (notwithstanding his hurt) with the agility of a monkey 
 
280 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 to the window. A touch undid the fastening, and in a few moments 
 Hardress became the sole occupant of the temporary dungeon. 
 
 He remained for a considerable time leaning with his shoulder 
 against the wall, and gazing with a vacant eye upon the decaying 
 fire. In this situation the sentinel challenged several times in 
 succession, and seemed well content with the answers which he 
 received. But the train of thought which passed through the 
 mind of Hardress became at length so absorbing that the chal- 
 lenge of the soldier fell unheard upon his ear. After repeating it 
 without avail three or four times, the man became alarmed, and 
 applying the butt of his musket to the door, he forced it in without 
 much effort. His astonishment may be conceived when, instead 
 of his little prisoner, he beheld a tall figure wrapt in white, and 
 a ghastly face, on which the embers shed a dreary light. The 
 fellow was a brave soldier, but (like all people of that class in his 
 time) extremely superstitious. His brain, moreover, was heated 
 with whisky-punch, and his imagination excited by numberless 
 tales of horror which had been freely circulated in the servants' 
 hall. Enough only remained of his presence of mind to enable 
 him to give the alarm, by firing his musket, after which he fell 
 senseless on the pavement. Hardress, no less alarmed, started 
 into sudden energy, and climbing to the window, with an agility 
 even surpassing that of the fugitive,' hurried off in the direction of 
 his sleeping-chamber. 
 
 There were few in the house who were capable of adopting any 
 vigorous measures on hearing the alarm. Hastening to the spot, 
 they found the sentinel lying senseless across the stock of his musket, 
 the stable-door open, and the prisoner fled. The man himself was 
 enabled, after some time, to furnish a confused and broken narra- 
 tive of what he had seen ; and his story was in some degree con- 
 firmed by one of his comrades, who stated that at the time when 
 the shot was fired, he beheld a tall white figure gliding rapidly 
 amongst the hay-stacks, in the little inclosure, where it vanished 
 in the shape of a red heifer. 
 
 The sentinel was placed under arrest in an apartment of the 
 castle, until the pleasure of his officer could be known respecting 
 him. Captain Gibson, however, in common with the other gentle- 
 men, and the greater number of his soldiers, was at this moment 
 wholly incapable either of conceiving or expressing any opinion 
 whatsoever. 
 
 This story, as usual, was circulated throughout the country in the 
 course of the following day, with many imaginative embellishments. 
 Amongst other inventions, it was said that the ghost of Eily 
 O'Connor had appeared to the sentinel to declare the prisoner's 
 innocence and demand his liberation. Many persons adduced the 
 well-known character of Eily as a ground for lending credence to 
 this fiction. ' It was like her,' they said ; ' she was always a 
 tender-hearted creature.' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 281 
 
 The evidence remaining against the other prisoners was now so 
 immaterial that their dismissal became a necessary consequence. 
 Several efforts were made to draw them into some confession of 
 their participation in the offence alleged, but if they were cautious 
 in their admissions while the murderer was in custody, they would 
 make no admission whatever after hearing of his escape. Equally 
 unavailing were all the exertions made for the recapture of the 
 suspected fugitive, and in a few weeks the affair had begun to 
 grow unfamiliar to the tongues and recollections of the people. 
 
 Notwithstanding the assurances of Danny, and the danger which 
 he must incur by remaining in the country, a doubt would fre- 
 quently cross the mind of Hardress, whether he really had availed 
 himself of his recovered freedom to leave it altogether. He had 
 money ; he had many acquaintance ; and he was an Irishman : 
 an indifferent one, it is true, but yet possessing the love of expense, 
 of dissipation, and the recklessness of danger, which mingle so 
 largely in the temperament of his countrymen. It was almost an 
 even question whether he would not risk the chances of detection, 
 for the sake of playing the host among a circle of jolly companions 
 in the purlieus of his native city. These considerations, often dis- 
 cussed between Hardress and his now miserable mother, made 
 them agree to hasten the day of marriage, with the understanding 
 that (by an anticipation of the modern fashion) the ' happy pair' 
 were to leave home immediately after the ceremony. The south 
 of France was the scene fixed upon for the commencement of 
 their married life— the month of honey. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 HOW THE ILL- TEMPER OF HARDRESS AGAIN BROUGHT BACK HIS 
 
 PERILS 
 
 A CIRCUMSTANCE which occurred during the intervening period 
 once more put Hardress to a severe probation. It was not less 
 severe, moreover, that it came like the accesses of a nervous dis- 
 order, suddenly, and from a cause extremely disproportioned to 
 its violence. 
 
 He had been conversing with his intended bride, on that day 
 which was fixed upon as the penultimate of their courtship, with a 
 more than usual appearance of enjoyment. Anne, who looked 
 out for those breaks of sunshine in his temper, as anxiously as an 
 agriculturist might for fair weather in a broken autumn, encour- 
 aged the symptom of returning peace, and succeeded so happily 
 as to draw him out into quick and lively repartees, and frequent 
 bursts of laughter. Unfortunately, however, in her ecstasy at this 
 
282 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 display of spirits, she suffered her joy to hurry her unwisely into the 
 forbidden circle which enclosed his secret, and their music turned 
 to discord. She thought this holiday hour afforded a fair oppor- 
 tunity to penetrate into the Blue Chamber of his heart, from which 
 he had so often warned her, and which a better impulse than 
 curiosity urged her to explore. She did not know that the 
 interior was defiled with blood. 
 
 1 Well, Hardress,' she said, with a smile that had as much of 
 feeling as of mirth, ' is not this a happier score for counting time, 
 than sitting down to shut our eyes and ears to the pleasant world 
 about us, and opening them on a lonesome past or a foreboding 
 future ? ' 
 
 If the clouds of the past and the future, both, had met and 
 mingled in the mid-heaven of consciousness, they could not have 
 cast a darker or more sudden shade than that which now over- 
 spread the brow of Hardress. The laughter darkened on his 
 cheek, his eye grew stern and dull, and his whole being, from the 
 inmost feeling of his nature to the exterior on which those feelings 
 were indicated, seemed to have undergone an instantaneous 
 change. 
 
 Anne perceived her error, but did not cease to follow up her 
 claim upon his confidence. 
 
 * Do not let me feel,' she said, c that I have brought back your 
 gloom. Dear Hardress, hear me still without uneasiness. My 
 sole intention is that of procuring your health and peace of 
 mind ; and surely it should not be considered an intrusion that I 
 desire your confidence. Do you fear to find in me anything more 
 foreign than a near and interested friend ? Believe me, you shall 
 not, Hardress. I am driven upon this inquiry in spite of me. 
 There is something hidden from me which it would be kinder to 
 reveal. I see it prey upon your own health and spirits, day after 
 day. I see it even fixing its cruel hold at length upon my aunt. 
 You meet, with a consciousness in your eyes, and you both glance 
 from time to time at me, as if I were a stranger or — I should not 
 say it, perhaps — a spy. If I come upon you when you speak to- 
 gether, there is a hush at my appearance, and sometimes an em- 
 barrassed look, and I have often seen trouble in your eyes, and 
 tears in hers. Tell me, my dear Hardress, what is the cause of 
 this ? You either apprehend, or you have endured, some terrible 
 misfortune. It is not now the time to treat me as a stranger.' 
 
 She ceased to speak, and seemed to expect an answer, but Har- 
 dress said not a word. He remained with his hands crossed on 
 the back of the chair, his cheek resting upon these, and his eyes 
 fixed in gloomy silence on the floor. 
 
 'Or, if you do not think me worthy of a confidence,' Anne re- 
 sumed, with some warmth, ' at least Nay, but I am ill-tempered 
 
 now,' she added, suddenly checking herself. * I should not say 
 that ; 1 would say, Hardress, if you really find yourself prevented 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 283 
 
 from admitting me into your confidence, at least assure yourselr 
 of this. If it is anything in your present situation — in— in— I fear 
 to say too much — in your engagement with myself, that interferes 
 with your peace of mind, I — I — had rather suffer anything— than 
 — than — be the cause of suffering to you.' 
 
 She turned away as she said these words, to hide from him the 
 burst of tears with which they were accompanied. She pressed 
 her handkerchief against her lips, and used a violent, though silent, 
 effort to avoid the convulsive utterance of the grief that struggled 
 at her heart. 
 
 It often happens that the most sensitive persons are those who 
 are most blind to, and make least allowance for, the susceptibility 
 of others. The long habit of brooding over his own wants and 
 sufferings made Hardress incapable, for the moment, of appreciat- 
 ing the generous affection which this speech evinced. He an- 
 swered gloomily that ' there were many things in the minds 01 all 
 men which they would hide, if possible, even from themselves, 
 and which therefore they could not reasonably be expected to 
 communicate over-readily to another, however undeniable the 
 claim to confidence might be.' 
 
 With this cold answer the conversation ceased. A little, yet 
 but a little, warmed, to find her generous proposal (a proposal 
 which cost her so much agony) thus unhandsomely received, 
 Anne dried her tears, and remained for some minutes in that 
 sorrowing and somewhat indignant composure, to which in virtuous 
 breasts the sense of unmerited injury gives birth. Subduing, 
 however, as she had long since learned to do, her personal feelings 
 to a sense of duty, she forced herself to assume an air of cheer- 
 fulness, and once more resumed the tone of conversation which 
 had preceded this unfortunate failure. Again her wonted spirits 
 arose at her desire, and again she was successful in withdrawing 
 Hardress from his mood of dismal meditation. 
 
 One remarkable feature in the mental disease of Hardress (for 
 such it might now be justly termed) was, as we have be. ore re- 
 marked, the extreme uncertainty and arbitrariness of its accesses. 
 His existence seemed to be without a basis, his mind without a 
 centre or a rest. He had no consciousness of duty to support 
 him, no help from Heaven, and no trust in man. Even the very 
 passion that ate up his soul was incapable of affording to his 
 mind that firmness of purpose and false strength which passion 
 often gives ; for his was merely retrospective, and had no object 
 in the future. He became a passive slave to his imagination. 
 Frequently, while enjoying a degree of comparative tranquillity, 
 the thought would suggest itself to his fancy, that ' perhaps this 
 very day, secure as he believed himself, might see him manacled 
 in a dungeon.' Instead of quietly turning his attention away to 
 an indifferent subject, or baffling the suggestions (as a guiltless 
 person might) by resigning himself to a directing Providence, he 
 
284 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 combated it with argument ; it increased and fastened on his im- 
 agination, until at length his nerves began to thrill, his limbs grew 
 faint, his brow moist, and his whole being disturbed as at the 
 presence of an actual danger. At other times, when sitting alone, 
 it would occur to him that his servant might, notwithstanding his 
 caution, have abused his confidence and remained in the country. 
 The idea of the danger, the ruin, which would most probably 
 attend such disobedience, frequently produced so violent an effect 
 upon his mind, that he would spring from his seat in a transport 
 of frenzy, sink on one knee, and press both hands with his utmost 
 force against the ground as if in the act of strangling the delin- 
 quent. Then, hearing the footstep of Anne, or his mother, ap- 
 proaching the door, he would rise suddenly, covered with shame, 
 and reach his chair exactly in time to avoid' detection. 
 
 Soon after the conversation we have above detailed, Mr. Cregan 
 entered, and some questions arose on the escape of Mr. Warner's 
 prisoner, and the possibility of his recapture. This led naturally 
 to a disquisition on the nature of the crime alleged against him, 
 and of capital punishments in general. 
 
 I People have hinted, 5 said Mr. Cregan, ' that this might have 
 been a case of suicide ; and for my part, I don't see the impos- 
 sibility.' 
 
 I I should think it very unlikely,' said Anne. ' Suicide is a very 
 un- Irish crime. The people are too religious for it, and some 
 people say too miserable.' 
 
 * Too miserable ! ' exclaimed Mr. Cregan. ' Now, I should think 
 that the only cause in the world for suicide — the only possible 
 palliative.' 
 
 'I am not metaphysical enough to account for it,' returned 
 Anne, with a smile, ' and I only repeat a sentiment which I heard 
 once from Hardress. But their misery, at all events, is a cause 
 for their piety, and in that way may be a cause of their resignation 
 also.' 
 
 * Of all crimes,' said Mr. Cregan, ' that is the most absurd and 
 unaccountable, and I wonder how jurymen can reconcile it to 
 themselves to bring in their shameful verdicts of insanity so con- 
 stantly as they do. When you hear of a fellow's cutting his throat, 
 look at the inquest, and if you can't laugh at the evidence, you 
 have nothing in you. " The deceased was observed to be rather 
 silent and melancholy the day before ; he wore his hat on one 
 side a fashion which his nearest acquaintances had never observed 
 him to use till then ; he called his wife out of her name, and went 
 into the rain without an umbrella." I should like to see how far 
 such evidence would go to prove a case of lunacy in Chancery.' 
 
 1 Then you would, I suppose, uncle, have the law put in force in 
 all its rigour — confiscation of property, and impaling the body 
 on a cross-road?' 
 
 * Impaling the bodies!' exclaimed Cregan, in a transport of 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 285 
 
 zeal : ' 1 would almost have 'em impaled alive ! Why do you laugh ? 
 A bull, is it? Adad, and so it is. Then it is time for me to cut 
 and run.' So saying, he made his exit with the utmost speed, 
 while his niece leaned aside and laughed. 
 
 Hardress heard all this with what might be supposed the sen- 
 sation of one who finds himself struck by death while witnessing 
 a farce. But he succeeded in concealing his emotions from the 
 observation of his young friend. 
 
 The time was now arrived for their customary morning walk, 
 and Anne arranged her bonnet and cloak before the large pier- 
 glass, while she continued from time to time to address herself to 
 Hardress. He had already taken his hat and gloves, and not 
 liking the subjects on which she was speaking, paced up and down 
 the room in gloomy and fretful impatience. 
 
 'What a dreadful death hanging must be !' said Anne, as she 
 curled up a wandering tress upon her fingers. ' I wonder how any 
 temptation can induce people to run the risk of it.' 
 
 1 Come,' said Hardress, ' the morning will change if you delay.' 
 
 'An instant only. If you would but deliver yourself up for a 
 moment to such a day-dream, you may imagine something of the 
 horror of it. Suppose yourself now, Hardress, marching along, 
 between two priests, with a hangman after you, and the rope about 
 your neck, and a great crowd of people shouldering each other to 
 obtain one glance at you — and ' 
 
 'There's a rain-cloud in the west,' said Hardress; 'we shall 
 lose the best part of the day.' 
 
 ' I am just ready,' returned Anne ; ' but let me finish my picture. 
 Imagine yourself now at the place of execution ; that you feel your 
 elbows tied behind, and that shocking cap put down upon your eyes.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, it is very pretty,' said Hardress peevishly ; ' but 
 I wish you would think of what you are about.' 
 
 ' You ascend, and there is a dreadful buzz amongst the people ; 
 your heart beats, your brain grows dizzy, you feel the hangman's 
 iron fingers on your neck ; the drop seems unfirm beneath your 
 feet.' 
 
 'You will drive me mad!' roared Hardress, stamping on the 
 floor in a paroxysm of fury. ' This is intolerable ! I bid you 
 make yourself ready to walk, and instead of doing so, you talk of 
 death and hangmen, halters and ignominy, as if there were not 
 real woe enough on earth without filling the air around us with 
 imaginary horrors. Forgive me, Anne,' he added, observing the 
 air of astonishment and sudden reserve with which she regarded 
 him, as alarming as it was ominous— 'forgive me for this ill- 
 tempered language. You know my very being hangs upon you ; 
 but I am sick and sad, and full of splenetic thoughts.' 
 
 ' Hardress,' said Anne, after a long pause, ' I have borne a great 
 deal from you, but ' 
 
 ' Nay, Anne,' said Hardress, taking her hand with much anxiety 
 
286 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 and submissiveness of look, 'do not say more at present. If I 
 could tell you what is passing in my mind, you would pity, 
 and not blame me. You are almost the only thing in this world, 
 in my present state of ill-health, in which my heart is interested, 
 and if you look cold upon me, my life will indeed grow wintry. 
 This will not, I hope, continue under a sunnier sky and more serene 
 air. You must not be angry with me for having a set of irritable 
 nerves.' 
 
 After an interval of silent reflection, Anne took his arm without 
 reply, and they proceeded on their walk. She did not, however, 
 cease to meditate seriously and deeply on the scene which had 
 just taken place. 
 
 The morning was fair, and freshened by a gentle wind. The 
 boats sped rapidly along the shores, the sea-gull sailed with 
 wings outspread and motionless upon the breeze ; the sea-lark 
 twittered at the water's edge ; the murmur of the waves as they 
 broke upon the strand sounded sweet and distant; the green 
 leaves quivered and sparkled against the sunshine ; the peasants 
 laughed and jested at their labour in the fields, and all was cheering, 
 tender, and pastoral, around them. 
 
 On a sudden, as they approached an angle in the road, the 
 attention of our loiterers was caught by sounds of boisterous 
 mirth and rustic harmony. In a few seconds, on reaching 
 the turn, they beheld the persons from whom the noise (for we 
 dare not call it music) proceeded. A number of young peasants, 
 dressed out in mumming masquerade, with their coats off, their 
 waistcoats turned the wrong side outward, their hats, shoulders, 
 and knees decorated with gay ribbons (borrowed for the occasion 
 from their fair friends), their faces streaked with paint of various 
 colours, and their waists encircled with shawls and sashes, procured, 
 most probably, from the same tender quarter. Many of them held 
 in their hands long poles, with handkerchiefs fluttering at the top, 
 and forming a double file on either side of half a dozen persons, 
 who composed the band, and whose attire was no less gaudy than 
 that of their companions. One held a piccolo, another a fiddle, 
 another a bagpipe. A fourth made a dildorn x serve for a tam- 
 bourine, and a fifth was beating with a pair of spindles on the bottom 
 of an inverted tin can, while he imitated, with much drollery, the 
 important strut and swagger of the military kettle-drum. 
 Behind, and on each side, were a number of boys and girls, who, 
 by their shrill clamour, made the discord that prevailed among the 
 musicians somewhat less intolerable. Every face was bright with 
 health and gaiety, and not a few were handsome* 
 
 They came to a halt, and formed a semicircle across the road, 
 as Anne and Hardress came in sight. The musicians struck up a 
 jig, and one of the young men, dragging out of the crowd, with both 
 
 1 A vessel used in winnowing wheat, made of sheep-skin stretched over a 
 hoop. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 287 
 
 hands, a bashful and unwilling country girl, began to time the 
 music with a rapid movement of heel and toe, which had a rough 
 grace of its own, and harmonised well with the rough-hewn 
 exterior of the peasant. 
 
 It is the custom at dances of this kind for the gentleman to find 
 a partner for his fair antagonist after he has finished his own jig, 
 and that partner, if he be a person of superior rank, is expected to 
 show his sense of the honour done him by dropping something 
 handsome, as he is going, into the piper's hat. Neither is it in the 
 power of a stranger to decline the happiness that is offered to him, 
 for the people have a superstition, that such a churlishness (to say 
 nothing of its utter want of politeness) is ominous of evil to the 
 lady, betokening the loss of her lover at some future day. Hard- 
 ress was compelled, though much against his will, to comply with 
 the established usage, the bashful fair one insisting with a great 
 deal of good humour on her claim, and appealing to Miss Chute 
 for her influence with a supplicating tone and eye. 
 
 While he was dancing, Anne passed the May-day mummers 
 (for so were the merry-makers termed), and strolled on alone. 
 On a sudden the music ceased, and she heard a clamour commence 
 which had the sound of strife. Turning hastily round, she beheld 
 a strange hurry amongst the crowd, and Hardress in the midst, 
 gripping one of the mummers by the throat, and then flinging him 
 back with extreme violence against the dry-stone wall on the road 
 side. The man rose again, and looking after Hardress, tossed 
 his hand above his head, and shook it in a menacing way. 
 
 Hardress hurried away from the group, many of whom remained 
 gazing after him in astonishment, while others gathered around 
 the injured man, and seemed to inquire the cause of this singular 
 and unprovoked assault. The same inquiry was made by Anne, 
 who was astonished at the appearance of terror, rage, and agita- 
 tion that were mingled in the demeanour of Hardress. He 
 made some confused and unsatisfactory answer, talked of the 
 fellow's insolence and his own warm temper, and hurried toward 
 the castle by a shorter way than that which they had taken in 
 leaving it. 
 
 The wedding-feast was appointed for the evening of the follow- 
 ing day, and it was determined that the ceremony should take place 
 early on the morning after the entertainment. The articles had 
 been already signed by Anne, with a pale cheek, and a trembling, 
 though not reluctant hand. These circumstances made it impossible 
 for her to think of altering her intentions, nor did she, with conscious- 
 ness, even admit the idea to fasten on her mind. Still, however, 
 her anxiety became every hour more trying and oppressive, and 
 when she retired to rest upon this evening, she could not avoid 
 murmuring the words of the plebeian elector of Coriolanus ? * If 
 'twere to give again — but 'tis no matter.' 
 
283 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 HOW MR. WARNER WAS FORTUNATE ENOUGH TO FIND A MAN 
 THAT COULD AND WOULD SPEAK ENGLISH 
 
 About sunset on the evening of the following day, while Castle 
 Chute and its vicinity were merry as wedding times could make 
 them, Mr. Warner, the magistrate, was quietly enjoying a bowl of 
 punch with a friend at his own table. That table was spread at 
 the distance of about eight miles from the castle, and that friend 
 was Captain Gibson. Another individual, Mr. Houlahan, the clerk, 
 was seated at a distant corner of the table, imbibing his fluid in 
 silence ; but as he was seldom spoken to, and never ventured to 
 mingle in the conversation himself, he could scarcely be considered 
 as one of the company. 
 
 ' Come, captain,' said Mr. Warner, filling his glass, and passing 
 the bowl to the gallant officer, I will give you the bride.' 
 
 1 1 shall drink it with all my heart,' returned the captain. 'The 
 bride,' he added, raising the glass to his lips, and honouring the 
 toast with a draught of proportionable profundity. 
 
 1 And, talking of the bride,' continued Mr. Warner, ' though I 
 rejoice at it on my own account, as it gives me the pleasure of 
 your society, yet it puzzles me to know, captain, why you are not 
 at the wedding to-night. 
 
 I For the best of all reasons,' returned Mr. Gibson, ' because I 
 wasn't asked.' 
 
 ' You may be certain, then, that there was some mistake in that, 
 for the Chutes have always kept an open house.' 
 
 I I am sure of it. Well, what do you say if I give you the bride- 
 groom, in return for your bride ? ' 
 
 * I don't know. I had rather drink the lady.' 
 
 ' Oh ! so should I, for that matter ; but we have drunk her.' 
 
 * There 's something mystical in that haughty young man that 
 I cannot like. His conduct, on many occasions lately, has given 
 me anything but a favourable indication of his character. I have 
 sometimes been tempted to think — but no, no,' he added, suddenly 
 interrupting himself, 'I should not indulge in those surmises, 
 which after all may be the suggestion of prejudice and rash judg- 
 ment. Come, sir, I will drink the bridegroom ; and allow me to 
 add a sentiment : The bridegroom ; and may he show himself 
 worthy of his fortune.' 
 
 As he said these words the parlour door was opened, and a 
 servant appeared, to say that a stranger wished to speak with 
 Mr. Warner on judicial business. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 289 
 
 * Pooh,' said the magistrate ; ' some broken head or sixpenny 
 summons. Let him come to me to-morrow morning.' 
 
 ' He says his business is very pressing, sir ; an' 'twill be more 
 your own loss than his if you let him go.' 
 
 I What ! is that the ground he goes on ? Then I suppose we 
 must hear him. Captain, I know all these examinations are 
 amusing to you. Shall I have him in here ? ' 
 
 * You could not do me a greater pleasure,' said the officer ; ' these 
 people are the only actors on earth.' 
 
 The stranger was accordingly shown up. His story seemed to 
 be almost told by his appearance, for one of his eyes was blackened 
 and puffed out, so as nearly to disguise the entire countenance. 
 There was in his tread and action an appearance of gloomy deter- 
 mination, which had something in it impressive, and even chilling. 
 The magistrate perceived at a glance that the affair was of a more 
 serious nature than he had at first suspected. 
 
 ' Well, my good man,' he said, in a gentle tone, 'what is your 
 business with me?' 
 
 ' I 'm not a good man,' said the stranger, ' as my business 
 wid you will show. Aren't you de crowner dat sot upon Eily 
 O'Connor?' 
 
 I I am.' 
 
 ' Did you find the murtherers yet ? ' 
 
 ' They are not in custody, but we have strong information.' 
 
 1 Well, if you have, maybe you don't want any more ? ' said the 
 man contemptuously, and seeming- about to depart. 
 
 ' No, no, the more we obtain the stronger our case will be, of 
 course.' 
 
 ' Den listen to me,' said the stranger, ' and I '11 make it strong 
 enough for you.' 
 
 'This instant,' returned Mr. Warner. ' Mr. Houlahan, will you 
 prepare your writing materials, and take down this examination 
 in the regular form ? ' 
 
 ' Do,' said the stranger. ' Give me de book, and swear me ; 
 put every sentence in your book, for every word I have to say is 
 goold to you an' to de counsellors. An' write down first dat 
 Eily was surely murdered, an' dat I, Danny Mann, was de one 
 dat done de deed.' 
 
 ' Mann ! ' exclaimed the magistrate ; ' what ! our fugitive 
 prisoner?' 
 
 ' I was your prisoner, till I was set at liberty by one dat had a 
 raison for doing it. I 'm now come to deliver myself up, an' to 
 tell de whole truth, for I 'm tired o' my life.' 
 
 The magistrate paused for a moment, in strong amazement. 
 
 ' I think it my duty,' said he, ' to warn you on one point. If 
 you have been a principal in the murder, your confession will 
 not entitle you to mercy as an approver, while it will be used as 
 evidence against yourself, voluntarily tendered as it is.' 
 
 T 
 
290 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 1 1 don't want mercy,' returned the stranger ; * if I did, it isn't in 
 coorts I 'd look for it. If I valued my life, it was in my own hands 
 already, an' 'tisn't here you 'd find me now. It was not the fear of 
 death, nor the hope of pardon, that brought me hether, but because 
 I was decaved and disappointed in one dat I tought more of dan 
 of my own life, a hundred times. Do you see dat mark?' he 
 added, stepping out into the light, and raising one shoulder, so as 
 to bring the defect in his spine more strikingly into view. ' All 
 my days dat was my curse. Didn't dey give me a nickname 
 for it, an' usen't some laugh, and more start and shiver, when 
 I 'd come in sight of 'em ? In place of being, as I ought to 
 be, fighting at the fair, drinking at the wake, an' dancing at de 
 jig-house, dere's de figure I cut all my days ! If anybody vexed 
 me, an' I'd even sthrike him, he wouldn't return the blow, for 
 who'd take notice o' the little lord? If I sat down by a girl, 
 you 'd think by her looks dat she wasn't shure of her life until she 
 got away. An' who have I to tank for dat ? Mr. Hardress Cregan. 
 'Twas he that done it to me, an' I a little boy. But if he did, he 
 showed such feeling after — he cried so bitter, an' he cared so 
 much for me, that my heart warmed to him for my very loss 
 itself. I never gev him as much as a cross word or look for 
 what he done, nor never spoke of ,it until dis minute. I loved 
 him from dat very time, twice more dan ever, but what's de use 
 o' talking ? He 's not de same man now. He met me yesterday 
 upon de road, an' what did he do ? He sthruck me first, but dat 
 I 'd bear aisy ; he called me out o' my name, an' dat I didn't 
 mind ; but I '11 tell you what druv me wild, he caught me by de 
 troat, an' he flung me back again' de wall, just de same way as 
 when he ga'e me my hurt, an' made me a cripple for life. From 
 dat moment a change come in me towards him. He doesn't feel 
 for me, an' I won't feel for him ; he had his revenge, an' I '11 have 
 mine. Write down,' he added, wiping the damp from his brow, 
 and trembling with passion, ' write down Danny Mann for de 
 murderer of Eily, an' write down Hardress Cregan for his 
 adviser.' 
 
 Both the gentlemen started, and gazed on one another. 
 
 * Ye start ! ' cried the deformed, with a sneer, ' an' ye look at 
 one another as if ye tought it a wonder a gettleman should do de 
 like — but dere's de difference. A gettleman will have a bloody 
 longing, an' he '11 hide it for fear of shame. Shame is de portion 
 of de poor man, an' he'll ease his longing when he can, for he has 
 notten to lose. A gettleman will buy de blood of his innimy for 
 goold, but he'll keep his own clane gloves and slender fingers 
 out of it. A poor man does his own work wid his own hands, an' 
 is satisfied to damn his own soul only. All the difference I see 
 is this, that a gettleman — besides his being a murderer — is a 
 decaver an' a coward.' 
 
 1 If you really mean,' said the magistrate, ' to impeach Mr. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 291 
 
 Hardress Cregan with this crime, you do not strengthen your 
 testimony by evincing so much vindictive feeling. His character 
 stands high, and we know that the highest have often had their 
 steps beset by serpents, who have no other motive for the sting 
 they give than private malice, or revenge, such as you avow.' 
 
 The wily taunt succeeded. The stranger turned on the magis- 
 trate a scowl of indescribable contempt. 
 
 ' If I could not afford to avow it,' he said, ' 1 had wit enough to 
 hide it. I knew your laws of old. It isn't for noting that we see 
 de fathers of families, de pride an' de strength of our villages, de 
 young an' de old, de guilty an' de innocent, snatched away from 
 dere own cabins, an' shared off for transportation an' de gallows. 
 It isn't for noting our brothers, our cousins, an' our friends are 
 hanged before our doores from year to year. Dey taich us some- 
 thing of de law, we tank 'em. If I was trusting to my own con- 
 fessions, I knew enough to say little of what brought me here. A 
 counsellor would tell you, mister magistrate, dat I '11 be believed 
 the sooner in a coort for daling as I done. But I have oder 
 witnesses. Eily O'Connor was Hardress Cregan's wife. You 
 start at dat, too. Dere's the certificate of her marriage. I took 
 it out of her bosom, after I ' 
 
 He suddenly paused, placed both hands upon his eyes, and 
 shuddered with so much violence, that the floor trembled beneath 
 him. The listeners maintained their attitude of deep and motion- 
 less attention. 
 
 'Yes,' he at length continued, letting his hands descend, and 
 showing a horrid smile upon his lip, ' de poor crature kep her 
 hand in her bosom, an' upon dat paper, to de last gasp, as if she 
 tought it was to rob her of dat I wanted. Little she mattered her 
 life in the comparison. De priest dat married 'em died de moment 
 after ; a black sign for Eily, an' a blacker sign, perhaps, for de 
 weddin' dey 're goin' to have to-morrow mornin'. Dat 's a good 
 witness. Write down dat in your book ; an' den write down, 
 Phil Naughten an' his wife, for havin' Eily in their house, an' — 
 but let 'em tell their own story. When you have dem wrote, put 
 down Lowry Looby after, an' den Myles Murphy, an' after, Mihil 
 O'Connor, de father ; and, last of all, if you want a real witness, 
 I '11 tell you how you '11 make it certain. Be de first, yourself, to 
 lay a hand on Hardress ; tell him you heerd of his doin's, an' look 
 into his face while you are speakin', an' if dat doesn't tell de whole 
 story, come back an' call me liar.' 
 
 1 It is clear ! ' said Mr. Warner, starting from his seat. ' Captain, 
 I need make no excuse to you for stirring. Mr. Houlahan, 
 remain, and see this man confined. What, Horan ! bring the 
 horse to the door this instant. Captain, you will, perhaps, accom- 
 pany me, as the service may possibly be dangerous or difficult on 
 such an occasion. We will first ride for a guard to your quarters 
 (though that will cost some time), and then proceed to arrest this 
 
292 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 gentle bridegroom. Horan, quick with the horses. I thought 
 there was something in him not so orthodox. I am sorry for it ; 
 'tis a shocking business ; a mournful transaction.' 
 
 'And will require, I think,' said the captain, 'that we should 
 proceed with great delicacy. So amiable a family, and such a 
 shock ' 
 
 ' With great delicacy, certainly,' returned the magistrate, ' but 
 likewise with a firmness becoming our trust. Mr. Houlahan, look 
 closely to the prisoner. He left our vigilance at fault on another 
 occasion. Come, captain, here are the horses.' 
 
 They rode rapidly away ; and Mr. Houlahan, slipping out of 
 the room, locked the door on the outside, and went to prepare 
 some suitable dungeon upon the premises for the prisoner. 
 
 The unfortunate man remained for several minutes standing 
 on the floor, his hands clasped and elevated before him, his ear 
 inclined as if in the act of listening, and his eye set in stolid, 
 dreamy wonder. The window opened on a craggy field, and was 
 fortified by several bars of iron. He did not, however, even cast 
 a glance at this formidable impediment. Every faculty of his 
 spirit seemed for the moment to be either absorbed by one en- 
 grossing image, or to be suspended altogether by a kind of mental 
 syncope. 
 
 While he remained thus motionless, and while the house was 
 quiet and still around him, he suddenly heard a rough but not 
 unmelodious voice singing the following verses, outside the 
 window : 
 
 ' But for that false and wicked knave, 
 Who swore my life away, 
 I leave him to the Judge of Heaven, 
 And to the judgment-day. 
 
 ' For gold he made away my life 
 (What more could Herod do ? '), 
 Nor to his country, nor his God, 
 Nor to his friend, proved true.' 
 
 The verses seemed to be sung by one in the act of passing the 
 window, and, with the last line, the singer had proceeded beyond 
 hearing. The verses, though containing a common ballad senti- 
 ment, characteristic of the peculiar notions of honour and faith 
 held among the secret societies of the peasantry, seemed as if 
 directed immediately against the informer himself. At least his 
 conscience so received it. 
 
 He might become one day the subject of such a ballad. He, 
 too, had his sense of shame and of honour (as all men have) regu- 
 lated by the feelings of the class in which he moved. It would 
 tell nothing against him there that he had died by the hangman's 
 hands. Every petty village had its Tell and its Riego, and they 
 had made that death no more disgraceful in the peasant's eye. 
 Their names were cherished amongst the noblest recollections of 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 293 
 
 his heart, they were sung to his ancient melodies, and made 
 familiar sounds in the ears of his children. But to be branded as 
 an informer — that character which, combining as it does the 
 vices of bad faith, venality, and meanness, is despised and de- 
 tested by the Irish peasantry beyond all social sins — that was a 
 prospect which he could not bear so well. And then he turned 
 to Hardress, and thought of his feelings, of his old kindness and 
 affection. He made excuses for his sudden passion, and he 
 thought how those kindnesses would be dwelt upon in the ballad 
 which was to immortalise the guilt and penitence of Hardress and 
 his own treachery. 
 
 He started from his reverie, and gazed around him like a forest 
 lion in a trap. He rushed to the door, and gnashed his teeth to 
 find it locked. He drew back to the other side of the room, 
 and dashed himself against it with all his force. But it was a 
 magistrate's door, and it resisted his efforts. He turned to the 
 window, dashed out the frame, and shivered the glass with his 
 foot, and seizing the iron railing with both hands, swung him- 
 self from it, and exerted his utmost strength in endeavouring to 
 wrench it from its fastening in the solid masonry ; but he might as 
 well have set his shoulder to displace the centre of gravity itself. 
 Baffled, exhausted, and weeping with vexation and remorse, he 
 hung back out of the railing, his face covered with a thick damp, 
 and his limbs torn and bleeding from the fragments of the broken 
 glass. 
 
 We shall leave him to suffer unjder all the agonies of suspense, 
 augmented by the double remorse under which he now began to 
 labour, and turn our eyes in the direction of the castle. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 HOW THE BRIDE WAS STARTLED BY AN UNEXPECTED GUEST 
 
 Invitations, numberless as the sybil's leaves, had been dispersed 
 throughout the country, on the occasion of the wedding at Castle 
 Chute. Among the rest the Dalys were not forgotten, although 
 certain circumstances in the history of both families, with which 
 the reader is already acquainted, made it appear probable that 
 they would be merely received as things of form. It was, there- 
 fore, with feelings of strong surprise and of secret confusion 
 (though arising from very different causes) the bridal pair under- 
 stood that Kyrle Daly intended to be amongst the guests. 
 
 The popularity of the bride amongst the tenantry on the estate 
 was manifested by the usual demonstrations of festive enjoyment. 
 Bonfires were lighted on the road before the avenue-gate, and 
 
294 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 before every public-house in the neighbourhood. The little 
 village was illuminated, and bands of rural music, followed by 
 crowds of merry idlers, strolled up and down, playing various 
 lively airs, and often halting to partake of the refreshments which 
 were free to all who chose to draw upon the hospitality of the 
 family. 
 
 Before sunset the house was crowded with blue coats and snow- 
 white silks. Several of the guests strayed in groups upon the 
 demesne, and young gentlemen, fashionably dressed, might be 
 seen hovering around the ladies, and endeavouring to make havoc 
 of all, by enchanting those who were near them by their conver- 
 sation, and those at a distance by the elegance and grace of their 
 gesticulations. 
 
 Mrs. Cregan was in the drawing-room, among the elder guests, 
 pale, worn, and hollow-eyed, but still preserving the same lofty, 
 courteous, and cordial demeanour to her friends, by which her 
 manner had been always marked. 
 
 The bridegroom, habited in a splended suit, that seemed to sit 
 upon his frame as the shirt of Dejanira upon the shoulders of 
 Hercules, glided like a spectre through the laughing crowd, the 
 most envied and the most miserable of all the throng. 
 
 A few of the most intimate female connections of the bride were 
 admitted into the garden where Anne herself, leaning on the arm 
 of a bridesmaid, was watching the last sun that was to shine upon 
 her freedom. Her dress was a simple robe of white, and her hair, 
 for the last time dressed in the maiden fashion of the day, hung 
 loose upon her neck. As she glided to and fro among the walks, 
 her fair companion endeavoured by every species of raillery to 
 draw her out of the low-spirited and anxious mood which had 
 been hourly increasing upon her since the morning. But, as in a 
 disease of the frame, an injurious determination to the part 
 afflicted is said to be occasioned by merely directing the attention 
 towards it, so in our moments of nervous depression, the jest that 
 makes us feel it is observed, serves only to augment its heaviness. 
 
 At a turn in the walk, hedged round by a pear-tree neatly 
 trained, the lovely friends were suddenly met, and one of them 
 startled, by the appearance of a young man attired in a wedding 
 costume, and handsome, but with a pale serenity upon his features 
 that might have qualified him to sit as a study for Camillus. The 
 lady, who started at his appearance, was the bride ; for in this 
 interesting person she recognised her old admirer, Mr. Kyrle 
 Daly. 
 
 It was the first time they had seen each other since the day on 
 which their conversation had been attended with so much pain to 
 both. It would have little served to confirm the newly acquired 
 tranquillity of Kyrle Daly, if he had known how often, and with 
 feelings how unconsciously altered, his conduct had been com- 
 pared by Anne with that of Hardress during the last few months. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 295 
 
 True, this was a subject of meditation on which she never wilfully 
 suffered her mind to repose for an instant. It was a forbidden 
 land, on which her wandering thoughts alone would steal at 
 intervals ; but these unlicensed musings had tended to qualify her 
 old opinions in a degree more striking than she herself believed. 
 Of all this Kyrle Daly, of course, knew nor imagined nothing, and 
 therefore was he here. He came secure in the consciousness of a 
 right intention, and believing that his own appearance of quiet 
 and cheerfulness of mind would afford a real satisfaction to his 
 fair, and only poetically cruel, friend. 
 
 He advanced towards the ladies with an easy cordiality, and 
 that total absence of consciousness in his own demeanour which 
 was most certain to restore quietness to Anne, for self-possession 
 is often as contagious as embarrassment. He addressed her in 
 the tone of an interested friend, inquired for her health, spoke of 
 her mother, even of Hardress, whom he said he had not yet been 
 fortunate enough to meet, then of the weather, of the scene around 
 them, of the company, of every subject that was at the same time 
 amusing and indifferent. The same attentions, and with a tone 
 so studiously similar that the ear of Petrarch only might have 
 found a difference, he addressed to Miss Prendergast, the brides- 
 maid, who also was an old acquaintance. Finally, he gently con- 
 trived to separate the ladies, and, giving an arm to each, they 
 continued to tread the garden walks, while he divided between 
 them the same cheerful conversation on indifferent subjects. _ His 
 spirits flowing freely, and supported by those of the lively brides- 
 maid, became too much for Anne's depression, and she became 
 cheerful almost without perceiving it. 
 
 After some time Miss Prendergast, beckoned by a fair friend in 
 a neighbouring walk, deserted her companions for some moments. 
 Both stopped to await her return, and Kyrle, perceiving the 
 embarrassment of the bride beginning to return, took this oppor- 
 tunity of entering on something like an explanatory conversation. 
 
 1 You see, Miss Chute,' he said, with a smile, 'you were a better 
 prophetess than I believed you. If you were one that could be 
 vain of your influence, I should not do so wisely, perhaps, in 
 making such an admission, but you are not. I have not, as you 
 perceive, found it so difficult a task to master my old remem- 
 brances.' 
 
 The eyes of Anne fell unconsciously upon the worn cheeks and 
 figure of the speaker. He saw the secret suspicion which the 
 glance implied, and he reddened slightly, but he saw likewise that 
 it was involuntary, and he did not seem to have observed it. 
 
 ' There are some feelings,' he continued, ' though looked upon 
 as harmless, and even amiable in themselves, which ought to be 
 avoided and repelled with as much vigilance as vice itself. I 
 once thought it a harmless thing to turn my eyes on past times, 
 and deliver myself up, on a calm evening, to the memory of my 
 
296 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 younger hours, of sunny days departed, of faces fled or changed, 
 of hearts made cold by death or by the world, that once beat fer- 
 vently beside my own ; to lean against some aged tree in the 
 twilight, and close my eyes and ears to the lonely murmur of the 
 woods around me, and fancy I heard the whoop of my boyish 
 friends, or the laugh of my first love along the meadows. But I 
 have learned to think more vigorously. I was young then, and 
 fond ; but age has taught me wisdom, at least in this respect. I 
 shun these feelings now, as I would crime. They are the fancies 
 that make our natures effeminate and weak — that unfit us for our 
 duty to Heaven and to our fellow-creatures, and render us in soul 
 what the sensualist is in frame. I have meditated long enough to 
 know that even my feelings towards yourself at one time (exalted 
 as they were by the excellence of the object), were still unworthy, 
 and deserved to be disappointed. I think, and 1 fear not to let 
 you know, that if I were again to become a suitor, my sentiments 
 should be governed by a higher feeling of duty, and I could bear 
 the trial of a sudden repression with greater firmness and a more 
 submissive spirit.' 
 
 ' You will give me credit, then,' said Anne, with much relief and 
 real pleasure, ' for some knowledge of your character ? ' 
 
 1 No, no ! it was not in me then,' said Kyrle, with a smile, ' or 
 the occasion would have brought it into action. Hardress could 
 
 tell you what a mournful evening ; but wherefore should he 
 
 trouble you?' he added, suddenly interrupting himself. 'And 
 apropos of Hardress — his health appears to suffer, does it not ? ' 
 
 ' Daily and hourly.' 
 
 * And without a cause.' 
 
 'The physicians,' said Anne, 'can find none.' 
 
 c Ay,' returned Kyrle, ' it is a distemper that is not to be found 
 in their nosology. It is the burning of an honourable mind 
 beneath an undeserved and self-inflicted imputation. He knew 
 of my — my — regard for his fair cousin. I forced a confidence 
 upon him, and he feels this transaction a great deal more acutely 
 than he ought.' 
 
 Anne started at this disclosure, as if it shed a sudden light 
 upon her mind. Her eyes sparkled, her face glowed, and her 
 whole frame seemed agitated by a solution of her doubts, which 
 appeared so natural, and which elevated the character of Hardress 
 to that noble standard at which she always loved to contemplate 
 and admire it. 
 
 'It must be so !' she said, with great animation, 'and I have 
 done him wrong. It is like his fine and delicate nature. He is 
 still, then, what I have always thought him, fine-minded, sensitive, 
 
 and generous as ' she suddenly turned, and extending her 
 
 hand to Kyrle, said, in an altered tone, 'as yourself, my excellent 
 friend ! ' 
 
 Kyrle took the hand which was tendered to him, with as little 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 497 
 
 appearance of emotion as he could command, and resigned it 
 again almost upon the instant. 
 
 At this moment Hardress appeared upon the walk. His step 
 was troubled and rapid, his eye suspicious and wandering, his 
 hair neglected, and his whole appearance that of a person at 
 fearful odds with his own thoughts. He stopped short as he 
 approached them, and glanced from one to another with a look of 
 wildness and irresolution. 
 
 ' I have been looking for you, Anne,' he said in a weak voice ; 
 ' Mrs. Chute has been wishing to speak with you about your 
 preparations.' 
 
 1 Do you leave Ireland so soon ? ' asked Kyrle, with some interest. 
 
 * To-morrow morning we leave home,' replied Anne, trembling 
 and slightly confused. 
 
 ' Then,' said Kyrle, resuming the hand which he had so hastily 
 resigned, ' permit me to offer my good wishes. Be assured, Anne,' 
 he added, accompanying her to a little distance along the walk, 
 and using a tone which Hardress could not overhear, 'be assured 
 that I am perfectly, perfectly contented with your happiness. Let 
 me entreat you to forget altogether, as I myself will learn to do 
 henceforward, that I have ever proposed to myself any higher or 
 happier destiny. That scheme has fallen asunder, and left no 
 deeper an impression on my reason than a love dream might upon 
 my heart. I desire only to be remembered as one who imagined 
 himself the warmest of your admirers, but who found out, on a 
 little examination, that he was only your friend.' 
 
 Anne remained silent for a moment, deeply penetrated by the 
 anxiety for her peace of mind which Kyrle evinced in all his con- 
 duct and his conversation. 
 
 1 Mr. Daly,' she replied at length, and with some agitation, ' it 
 is impossible for me now to say all that I feel with respect to your 
 consideration of me on every occasion. I am proud of the friend- 
 ship that you offer me, and if we meet again, I hope you will find 
 me worthy of it.' 
 
 She hurried away, and Kyrle, returning on his steps, resumed 
 his place before the bridegroom. The picture which was formed 
 by the two figures might have challenged the united efforts of a 
 Raphael and an Angelo, to do it justice. Kyrle Daly, standing 
 erect, with arms folded, his face pale and bright with the serenity 
 of triumphant virtue ; his mouth touched by a smile of forgiveness 
 and of sympathy j and his eye, clear, open, and seraphic in its 
 character, presented a subject that might have pleased the eye 
 of the pupil of Perugino. Hardress, on the other side, with one 
 hand thrust into his bosom, his shoulders gathered and raised, 
 his brow knitted, rather in shame and pain than in sternness or 
 anger, his eyes not daring to look higher than the breast of Kyrle, 
 and his face of the colour of burnt Sienna, would have furnished 
 a hint for the sterner genius of Buonarroti. 
 
298 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 ' Hardress,' said Kyrle, with an air of sudden frankness, ' con- 
 fess the truth, that you did not expect me here to-day. 5 
 
 Hardress looked up surprised, but made no answer. 
 
 ' I am come, 5 continued Kyrle, ' to do justice to you and to 
 myself. That I have something to complain of, you will not deny — 
 that I have not so much as I imagined, I am compelled to admit. 
 My resentment, Hardress, has been excessive and unjustifiable, 
 and with that admission, I toss it to the winds for ever.' 
 
 The surprise of Hardress seemed now so great as to master 
 even his remorse and his anxiety. He looked with increasing 
 wonder into the eyes of Daly. 
 
 ' Knowing as I did, 5 continued the latter, 'what passion was, I 
 should have made more charitable allowances for its influence on 
 another ; but all charity forsook me at that moment, and I thought 
 it reasonable that my friend should be a cold philosopher where I 
 was a wild enthusiast. I have not even to reproach you with a 
 want of confidence, for it now appears, from my unreasonable ex- 
 pectations, that I could not have deserved it. We are both, per- 
 haps, to blame. Let that be a point agreed upon, and let all our 
 explanations resolve themselves into these two words — forgive, 
 forget. 5 
 
 Saying this, he gave his hand to Hardress, who received it with 
 a stare of absent wonder and confusion. Some indistinct and 
 unintelligible murmurs arose to his lips, and died in the act of 
 utterance. 
 
 ' I know not,' continued Kyrle, ' and I shudder to think how 
 far I might have suffered this odious sentiment to grow upon me, 
 if it were not for an occasion of melancholy importance to us all, 
 which arrested the feeling in its very bud. I have even sometimes 
 thought, that my unaccomplished sin might possibly have been 
 
 the cause of that ' Here he shuddered, and stopped speaking 
 
 for some moments. 
 
 Before he could resume, the sound of the dinner-bell broke 
 short the conference, Kyrle, glad of the relief, hastened to the 
 house, while Hardress remained as if rooted to the spot, and gaz- 
 ing after him in silence. When he had disappeared, the bride- 
 groom raised his eyes to the heavens, where already a few stars 
 twinkled in the dying twilight, and said within his own mind : 
 
 ' In that world which lies beyond those points of light, is it pos- 
 sible that this man and I should ever fill a place in the same 
 region ? ' 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 299 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 HOW MORE GUESTS APPEARED AT THE WEDDING THAN HAD 
 BEEN INVITED 
 
 Light and laughter— mirth and music — plenteous fare and 
 pleasant hearts to share it, were mingled in the dining-room on 
 this occasion. Mrs. Chute presided; the * old familiar faces' of Mr. 
 Cregan, Mr. Creagh, Mr. Connolly, Doctor Leake, and many 
 others, were scattered among the guests, and every eye seemed 
 lighted up, to contribute its portion of gaiety to the domestic 
 jubilee. A cloud of vapour, thin and transparent as a peri's sighs, 
 arose from the dishes which adorned the table, and was dissipated 
 in the air above. The heavy moreen window-curtains were let 
 down, the servants flew from place to place like magic, the 
 candles shed a warm and comfortable lustre upon the board, and 
 the clatter of plates, the jingling of glasses and decanters, the dis- 
 comfiture of provision, and the subdued vigour with which all this 
 was accomplished, considering the respectability of the guests, 
 was really astonishing. Without any appearance of the havoc and 
 carnage which is displayed on such occasions in humbler life, it 
 is a question whether there were not actually more execution done 
 in a quiet, determined way. It furnished a new instance of the 
 superior advantages of discipline. 
 
 Towards the close of the feast, the manliness of Kyrle Daly was 
 put to a cruel test, by one of those unfeeling jests which are the 
 sport of fools in every country. The reader may smile at the cir- 
 cumstance as trifling, but it was not so in its effect upon the heart 
 of the forlorn lover. A young lady, who was considered a wit 
 among her country friends, and feared accordingly, put a willow- 
 leaf upon a slice of cream-cheese, and handed it to Kyrle Daly 
 with an unconscious face. Some months before, a jest of this kind 
 would have put his temper to its severest trial, and even now he 
 felt as if he had been stung by a serpent. He did not, however, 
 betray the least emotion, but took revenge by going near the lady, 
 as soon as circumstances permitted, and making mock-love to her 
 during the night. 
 
 The spirit of the scene produced its effect upon the mind of 
 Hardress himself, who, yielding to its influence, adopted a degree 
 of gaiety that surprised and delighted all who were interested in 
 his fortunes. It is true that, from time to time, a fear struck at 
 his heart, like the shock of an alarm, and the glassy eyes of a 
 corpse seemed at intervals to stare at him from among the crowd. 
 But he turned his eyes and his thoughts away to happier objects, 
 
3oo THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 and, as if in defiance of the ghastly interruption, became more gay 
 than before. 
 
 Mrs. Cregan did not smile to see her son so far forget his misery. 
 A feeling of nervous apprehension had lain upon her spirits 
 throughout the day, and became more oppressive and insupport- 
 able according as the time approached for Hardress's departure. 
 The more certain his escape became, the more did her anxiety in- 
 crease, lest it should, by some unlucky circumstance, be yet pre- 
 vented. 
 
 While Hardress, in the full fling and zest of his false spirits, 
 was in the act of taking wine with a fair friend, he felt a rustling, 
 as of some person passing by his chair, and a low voice whispered 
 close to his ear, ' Arise, and fly for your life.' 
 
 The wine-glass fell, untasted, from his hand, and he remained a 
 pale and motionless image of terror. There was some laughing 
 among the company, who perceived the accident ; and many in- 
 genious omens were deduced, not very favourable to the prospects 
 of the lady. But the agitation of the bridegroom was attributed 
 to mere embarrassment. 
 
 The cloth, soon after, was removed ; some songs were sung, 
 and the ladies rose to depart. Hardress, with the mysterious 
 warning still ringing in his ear, was about to follow in their train, 
 when a rough grasp was laid upon his arm, the door was shut with 
 violence, and he beheld Hepton Connolly standing with his finger 
 raised in an attitude of menace and reproach. Hardress felt his 
 heart sink at the thought that this interruption might cost him his 
 life. 
 
 * Let me go, my dear Connolly,' he said, in an anxious voice. 
 ' It is of the last importance to me.' 
 
 * The last importance ! ' repeated Connolly, with a suspicious 
 smile. ' I 'd consider it a disgrace to me, my dear Hardress, if 
 you were to go to bed sober after being in my company to-night, 
 the last that you are to spend in the country. Come, come, Har- 
 dress, don't look fierce ; you will have Miss Chute long enough, 
 but here are a pleasant set of fellows whom, perhaps, you may 
 never see round the same table on earth again.' 
 
 ' But, Connolly ! ' 
 
 ' But, Hardress 1 ' 
 
 1 What 's the matter there ? ' cried a rough voice from the head 
 ot the table. 'Anybody sneaking? Bring him up here by the 
 collar. If any man leaves this room sober to-night, I shall make 
 it personal with him.' 
 
 The speaker (who was no other than the culprit's father) added 
 an oath, and the room rang with acclamations. Hardress, faint 
 with fear and anxiety, was compelled to return to the table, and 
 the bowl was shortly circulated with that enthusiasm which was 
 considered appropriate to the occasion. The wine which he 
 drank, and the conversation in which he was compelled to mingle, 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 3°* 
 
 gradually stole him back into his revel mood, and in a little time 
 he became more loud and seemingly mirthful than ever. The 
 voice which he heard might be ideal as the visions he had seen. 
 He thought no more of it. 
 
 He became engaged in a violent dispute with Creagh, as to 
 whether the cascades of Killarney were the better or worse for 
 being without basins. Hardress contended that the want was a 
 defect, inasmuch as it left the beholder without that delightful 
 sensation which he might gather from the contrast of those two 
 most perfect images of tumult and repose, a roaring cataract, with 
 clouds of foam and mist, and a smooth expanse of water, with its 
 glancing and streaky light, and its lulling motion, like the heaving 
 of a sleeping infant's bosom. Creagh, on the other hand, held 
 (and he defended the idea stoutly, as he happened to hit on it by 
 accident) that the very mystery attending the disappearance of 
 the stream, when the spectator saw it hurry downward by his feet, 
 still foaming and roaring on, until it was hidden from his view by 
 the closing thicket below, gave a greater idea to the mind than 
 could be produced by the contrast which Hardress admired. 
 
 The latter had his hand raised, with a cascade of eloquence 
 just bursting from his lips, when a warm breath came to his ear, 
 and the same low voice murmured in a tone still lower than before 
 — ' Arise, I tell you ! the army is abroad, and your life is in danger.' 
 
 It could not now be an illusion, for the tresses of the speaker 
 had touched his cheek, and the dress had brushed his feet. He 
 dashed his chair aside, and standing suddenly erect, looked round 
 him for the warner. A female dress just glanced on his eye as he 
 stared on the open door which led to the hall. He followed it 
 with so much rapidity no one could find time to interfere ; but the 
 hall was empty of living figures. He only saw the cloaks and 
 hats of the visitors hanging against the wall, while the dusky 
 flame of a globe-lamp threw a gloomy and dispiriting light upon 
 the walls and ceiling. On one side the floor was shaken by the 
 dancers, and the ear stunned with the music of the bagpipe, violin, 
 and dulcimer ; on the other, he heard the bacchanalian uproar of 
 the party he had left. At a distance, in the kitchen, he could dis- 
 tinguish the sound of one solitary bagpipe, playing some air of a 
 more rapid and vulgar character ; while the voice of a villager, 
 penetrating in triumph through a two-foot wall of stone and mor- 
 tar, was heard singing some wild and broken melody, which was 
 meant for mirth, but in which a stranger ear might have detected 
 a greater depth of pathos and of feeling than the composer pro- 
 bably intended. Snatching his hat and coat, and trembling in 
 every joint, Hardress was about to hurry down a narrow staircase 
 leading to the yard door, when his mother with a bridesmaid met 
 him on the way. 
 
 'Come this way, Hardress,' she said, 'I have a partner engaged 
 for you.' 
 
3 o2 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 'Mother,' said Hardress, with the horrid sense of oppression which 
 one feels in a dream of danger and vain resistance, ' take your 
 hand from my arm and let me pass.' 
 
 Mrs. Cregan imagined that as, in compliance with an established 
 superstition, patronised by some of the old people, the bridegroom 
 was not to sleep in the house on the night before the bridal, Har- 
 dress was thus early preparing to comply with the old custom. 
 
 'You must not go so soon,' returned Mrs. Cregan. 'Come, 
 Miss Prender^ast, make that arm prisoner, and lead him to the 
 ball-room.' 
 
 Hardress, with a beating pulse, resigned himself to his fate, and 
 accompanied the ladies to the dancing-room. Here he remained 
 for some time endeavouring, but with a faint spirit, to meet and 
 answer the gaiety of his companions. After dancing a minuet with 
 a good deal of silent approbation, he led his fair partner to her seat, 
 and, taking a chair at her side, began to entertain her as best he 
 could, while other dancers occupied the floor. His chair was placed 
 a few yards distant from an open door, at which a crowd of servants 
 and tenants appeared thrusting in their heads, and staring on the 
 dancers for the purposes of admiration or of satire, as the occasion 
 might arise. 
 
 One of these, a handsome country lad, had encroached so far as 
 to get within a foot or two of Hardress's chair, and to be recognised 
 by him with some appearance of kindness. 
 
 ' Master Hardress,' he said, stooping to his ear, 'did Syl Carney 
 tell you anything?' 
 
 'No !' said Hardress, turning suddenly round, and neglecting to 
 finish some observation which he was in the act of making to his 
 fair companion. 
 
 ' Why, then, never welcome her ! ' said the lad. ' I told her to 
 slip in a word to you, some way, to let you know that Danny Mann 
 has given information, and the army are out this night.' 
 
 Hardress trembled, as if the hangman's grasp had been laid 
 upon him. 
 
 'What a shocking dance that hornpipe is!' exclaimed the 
 lady. c I am always reminded when I see it of the dampers of a 
 piano.' 
 
 ' Precisely, indeed,' said Hardress, with a smile like death, 'very 
 ridiculous indeed. Tell me how you know of this ?' he said, apart 
 to the boy. ' Speak low and quickly.' 
 
 ' From a little hunchback in Bridewell at magistrate Warner's,' 
 returned the lad. ' He bid me but the lady is talking to you.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said Hardress, turning quickly round. 
 
 'It was not I,' said the fair dancer : ' it was Mrs. Cregan called.' 
 
 He looked at his mother, and saw her holding towards him a 
 small basket of confectionery and oranges, while she glanced to- 
 wards the ladies. Hardress rose to perform this piece of gallantry 
 with a sensation of gloomy resignation, and with a feeling of bitter- 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 303 
 
 ness towards his unhappy parent, as if she ought to have known 
 that she was knotting the cord upon his life 
 
 When it was done, he hurried back to his seat, but the servants 
 were all gone, and the door was closed. He stole from the apart- 
 ment to the hall, once more resumed his hat, and, ascending the 
 small flight of steps leading to the chamber so often mentioned, he 
 was once more upon the point of freedom. 
 
 But the grasp of an avenging Providence was laid upon his life. 
 In the middle of this chamber he encountered the bride alone. 
 
 ' Hardress,' said she, ' are you leaving us for the night !' 
 
 * I am,' he murmured in a faint voice, and passed on. 
 
 * Stay, Hardress ! ' said Anne, laying her hand upon his arm. * I 
 have something to say, which you should know immediately.' 
 
 This last interruption completed the confusion of the bridegroom. 
 A sudden faintness fell on his whole frame, his brain grew dizzy, 
 his senses swam, and he reeled, like one intoxicated, into a vacant 
 chair. 
 
 * Well, Anne,' said he, ' anything — everything— my life itself, if 
 you think it worth your while to require it.' 
 
 ' 1 owe it to my own peace, and even to yours, Hardress,' said 
 Anne, 'to tell you that I have discovered all.' 
 
 ' Discovered all ! ' echoed Hardress, springing to his feet. 
 
 'Yes — all. A generous friend — generous to you and me alike — 
 has given the whole history of your cause of suffering, and has 
 left me nothing to regret, but that Hardress should not have thought 
 it worth his while to make Anne a partner in his confidence. But 
 that I have forgotten likewise, and have only now to say that I 
 regret my own conduct as much as I once was grieved for yours. 
 I must have added to the pain which Hark ! ' 
 
 'What do you hear? 'cried Hardress, crouching fearfully. 
 
 ' There is a tumult in the drawing-room. Good Heaven, defend 
 our hearts ? What is that noise ?' 
 
 The door of the room was thrown open, and a female figure 
 appeared, with hair disordered, and hands outspread with an action 
 of warning and avoidance. 
 
 ' Hardress, my child !' 
 
 'Well, mother?' 
 
 * Hardress, my child ! ' 
 
 ' Mother, I am here ! Look on me ! Speak to me ! Do not 
 gasp, and stare on your son in that horrid way ! Oh, mother, speak, 
 or you will break my heart ! ' 
 
 ' Fly — fly — my child — Not that way ! No ! The doors are 
 defended. There is a soldier set on every entrance. You are 
 trapt and caught. What shall we do ? The window ! Come this 
 way — come — quick — quick ! ' 
 
 She drew him passively after her into her own sleeping-chamber, 
 which lay immediately adjoining. Before Anne had made one 
 movement from the attitude of sudden fear and wonder to which 
 
3 o4 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 this strange occurrence had given rise, Mrs. Cregan again appeared 
 in the chamber, showing in her look and action the same hurried 
 and disordered energy of mind. 
 
 ' Go to your room ! ' she said, addressing the bride. ' Go quickly 
 to your room ; stop not to question me ' 
 
 1 Dear aunt ! ' 
 
 ' Away, I say ! you will drive me frantic, girl ! My reason is 
 already stretched to its full tension, and a single touch may rend 
 it. Go, my dear child, my love ! my wretched — Ha ! ' 
 
 ' Anne Chute ! Where 's Anne ? ' exclaimed an anxious voice 
 at the doorway. ' Where is the bride ? ' 
 
 I Here, here ! ' said Mrs. Cregan. 
 
 Kyrle Daly rushed into the room, his face paler than ever, and 
 his eye filled with anxious inquiry. 
 
 * Come this way, Anne ! ' he said, taking her hand, while his own 
 were trembling with anxiety. ' Unhappy bride ! Oh, horrid, fear- 
 ful night ! Come — come ! ' 
 
 I I will not stir ! } exclaimed the bride, with vehemence. { What 
 mean those words and actions ? There is some danger threatens 
 Hardress Tell me, if there is ' 
 
 'Take her away, good Kyrle. 5 
 
 ' He shall not take me hence. Why should he ? Why does he 
 call me an unhappy bride ? Why does he say this night is horrid 
 and fearful ? I will not stir ' 
 
 'They are coming ! — force her hence, good Kyrle/ muttered the 
 expectant mother. 
 
 Struggling in his arms, and opposing prayers, threats, and en- 
 treaties to the violence which he employed, Kyrle Daly bore the 
 affrighted bride away from the apartment. He remained by her 
 side during the whole evening, often soothing her anxiety by his 
 ready eloquence, and watching every movement of her mind and 
 feelings with the tender vigilance of a near and devoted relative. 
 
 Mrs. Cregan, meanwhile, remained alone in the room, her ear 
 bent to catch the first sounds of approaching danger, and her frame 
 made rigid with the intensity of feeling. Her hands were employed, 
 while in this attitude, in arranging her hair, and removing as far as 
 possible every appearance of disorder from her dress. At length 
 the clatter of muskets and the tramp of many feet was heard in the 
 little hall. A momentary convulsion shook her frame. It passed 
 away, and she rose to her usual height and her customary stateliness 
 of eye and gesture. 
 
 At the same moment the door opened, and Mr. Warner, accom- 
 panied by Captain Gibson and the military party, appeared upon 
 the little staircase. The first mentioned seemed surprised, and 
 somewhat embarrassed at the sight of Mrs. Cregan. He murmured 
 something of his regret at being compelled to do what must be so 
 painful to her, and was proceeding to recommend that she should 
 retire, when she cut short the speech. 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 305 
 
 1 Talk not to me, sir,' she said, ' of your regret or your reluc- 
 tance. You have already done your worst to fix a stigma on our 
 name and a torture in our memories. For months, for weeks, and 
 days, my son spoke with you, laughed with you, and walked freely 
 and openly among you, and then you laid no hand upon his shoulder. 
 You waited for his wedding-day to raise your lying cry of murder ; 
 you waited to see how many hearts you might crush together at a 
 blow. You have done the worst of evil in your power ; you have 
 dismayed our guests, scattered terror amid our festival, and made 
 the remembrance of this night, which should have been a happy 
 one, a thought of gloom and shame.' 
 
 'My duty,' murmured the magistrate, 'obliged me to sacri- 
 fice ' 
 
 ' Complete your duty, then,' said the mother haughtily, ' and do 
 not speak of your personal regrets. If justice and my son are foes, 
 what place do you fill between them ? You mistake your calling, 
 Mr. Magistrate ; you have no personal feelings in this transaction. 
 You are a servant of the law, and, as a servant, act.' 
 
 Mr. Warner bowed, and directed the soldiers to follow him into 
 the inner room. At this order Mrs. Cregan turned her face over 
 her shoulder with a ghastly smile. 
 
 'That,' she said, in a tone of calm reproach, 'that is my 
 sleeping-chamber.' 
 
 ' My duty, madam.' 
 
 * Be it so,' said Mrs. Cregan, in a low voice, and turning away 
 her face with the same painful smile, while her heart crept and 
 trembled. 
 
 The party entered the room. 
 
 * I hope,' said Captain Gibson, who really began to think that 
 Mrs. Cregan had a great deal of reason, ' I hope Mrs. Cregan will 
 not blame me for my part in this transaction.' 
 
 ' I do not blame you,' said the mother, with a scornful smile ; 
 ' it is your trade.' 
 
 At this portentous moment, Mr. Cregan, Mr. Connolly, and two 
 or three other gentlemen, came reeling into the apartment, ex 
 cessively intoxicated, and retaining consciousness enough to feel 
 a sense of injury not wholly understood, and a vague purpose of 
 resistance. 
 
 'Dora,' said Mr. Cregan, staggering towards her, and endeav- 
 ouring to look sober, 'what are you doing here? What's the 
 matter ? J 
 
 Mrs. Cregan, her whole soul absorbed by the proceedings in the 
 inner room, did not even appear to be conscious of his presence. 
 
 'Very — very extraordinary conduct,' he said, turning an 
 unsteady eye upon the captain. ' Soldiers, officers, eh, Connolly ? ' 
 
 'Very — very extraordinary conduct,' echoed Connolly. 
 
 'Do they take the house for a barrack?' continued Cregan. 
 1 Captain, withdraw your soldiers.' 
 
 u 
 
306 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Captain Gibson, already annoyed by the taunt of Mrs. Cregan, 
 returned this demand by a stern look. 
 
 * Stand by me, Connolly. Your swords, gentlemen ! ' cried 
 Cregan, as he drew his own. 
 
 The others imitated his example. Captain Gibson, without 
 condescending to unsheathe his own weapon, turned to his men, 
 and, beckoning with his ringer, said : 
 
 * Disarm those drunken gentlemen.' 
 
 His orders were obeyed upon the instant : a few slight scratches 
 being all that was sustained by the soldiers in the drunken scuffle 
 that ensued. The gentlemen were placed, with their hands tied, 
 on chairs at the other side of the room, and the bundle of rapiers 
 were laid upon the window-seat. 
 
 * Very well, sir — very well,' said Mr. Cregan ; ' I shall remember 
 this, and so shall my friends. I am a gentleman, sir, and shall 
 look for the satisfaction of a gentleman.' 
 
 * Expect the same from me,' said Connolly, swinging his person 
 round upon the chair. 
 
 ' And me,' said a third. 
 
 * And me,' echoed a fourth. 
 
 'I little expected to meet with such a return as this for our 
 hospitality,' continued Mr. Cregan. 
 
 1 For shame ! for shame, Cregan,' said the unhappy mother ; 
 1 do not degrade yourself and your friends by such remonstrances. 
 The hand of an enemy is raised against us, and let not the 
 unworthy being think that he can sink us as low in mind as in 
 our fortunes.' 
 
 Captain Gibson, who took no notice of the gentlemen, again 
 seemed hurt to the quick, perhaps not wisely, by this allusion from 
 the lady. 
 
 ' Mrs. Cregan,' he said, 'it is one of the most painful duties of a 
 gentleman in my situation, that he must sometimes be subjected 
 to such insinuations as those ; and it is only the peculiar circum- 
 stances in which you are placed that would prevent my forming a 
 very harsh judgment of any lady who could use them.' 
 
 ' Sir,' said Mrs. Cregan, lowering her head with a smile of the 
 most bitter irony, 'your consideration and your forbearance are 
 extraordinary. All the events of this night bear witness to it. It 
 must have surely been with much violence to that fine gentlemanly 
 spirit that you chose a moment like this for your investigation. 
 But I see you are impatient, sir, and I will desist, for you are a 
 soldier, and I am but a female, and it is easy to see who would 
 have the best of the argument.' 
 
 ' Madam ! ' 
 
 ' Our friends dispersed, our mirth so quickly changed to terror, 
 this scene of confusion at our domestic festivity, everything, sir, 
 bears testimony to your forbearance. That sensitive and gentle- 
 manly nature that is so tender of insinuations, appears in all the 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 307 
 
 actions of this night. My husband tied there, like a malefactor, 
 
 and my poor son- Ah, shield and hide us, earth ! I hear his 
 
 voice ! ' 
 
 A bustle was heard in the inner room, and the wretched lady, 
 throwing her arms high above her head, uttered a shriek so loud, 
 so shrill and piercing, that the stoutest soldier started like a 
 maiden, and the flush of anger on the officer's cheek was changed 
 to a deathlike paleness. Half-sobered by the fearful sound, the 
 intoxicated father rose from his chair, and turned a dull eye upon 
 the room door, while every figure on the scene expressed, in 
 various degrees, the same feeling of commiseration and anxiety. 
 
 1 The prisoner is here ! ' cried Warner, hurrying into the room. 
 
 'Is he? 5 shrieked the distracted and almost delirious mother. 
 'Dark bloodhound, have you found him? May the tongue that 
 tells me so be withered from the roots, and the eye that first 
 detected him be darkened in its socket ! ' 
 
 ' Peace, shocking woman, 5 said the magistrate ; ' your curses 
 only add to the offence that Heaven has already suffered. 5 
 
 ' What ! 5 cried the unhappy parent, ' shall it be for nothing, 
 then, that you have stung the mother's heart, and set the mother's 
 brain on fire ? I tell you, no ! My tongue may hold its peace, 
 but there is not a vein in all my frame but curses you ! My 
 child ! My child ! 5 she screamed aloud, on seeing Hardress at the 
 door. She rushed, as if with the intent of flinging herself upon 
 his neck, but, checking the impulse as she came near, she clasped 
 her hands, and, sinking at his feet, exclaimed, ' My child, forgive 
 me!' 
 
 ' Forgive you, mother ! ' replied her son, in a wretched voice ; 
 1 1 have destroyed you all ! 5 
 
 ' The crime was mine, 5 exclaimed the miserable parent ; ' I was 
 the author of your first temptation, the stumbling-block between 
 you and repentance. You will think bitterly of me, Hardress, 
 when you are alone. 5 
 
 ' Never ! 5 said Hardress, raising her in his arms. ' Still 
 honoured, always well-meaning and affectionate, I will never 
 think of you but as a mother. My eyes are open now. For the 
 first time in many weary months, the first thought of peace is in 
 my heart ; and but for you, and those whom I have made 
 wretched with you, I would call that thought a thought of joy. 
 Grieve no more, mother, for my sake. Grieve not, because it is 
 in vain. The bolt has sped, the victim has been struck, and 
 earth has not a remedy. Grieve not, because I would not have 
 it otherwise. A victim was due to Justice, and she shall no 
 longer be defrauded. I had rather reckon with her here than in 
 a future world. 5 
 
 ' I cannot part with you, 5 murmured his mother, while her head 
 rested on his shoulder ; ' do not put away my hands awhile. It is 
 tearing my very heart up ! 5 
 
308 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 * Dear mother, let me go,' said Hardress, gently disengaging 
 himself ; ' we shall meet again, I hope. In the meantime, hear 
 my farewell request, as you have heard all that I have ever made : 
 waste not your days in idle retrospection, but pray for me with 
 fervour : be kind to those whom I have loved, and remember that 
 my death, at least, was happier than my life.' 
 
 * I threatened you with poverty,' muttered Mrs. Cregan, while 
 her memory glanced wildly through the past. 
 
 * Dear mother ! ' 
 
 ' I bade you leave my house or do my pleasure ' 
 
 1 Why will you vex my soul at such a moment ? ' 
 ' I have tied the cord upon your throat ! I slighted your 
 scruples. Your own dread words come back upon me now. 
 Those words which I heard with so little emotion at Din is, and in 
 this hall before, now ring like the peal of dead-bells in my ear. I 
 have been your fellest foe. You drank in pride with my milk, and 
 passion under my indulgence. I have destroyed you for this 
 
 world, and ' 
 
 1 My dear, dear mother ! ' cried Hardress, clasping her to his 
 breast, and bursting into tears of shame and penitence, ' forget, I 
 implore you, those impious and reproachful words ; they were the 
 ravings of my madness, and should not be regarded. Hear me 
 now, in the full and calm possession of my judgment, and let 
 those words only be remembered. Do you hear me, my dear 
 mother ? ' 
 
 * I do — I am listening. Speak, my child ; I will remember 
 well.' 
 
 Hardress stooped to her ear, and murmured in a low voice : 
 ' In a secret drawer of my cabinet you will find a paper unsealed. 
 
 Give it to ' he paused and bowed down a moment in deep 
 
 agitation — ' to Anne Chute ; I am glad she bears that name — glad 
 of her fortune in escaping me. Let her read that paper. I have 
 penned it with the view of rendering justice to a confiding friend, 
 whose confidence I have betrayed. Oh, memory ! memory ! — 
 but I must look forward now, not back. Ah, mother, if I had 
 really known how to value your affectionate counsels in my child- 
 hood — if I had only humbled my heart to a belief in its own 
 weakness, and a ready obedience to your *vill in my younger days, 
 I should not die in my youth a shameful death, and leave you 
 childless in your age.' 
 
 I Ay,' said Mrs. Cregan, * or if I had done the duty of a mother ; 
 if I had thought less of your worldly, and more of your eternal 
 happiness. My brain is scorched ! ' 
 
 * My dear fond parent, will you add to my agony?' 
 ' You will hate me in your prison.' 
 
 'Never!' 
 
 I I know what you will say when they are dragging you to the 
 scaffold. It is my mother, you will say, who has bound these 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 309 
 
 cords upon my limbs. The people will stare on you, and you will 
 hang your head, and say that I was the author of your shame. 
 And in the moment of your death ' 
 
 ' I will pray for you,' said Hardress, pressing her to him and 
 kissing her forehead, * as you will do for me.' While he spoke, he 
 felt the arms that encircled his neck grow rigid, and the face that 
 looked up to his was overspread with a damp and leaden 
 paleness. 
 
 ' Farewell, dear mother ! for the present,' he continued, * and 
 
 remember Oh, she is growing cold and weak ; remove her — 
 
 remove her quickly, gentlemen ! ' 
 
 She was borne out, in a half-fainting condition, and Hardress, 
 surrendering himself to the hands of the soldiers, prepared to 
 depart. Turning round once more before he left the room, he 
 said aloud : 
 
 * Hear me, and testify against me, if it shall please you. Lest 
 my returning feebleness, or the base love of life, should tempt me 
 once again to shun my destiny, I am willing here to multiply my 
 witnesses. I am guilty of the crime with which you charge me — 
 guilty, not in act, nor guilty even in word, nor positive, implied 
 assent — but guilty, beyond even the wish of pardon. I am glad 
 this hideous dream at length is ended ; glad that I have been 
 forced to render up her right to Justice, even against my will, for 
 I was sick of my anxieties.' 
 
 He ceased, and the party proceeded down the narrow staircase 
 leading to the hall door, Hardress being placed in the centre. In 
 a few minutes the lighted chambers of the castle, its affrighted 
 revellers, its silenced musicians, the delirious mother, the drunken 
 father and his band of brawlers, the bewildered bride, and all the 
 scattered pomp of the espousal, were lost to the eye of the unhappy 
 Hardress. 
 
 Some apprehension was entertained lest any injudicious person 
 amongst the peasantry should occasion the useless loss of life by 
 attempting a rescue before the party left the neighbourhood ; but 
 no symptoms of such an intention was manifested by the people. 
 The whole transaction had been conducted with so much rapidity, 
 that the circumstance of the bridegroom's capture was not gener- 
 ally known, even in the castle, for some time after his departure. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 
 HOW THE STORY ENDED 
 
 IT only remains for us to inform the reader, in general terms, of the 
 subsequent fortunes of the various actors in this domestic drama. 
 
3io 
 
 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 Such is the fate of the historian, regarded only as the chronicler 
 of events or feelings in which he has no share ; his claim to atten- 
 tion rests only upon these. While they continue to awaken 
 interest, he may toy and dally as he pleases ; he may deck his 
 style with flowers, indulge his fancy in description, and even please 
 his vanity with metaphysical speculation ; but when the real matter 
 of the tale is out, farewell his hobbies ! Stern and brief must 
 thenceforth be the order of his speech, and listlessness or apathy 
 become the guerdon of his wanderings. He is mortified to find 
 that what he mistook for interest was only patience, and that the 
 attention which he imagined to be bestowed upon himself was only 
 lavished on the automata which his fingers exercised. 
 
 Stern and brief, then, be the order of our speech henceforward. 
 Unhappily a portion of our incidents will fit that manner well. 
 
 The remorse of Hardress led him even to exaggerate his own 
 share in the transaction on which the foregoing measures were 
 founded. Nevertheless, when all the circumstances of the case 
 had been fully considered, the mercy of the executive power was 
 extended to his life, and a perpetual exile from his native land was 
 the only forfeit which he paid to the outraged law. But before this 
 alteration in his destiny had been announced to him, Hardress had 
 learned to receive it with great indifference. With the austerity 
 of an ancient penitent, he persisted in refusing to hold personal 
 communication with any of his friends, his mother only excepted, 
 and even she was cheated (by a necessary device, for her health 
 could not have sustained it) of the last parting interview. 
 
 The mitigation of punishment, which was intended to save his 
 life, had only the effect of sparing him the ignominy of such a fate. 
 An occurrence which took place on the day of his departure 
 completed the ruin which ill-health had long been making in his 
 constitution. 
 
 The convict-ship which was to bear him from his homehad cleared 
 out of port, and lay at anchor in that part of the river which, from 
 its basin-like appearance, has received the appropriate denomina- 
 tion of the Pool. In the grey of a summer morning the prisoners, 
 Hardress amongst the number, left the gaol in King's Island, 
 where they had been confined, for the purpose of occupying their 
 places on board. Arrived at the river side the party halted with 
 their guard, while a small boat was let down from the vessel's stern 
 and manned for the shore. It touched the strand and received its 
 lading of exiles. It could not hold the entire party, and Hardress, 
 who felt a sudden, and to him, unaccountable reluctance to leave 
 his native soil, while it was possible for him yet to feel its turf 
 beneath his feet, petitioned to be left until the return of the pinnace. 
 
 He looked to the misty hills of Cratloe, to the yet silent and 
 inactive city, and over the face of the gently agitated waters. The 
 fresh, cool light of the morning only partially revealed the scene ; 
 but the veil that rested on the face of nature became more attenu- 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 3" 
 
 ated every instant, and the aerial perspective acquired, by rapid 
 yet imperceptible degrees, a greater scope and clearness. Groups 
 of bathers appeared at various distances on both sides of the river, 
 some plunging in headlong from the lofty quays, some playing 
 various antics in the water, and some floating quietly on the sur- 
 face of the tide in the centre of the stream, while others, half-dressed 
 and shivering at the brink of the sloping strands, put in a hand or 
 foot to ascertain the temperature of the refreshing element, before 
 venturing to fling off their remaining habiliments, and share in the 
 salutary recreation. 
 
 In other respects the scene was nearly the same in appearance as 
 it has been described in the third chapter of this volume. Nature, 
 always the same calm and provident benefactress, had preserved 
 her mighty heart unchanged throughout the interval, and the same 
 joyous serenity was still visible upon her countenance. The 
 passions of men may convulse the frame of society ; the duration 
 of human prosperity may be uncertain as that of human woe ; 
 and centuries of ignorance, of poverty, and of civil strife may 
 suddenly succeed to years of science, and thrift, and peace ; but 
 still the mighty mother holds her course unchanged. Spring 
 succeeds winter, and summer spring, and all the harmonies of her 
 system move on through countless ages with the same unvarying 
 serenity of purpose. The scene of his happy childhood evinced 
 no sympathy with the condition of the altered Hardress. 
 
 He turned with an aching heart from the contemplation of the 
 landscape, and his eyes encountered a spectacle more according 
 to his present feelings. The row of houses which lined the quay 
 on which the party halted consisted for the most part of coffin- 
 makers' shops, a gloomy trade, although, to judge by the reckless 
 faces of the workmen, it would appear that ' custom had made it 
 with them a property of easiness.' 
 
 Only one of those dismal houses of traffic was open at this 
 early hour, and the light which burned in the interior showed 
 that the proprietor was called to the exercise of his craft at this 
 unseasonable time by some sudden and pressing call. The pro- 
 fession of the man was not indicated, as in more wealthy and 
 populous cities, by a sculptured lid, or gilded and gaudy hatchments 
 suspended at a window-pane. A pile of the unfinished shells, formed 
 for all ages from childhood to maturity, were thrust out at the open 
 window, to attract the eye of the relatives of the newly dead. The 
 artificer himself appeared in the interior of his workshop in his 
 working dress, and plane in hand, was employed in giving the last 
 touch to an oaken coffin, placed lengthways on his bench. Its 
 size denoted that the intended occupant had died in the full 
 maturity of manhood. 
 
 While Hardress watched him plying his melancholy trade in 
 silence, a horseman rode up to the door, and dismounted with 
 some awkwardness and difficulty. He was a small, red-haired 
 
3 i2 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 man, and Hardress thought that the face and manner were not 
 altogether new to his observation. Another horseman followed 
 and alighted with more ease and alertness. He was tall and well 
 formed, and Hardress shrank aside from his gaze, for in this person 
 he recognised one of the persons who appeared against him at his 
 trial. Leaning against one of the short posts, used for the purpose 
 of holding in the cables of the shipping, and once more turning his 
 face towards the river, Hardress listened to the conversation 
 which ensued. 
 
 'Servant kindly, Mr. Moran/said the smaller man. 'Well, is 
 the coffin ready !' 
 
 ' What time will it be wanted ? ' was the reply. 
 
 1 The car will be here in half an hour. Father Edward bid me 
 step on before, in dread you wouldn't have it done. If it wasn't 
 out of regard for him and his, indeed I 'd rather be spared the 
 jaunt, for I was always a poor horseman, and I think it jolting 
 enough I '11 get between this and the churchyard.' 
 
 * And where '11 he be buried ?' 
 
 'At Mungret church westwards. His people are all buried at 
 St. John's ; but he took it as a delight to be buried at Mungret, 
 because it was there his daughter was buried before him.' 
 
 A deep groan escaped the second horseman, as he said these 
 words. 
 
 ' No wonder for you to be heart-broken ! ' exclaimed the first. 
 ( Old and good friends were parted when they were taken from you. 
 The poor old man ; 'twas enough to convert a Turk to hear him on 
 his death-bed giving his forgiveness to all the world, and praying 
 for his enemies. A year since, as you know well, Myles Murphy, 
 Mihil O'Connor and his daughter were'a happy pair ; but he never 
 raised his head from the day she left his floor. Well, well, 'tis 
 thrue for Father Edward what he says, that this world would be 
 good for nothing, if there was not another. 
 
 At this moment a soldier touched the arm of Hardress, and 
 pointed to the pinnace, whose keel just grated on the gravelled 
 strand. With a rigid and terrified countenance Hardress arose, 
 and was about to hurry down the steps leading from the quay, 
 when his strength suddenly failed him, and he would have fallen 
 headlong to the bottom, but for the timely aid of his escort. 
 
 When he recovered from the confusion which this attack occa- 
 sioned in his brain, he found himself seated on the deck of the 
 vessel, her canvas wings outspread, and the shores of his native 
 soil fleeting rapidly away on either side. He looked, as the ship 
 went on, to the cottage of the Dalys. Two or three of the children 
 in deep mourning were playing on the lawn ; Lowry Looby was 
 turning the cows into the new-mown meadow, and Mr. Daly 
 himself, also in deep black, was standing, cane in hand, upon the 
 steps of the hall door. The vessel still swept on, but Hardress 
 dared not turn his eyes in the direction of Castle Chute. The dawn 
 
THE COLLEGIANS 313 
 
 of the following morning beheld him tossed upon the waves of the 
 Atlantic, and looking back to the clifted heads of the Shannon, 
 that stood like a gigantic portal opening far behind. The land of 
 his nativity faded rapidly on his sight ; but before the vessel came 
 within sight of that of his exile, Hardress had rendered up the life 
 which the law forbore to take ! 
 
 His mother lived long after, in the practice of the austere and 
 humiliating works of piety which her Church prescribes for the 
 observance of the penitent. Her manner in the course of time 
 became quiet, serene, and uncomplaining; and though not so 
 generally admired, she became more loved among her friends and 
 her dependents than in her days of pride and haughtier influence. 
 
 One circumstance may be mentioned, as affording a striking 
 proof of the deep root which her predominant failing had taken in 
 her character. After reading the paper which Hardress had left 
 in his cabinet, and finding that it was written under what she con- 
 ceived a too humiliating sense of his unworthiness, she refrained 
 from bestowing it as he desired. It was not until the salutary 
 change above mentioned had been wrought in her character, and 
 after the purpose which the document was intended to accomplish 
 had been brought to pass by other means, that she complied with 
 her son's parting wishes. 
 
 It was a circumstance which placed the character of Anne Chute 
 in a noble point of view, that, from the moment of the fearful dis- 
 covery recorded in the last chapter, she never once upbraided 
 her unhappy relative with the concealment which had so nearly 
 linked her fate with that of one whose conduct she had so much 
 cause to view with horror. Much as she had loved Hardress, and 
 shocked as she was by the terrible occurrences of that night, she 
 could not look back without the feeling of one who has escaped 
 a great and hidden danger. It would have been denying her a 
 virtue which she ought not to have wanted, if we said that the 
 generosity and disinterestedness of Kyrle Daly failed eventually 
 to produce that effect upon her feelings which it had long since 
 done upon her reason. It was long, indeed, before this favour- 
 able indication could be suffered to appear ; but it did appear, at 
 length, after the remembrance of this unhappy story had grown 
 faint in the course of time, and the tumult which it had left in many 
 bosoms had been stilled by years, by penitence, or death. They 
 were then united, and they were as happy as earth could render 
 hearts that looked to higher destinies and a more lasting rest. 
 They lived long after in the practice of the duties of their place 
 in life, and of that religion to which the guilty and the neglectful 
 owe their deepest terrors, and good men their dearest consola- 
 tions. 
 
 The wretched partner in the crime of Hardress died amid all the 
 agonies of a remorse, which made even those whose eyes had 
 often looked upon such scenes shrink back with fear and wonder. 
 
314 THE COLLEGIANS 
 
 He owed his fate to an erring sense of fidelity, and to the limited 
 and mischievous course of education too common in his class ; 
 while Hardress might be looked on as the victim of his cherished 
 vanity and pride of self-direction. 
 
 These events furnished Lowry Looby with matter for a great 
 fund of philosophical eloquence, which he was fond of indulg- 
 ing at even, when his pipe lit freely and the fire shone bright 
 upon the hearth. This faithful servant lived long enough to 
 enjoy the honours of a freehold in his native county of 
 Clare, and to share it with the careful housewife who was 
 accustomed to provide for his wants with so much affectionate 
 care at the dairy-cottage. His name, I understand, was found 
 upon the poll-books at the late memorable election in that 
 county ; but on which side of the question be bestowed his 
 voice is more than my utmost industry has enabled me to 
 ascertain. 
 
 Reader, if you have shuddered at the excesses into which he 
 plunged, examine your own heart, and see if it hide nothing of the 
 intellectual pride and volatile susceptibility of new impressions, 
 which were the ruin of Hardress Cregan. If, besides the amuse- 
 ment which these pages may have afforded, you should learn 
 anything from such research for the- avoidance of evil, or the 
 pursuit of good, it will not be in vain that we have penned the 
 story of our two Collegians. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty 
 at the Edinburgh University Press 
 

 
 met 
 
 w 
 
 ~ 
 
 
 
 - - -• 
 
&&**,