L I E) RAFLY OF THE U N IVLRSITY Of ILLINOIS 1828 M "^5? * » \ ,%<« o £»k X m THE CRO PP Y; A TALE OF 1798. THE AUTHORS OF "THE OHARA TALES," "THE NOWLANS, AND " THE BOYNE WATER." The uncivil kernes of Ireland are in arms. SECOND PART OF KINO HE.VRl VI ]N THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET 1828. ERRATA. Page 14 line 19, /or Catholic, read Catholics. 19 — 4, for district bodies, read distinct bodies. 77 — 7, /jr source rear? sense. ^'2 ^''' \ /or winder, rparf windee. IIH lines 3, 17, and 19, / 121 line 27, for merely read ready. 126 — 7, for Lehamberg read Schomberg. 128 — }7,for serene read severe. 132 — 22, for undesired, read undeserved. 134 — 2b, for increase, read inverse. 178 — 10, /or confusion, read compression. 25i — 17,/or duration, read devotion. 288 — 1,/or returned read repaid, 292 — • 26, for guests, read a guest. TRTNTED BY S. AND H. BENTLEY, Doisct Slrett, Fletl Strcit. ^^5 TO SHEFFIELD GRACE, ESQ , F. S. A. &c. MY DEAR SIR, One of the first Anglo-Norman kniglits who visited Ireland was your ancestor. His de- scendants identified themselves with the land of his adoption, and chiefly on that account suffered much at different times. With some propriety therefore, a tale illustrative of the more recent results of misrule in your native country, may be inscribed to you. The compliment is also due to your individual love of Ireland, to your erudite knowledge of her history, and as a slight acknowledgment of many kindnesses conferred on THE O'HARA FAMILY, THE CROPPY; A TALE OF 1798. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. Introductory and historical, and not com- prising a word of the Tale to which it leads ; so that some readers will probably pass it by ; and yet we intreat all who wish really to un- derstand even the more fictitious parts of our story, to give it an indulgent and careful pe- rusal. Few can forget that, in the year 1798, a wide-spread conspiracy, which partially ex- ploded, existed amongst Irishmen of every rank and sect, — having in view a separation from England, and the estabUshing, upon the ruins of British dominion, an Irish Repubhc. VOL. I. B 55 THE CROPPY. The name adopted by the conspirators Avas that of United Irishmen ; but as this name was inherited by them, the necessary task of ex- plaining its nature and import cannot be ac- complished without tracing it from its source. In 1777, Britain was engaged in the war with her Colonies. France, entering into alli- ance with America, had sent the soldiers of her despotic monarchy to fight for republicanism. England, in want of troops, withdrew her gar- risons from Ireland, in order to transport them over the Atlantic. Ireland then remained without an army to protect her against a threatened French invasion. She demanded succour from England, and understood that she must defend herself. The Irish flew to arms. In a short time, a great national force, self-raised, self-armed, self- equipped, and well-disciplined, stood forward to meet the expected foe. None appeared; but had the contrary been the case, such was the steady though chivalrous spirit of military ardour, pervading the country from north to south, that, in any struggle with an invading enemy, Ireland must have triumphed. The Irish Volunteers were acknowledged by the legislature as *' the saviours of their country.'* THE CROPPY. S In order to become a volunteer, certain out- lays, requiring considerable means, were to be incurred ; hence, the volunteer ranks were com- posed of those classes who, by habits or educa- tion, are raised above the mere headlong zeal of the multitude : — they were reflecting citi- zens, as well as chivalrous soldiers. Church of England Protestants, Presbyte- rians, and Roman Catholics, stood side by side in this national band. Under the old penal code, then in almost full force, persons of the last-mentioned persuasion could not, indeed, legally bear arms ; — nay, in some instances in the North, their offers of service were coldly or offensively repulsed : but this disrelish to fight for country or home by their side, was by no means general ; the terrors of the Statute-book by no means damped their own ardour ; and now, forgetting the clank of their chains in the rattling of arms, they appeared members of al- most every corps in the kingdom. Having scared away from their shores Eng- land's most formidable enemy, the Volunteers continued to be the only army of their country : and, in the absence of opportunity for the ex- ercise of their military character, they began to contemplate, as politicians, the position of that B 2 4 THE CROPPY. country. Her legislature and her trade first fixed their attention. The one they found destitute of the power of real enactment ; the other they found grievously restricted ; and they petitioned for the emancipation of both. England, still without troops to support a re- fusal, acceded to their demands. In 1782, Ireland owed to her armed citizens of every sect, an independent Parhament and a free trade. The steady union of her children made her a nation. The independence of their legislature thus secured, the Volunteers turned their eyes to the construction of that legislature itself. Presbyterian Ulster had set the example of uniting the deliberative and military characters. The first imposing assemblage, in which the soldier, leaning on his musket, debated the politics of his country, consisted exclusively of volunteer delegates from that province. It was followed up, in Dublin, by a meeting of representatives of all the corps of Ireland, who, in imitation of the American Assembly, called themselves a Congress; and from this body emanated a petition for reform in Parliament. But England could now more safely refuse. Her transatlantic warfare was ended ; she had THE CROPPY. 5 troops at command; and the prayer of the Irish '' Congress" was promptly and disdain- fully rejected. The Reformers, boasting of their physical power to enforce compliance, renewed and in- creased their clamour. They were firmly an- swered. A war of words ensued ; they branding the legislature as corrupt and odious ; and the legislature, in return, attributing to them dis- loyal principles, and classing them with the French anarchists, whose first sanguinary acts then began, unluckily for the cause of legi- timate freedom, to disgust the world. Omitting the details of this struggle of the two parties, it will be convenient for our pur- pose to pass from 1784 to 179^, and examine the position and state of the Volunteers at the latter-mentioned period. And, at a glance, we find them, from many causes, decreased in numbers, influence, and importance. In the first petition for an independent Parhament and a free trade, every Volunteer, from the landed proprietor to the mechanic, had felt a common interest ; but in that for Par- liamentary reform, many aristocratic members of the national army, who held seats in the Lower House, did not conceive that their interests 6 THE CROPPY. were regarded ; and in consequence, tliey ceased to be Volunteers. Other moderate men, fearful of being classed by Government amongst those whom it denounced as enemies, seceded, with a prudent foresight, to save themselves from future results : some rallying, heart and hand, round King and Constitution ; some forming themselves into an aristocratic body, called the Whig Club, which, as it too professed reforming views, though of a limited kind, could not have failed to divide their own ranks against the Volunteers. But the chief cause for the breaking up of the old Volunteer spirit remains to be noticed. Although Roman Catholics had generally been admitted into the national band, a very considerable portion of their fellow-soldiers, — almost all, in fact, professing the established religion, — never contemplated making them the better for any political advantages which they were to assist in attaining. They might aid, for instance, in securing an independent Parlia- ment, but should not be permitted to vote at the election of its members; much less to aspire to the honour of being members of it themselves. In 1 79^, the Presbyterian portion of the diminished body of Volunteers, (dimi- THE CROPPY. nished by causes glanced at above,) — were willing, perhaps out of policy to recruit their ranks, as well as from higher motives, to join to their demand for Parliamentary reform, a prayer for Catholic relief. The defection in- stantly followed of all who regarded such a measure with inherited prejudice, or who conscientiously deemed its success incompatible with the existence of Church and State ; or who merely felt it opposed to their individual in- terests; and, joining together, they formed a body, styled " Protestant Ascendancy," of which the principles, put forward in the shape of a manifesto, by the consistent corporate mo- nopolists of the capital, breathed against Roman Catholics utter exclusion from civil and po- litical privileges. Government did not fail to take advantage of their disunion more effectually to suppress the Volunteers. A force, called Fencibles, was raised expressly for the purpose of over- awing them ; and this manifest wish to get rid of the Volunteers, deprived them of the last peaceable adherents who considered im- plicit obedience as a duty. Through many parts of the South of Ireland, too, corps threw up their arms in disgust. The legislature had 8 THE CROPPY. called them " the saviours of their country ;" it now called them incendiaries ; and personal, if not national pride could not brook the change of opinion. And from these different causes we behold, in 1792, but a skeleton of the na- tional body which, with spirit to wield its strength, and with mind to direct that spirit, had, a few years before, been so imposing. We behold, in fact, a people whom union had made formidable to others, and of service to their country, grown, by disunion, contemptible to the world, and party with party, as they stand, a curse to their , country. Forsaking their national standard, we see them once more ranged, in almost rabble groups, under the old tattered banners which, during her miserable contentions of six hundred years, had fluttered, like scarecrows, over Ireland, to put to flight all national peace, all collective, and much of individual importance, and to " fright the isle from her prosperity." But, generally speaking, the corps of the Ul- ster Presbyterians, together with some corps in Dublin, retained their muskets and field-pieces, and attended to military exercise at the same time that they formed themselves into new com- binations. THE CROPPY. 9 Belfast, the capital of the Protestant North, first gave birth to political clubs, which, in imi- tation of similar ones in France and England, sought, by means of correspondence, publica- tion, and otherwise, to disseminate beyond their own circle, opinions upon the Government un- der w^hich they lived. One of similar character followed them in Dublin ; and, long after the year 1792, to this city, and to Belfast such asso- ciations were almost exclusively limited. Their members, in both places, may empha- tically be termed the last of the Volunteers. The declared objects of all were, a full Re- form in Parliament, and a full emancipation of Roman Catholics. And the title adopted by them, in 1792, and now first fixed, was that of United Irishmen. It can scarce be doubted that their leaders contemplated, even in the outset, a separa- tion from England. Many of them were re- publicans in principle ; and late treatises serve to show that their alleged objects were ad- vanced but as a false flag, under which to marshal the timid or wavering of their own sect, and, if possible, the neutral Catholics, who even then formed three-fourths of the po- pulation of Ireland, until events, contrived or b5 10 THE CROPPY. expected, might gradually adapt all to views of a more extended nature. The expected events rapidly occurred. Re- publican France triumphed over the combined armies of Europe ; and her success served at once to indicate, and to propose to others for adoption, the principle for which she fought and conquered. Along with conviction, it in- spired boldness, too ; and hence, no doubt, the United Irish Clubs imbibed their confirmed hostility to English dominion in Ireland, as well as the audacious tone of denunciation and defiance which breathed through their pub- lished sentiments, whether put forth in the shape of resolutions or pamphlets, both elo- quently penned, against the existing order of things. At length matters came for the present to a crisis. Under the very eye of " the Castle,"' appeared in Dublin an armed band, styling themselves, in almost avowedly republican phrase, Irish National Guards. They wore green uniform, the national colour ; and their standard was a harp, without a crown. Upon a particular day they were to muster, as if to show their strength. The Lord Lieutenant issued his proclamation against such a meet- THE CROPPY. 11 ing ; the garrison of Dublin prepared to sup- port his manifesto ; and the National Guards had no review-day. A previous identity between this band and the United Irish Clubs is not proved ; but such identification seems to have soon taken place. Against the Lord Lieutenant's proclamation, the Dublin Club issued a counter proclama- tion, approving and encouraging the National Guards. The secretary, who signed the pa- per, was convicted of sedition. After the pub- lication of another philippic against Govern- ment, a meeting of the United Irish of Dublin was dismissed by the sheriff, as persons holding seditious and republican views ;* and thus, in 1794, terminated the legal existence of the last of the Volunteers of 1782 ; convened, under their new name, two years and a half pre- viously. But though the Republican Clubs were thus legally suppressed, their spirit was not wholly extinguished. In Dublin, indeed, no trace of * Nor was the charge made on light gi-ounds. A Protestant clergyman, the Rev. Wm. Jackson, had, through the treacherous agency of a London attorne}^ Cockaigne, (a good name for a London attorney,) been detected, in Dublin, in the character of a French emissary to the discontented Irish. 12 THE CROPPY. them existed ; but in Belfast, to which we must still refer for a persevering adherence to the cause, one club of United Irish, which from its insignificance had not attracted notice, con- tinued clandestinely to meet : and by it, con- sisting exclusively of persons below the middle ranks of life, was first organized, and brought to a pitch of subtle perfection, that able and in- structed men, its subsequent adherents, could not improve, the more regular conspiracy against English connexion, which, in the year 1798, par- tially broke forth in different districts of Ireland. Not till two years after their new constitution were the members of this confederacy joined in Dublin by the influential persons who had com- posed the former and more open Clubs ; and not till the close of 1797 did the conspiracy make any considerable progress in the South of Ireland. In other words, the Roman Catholic force of the country did not become United Irishmen, before that period. But many of their superiors, of the same religious persuasion, had, some time previously, joined, from various causes, the councils of the Protestant revolutionists. Before the upraising of the national voice, by the old Volunteers in 178^, the Catholics had THE CROPPY. 13 considered themselves, as on all hands they were considered, an unimportant portion, though by far the greater portion, of the Irish people. A century of degradation, under the overwhelm- ing pressure of the penal code, naturally im- parted to them this instinct of insignificance. Shackles sink the slave in his own estimation, as well as in that of his master. Even for their rights, they had not dared to speak out, as a body. Any murmur that escaped them was but the unheard whisper of a fear. But in- spired, doubtless, by the manful appeals of their Protestant fellow-countrymen, they began, after the year 1792, more boldly to approach the legislature. A petition for relief appeared from their body, which now became newly and formidably organized ; and, although it was indignantly rejected, still, nearly at the same time, Government introduced a bill repeal- ing some of the most odious of the penal sta- tutes. Their junction with the Reformers was apprehended ; and, while nothing would be granted to their presumptuous request, some- thing was voluntarily vouchsafed to keep them quiet. The courage of the Catholics, and most of all its partial success, after centuries of terrified 14 THE CROPPY. inaction and passive slavery, caused a great ferment among the " Protestant Ascendancy :" and never, perhaps, even in Ireland, did fer- ment more vigorously manifest itself. At city and county meetings convened by sheriffs, at grand-jury sittings, and corporation meetings and guilds, not only were manifestoes against Catholic freedom agreed to, but vituperation of Catholic tenets was indulged in. All that could offend and goad, as well as all that could defeat, marked the clamour of the interested monopolists. The Catholics, to the increased astonishment of their hitherto colonial masters, retorted in publications which paid abuse with abuse, and absolutely attacked, in turn, the theology of their political anathematists. " As- cendancy" rejoinders followed, in which some individuals connected with Government took a part ; and the Catholic saw, that from the do- minant party of the land, they had no chance of favour. Still, however, they remained unconnected, as a body, with the other party ; and, in 1793, made a grand effort to rise beyond the clamour and intrigues of their domestic enemies, by carrying their petitions to the very foot of the throne- Their success, considering it as a first attempt THE CROPPY. 15 m diplomacy, was surprising. At first refused the ear even of the secretary, in London^ they ultimately wrought their way, by perseverance and cleverness, to the presence of the Sovereign himself ; were most graciously received ; ob- tained the royal promise that their prayer should be recommended; and, at the close of the year, additional concessions — much short of their hopes, however — were granted to them. Louder than ever arose the angry voice of the' Ascendancy men ; all means of defeat were set to work ; and the exclusionists at last seemed to triumph. The determination to limit relief to the concessions already made, was authora- tatively promulgated : and, all future hope thus shut out, under the existing order of things, the Catholics began to turn their eyes towards the friends who, though also differing from them in creed, promised, under a proposed change, to grant them full and equal privileges. Whilst, with a few exceptions, Catholics of intellect and consideration still, however, held back, a well-known event precipitated them into a junction with the United Irish. In 1795, Earl Fitzwilliam became chief governor of Ireland, upon the understanding that, while going cer- tain lengths to satisfy the Protestant Reformers, 16 THE CROPPY. he was to grant complete relief to Catholics. The Irish people were allowed to believe that the day of grace was now indeed at hand. But, so soon as the war supplies had been voted, Lord Fitzwilliam received a summons to return to England ; the promises he had been allowed to hold out were broken ; the vivid hopes of the Catholic leaders changed into blank despair; and while the triumphant shouts of the " As- cendancy" rang in their ears, many of them became, through mixed feelings of wrath and self-assertion, sworn enemies of the national connexion which seemed to doom them to per- petual insult and inferiority. The previous policy of the United Irish Clubs must have produced, to a certain extent, this final result. Their very name was an in- vitation to Catholics to join them. Their pub- lished sentiments, as well as declared objects, graced and strengthened the invitation. Pri- vately, socially, and upon every possible occa- sion, they farther held out to the people, whose physical strength they knew how to value, the hand of fellowship. The celebrated Wolfe Tone admits, in his auto-biography, this sys- tem of conciliation. Perhaps it may even be deduced, from his curious statements, that his THE CROPPY. 17 own appointment, as secretary to the Catho- lics, was not exclusively the result of Catholic admiration of his talents, and of his zeal in their cause. Catholic leaders were invited to Belfast, to witness a display of Protestant li- berality towards them ; and the following year, their deputations to the King were induced to make Belfast their route to England, and the Protestant population of that town drew them in their carriages through the streets. But whilst from the year 1795 may be dated the junction of influential Catholics with the Republicans, the lower orders of their religion did not, as was before remarked, conspire against English connexion till the end of the year 1797. Hence, it will at once be suggested, that the Catholic gentleman and the Catholic peasant were not urged into the conspiracy by the same causes, or with the same views and feelings; and we proceed to close our very slight historical sketch by showing that they were not. In the ranks of the Volunteers, Protestant hatred of Catholics experienced much alleviation ; but amongst the lower or- ders of Protestants, of whom those ranks com- prised few or none, the old spirit of the admirers of Oliver Cromwell or of George 18 THE CROPPY. Walker continued, nothing the worse for the wear, to manifest itself, in loathing and ab- horrence, against the few Catholic peasants left in the thrice-colonized province of Ulster. Between reasoning men of the rival persua- sions a philosophical feeling of brotherhood rapidly went on; — their inferiors were, mean- time, cutting each others' throats. In 1785, the county of Armagh became the arena of a petty though cruel warfare. Under the title of " Peep-o''-day-boys," the lower orders of Protestants scoured, in bands, the Catholic districts, and, sanctioned by the penal law, still unrepealed, appropriated all descrip- tions of Catholic fire-arms. Nor was their zeal always confined to a discharge of this self-con- ferred, though legal, surveillance. Insult and outrage were, on such occasions, generally ex- perienced by the proscribed people. After some years of trembling passiveness, the Catholics formed themselves into counter- associations, of which the very name — " Defen- ders" — indicates the spirit and nature. Both combinations gradually spread into Connaught and Leinster, and, in 1793, Defenderisni reached the scene of our tale, the County of AVexford. But in the provinces mentioned, so far from THE CROPPY. 19 the point of its origination, and amid a popula- tion almost exclusively Catholic, Defenderism diverged from its primary character. Amongst district bodies, in diiFerent districts, were vague notions of self-assertion, each provoked by some local grievance, or by exactions deemed to be such. One band of Defenders opposed the pay- ment of tithes, whether legally demanded in the name of the parson, or dictated in the shape of christening and marriage fees, by priests of their own persuasion ; other bands rose against the militia ballot, to which the lower orders were not used, and of which they could not understand the justice. In 1795 the Defenders proceeded to open and ferocious insurrection. They were sum- marily dealt with. Without trial of any kind, military commanders sent hundreds of them to the fleets. About fourteen hundred were, in- deed, thus disposed of, notwithstanding all provisions of British law to the contrary ; and an indemnity bill soon screened the law-breakers. But the Irish peasant felt that he had been illegally as well as cruelly dealt with ; and now was first blended with the wild habits of com- bination, taught him by the Peep-o '-day-boys, a sentiment of hatred towards that Government 20 THE CROPPY. which seemed to depart from its own fixed prin- ciples of justice, solely in order to crush him. During the operation of this system of prompt chastisement, the soldiery had been let loose among the people ; and to such an extent was their disorderly violence carried, that the vete- ran Abercrombie, after a tour of inspection, subsequently described them as " in a state of licentiousness which must render them formida- ble to every one but the enemy.'' Again, the southern peasant hated the power which used instruments so sanguinary ; revenge upon both became the wish of his heart ; and when agents of the United Irish conspiracy found it con- venient to make the parish Defender a national revolutionist, he rushed madly into the field, rejoicing in any cause that proposed an oppor- tunity for retaUation, and but too well prepared, by the examples he had been set, to brutahze the name even of civil warfare. Nor have we yet ascribed all the excitements to the wild outbreak of the Irish peasant in 1798. Besides the illegal despotism adopted to put down the Defenders of 1795, numbers of them had been executed according to the usual pro- cess. Hence it appeared that Defenderism was THE CROPPY. 21 deemed, by authority, near akin to high treason. The old Peep-o'-day-boys, as professed sup- porters of Government, — boasting indeed, we know not how truly, of its countenance, — acted upon the hint. With freshened zeal and energ}?- they re-opened the campaign against their fel- low-countrymen ; and now, anxious to profess their loyalty in the very telling of their name, they changed their original title into that of Orangemen — the appellation retained, to the present day, by them, or by their successors. Having achieved, in a kind of pitched bat- tle, a brilliant victory over the objects of their hate, they professed the intention of banish- ing from Ulster every professor of the odious creed. Upon the dwellings of such they poste ^ the following notice, — " To hell or Connaught, you Papist ! if you are not gone by (a specified day), we will come back and reckon with you ; we hate all Papists here !" And if the command was not obeyed, they kept their word ; returned ; burnt the house or cabin of the disobedient party ; compelled him and his family to fly ; and thus were hundreds driven from their homes to spread, amongst millions of their own persuasion, the story and the warning, at once, of their individual suffering. 32 THE CROPPY. However unfounded might have been the boast of the Orangeman that he acted under high authority, it remained uncontradicted, and the southern as well as the northern peasant took its truth for granted. In common, there- fore, with the terror and abhorrence of their old persecutors, now felt by the lower classes of Catholics, arose a confirmed sentiment of hatred towards those w^ho, it was believed, had set them on. Farther, it became credited that the Orange oath was a horrid covenant, horribly worded, to exterminate Catholics all over Ire- land : and the Government, which was supposed to countenance such an oath,' as well as the de- tested party who were supposed to take it, stood forth as joint objects of the mad revenge, and of the frightful mode of conflict, (ere their final rising, again and again inculcated by Orange- men,) of the insurgent peasants of Leinster. Many were the differences between the inau- guration, upon the very eve of warfare, of the Catholic Republican of the South, and that of the original framers of the conspiracy in the North ; many were the diff'erences between their views and feelings in the common struggle : but no difference between them is so remark- THE CROPPY. 23 able, or so melancholy, as the fact that the effort, which had been planned in a spirit of sectarian unanimity, should thus change into a mere re- ligious contest throughout the southern and western parts of Ireland. Previous to the in- surrection, almost every Protestant, whether sworn or not, chose ^ to be considered as an Orangeman ; by skilful management, in able hands, the badge of that party became a neces- sary symbol of loyalty ; few of the established religion, therefore, from motives of choice or of prudence, as the case might be, appeared abroad without it. The Catholic peasant con- founded all the late adherents of his abhorred enemies with the first and worst who had per- secuted him ; Protestant and Orangeman be- came, in his mind, synonymous words; and in this delusion he caught up his rude and formida- ble pike, when, without time being afforded him to reflect, he was precipitated, by United Irish emissaries on the one hand, and by mon- strous and wanton outrage on the other, into the melee of civil strife. 24 THE CROPPY. CHAPTER II. The summer sun was slanting his evening rays over the meandering Slaney, and casting along the smooth greensward, that sloped to its edge, the lengthened shadow of as fair a form as, that day, in his journey, he had shone upon. She stood looking vaguely and pensively at the water, that dimpled with the curling breeze, like her cheek, and that laughed amid reflected light and azure, like her blue eyes. And it was not to watch the trout-fly disporting in circlets on the surface of the clear river that she looked ; nor to catch through crystal depths the bright- eyed trout himself, glancing up like a silver arrow to strike his little prey ; nor yet to admire the inverted landscape, softened by the translucent medium, or quivering into magic confusion by the action of the faint breeze. Remembrance, at one time agitated, at another touched with tenderness ; hope, fear, and self- THE CROPPY. 25 dissatisfaction, might be traced, alternately, on her arched brow ; and as she at length sat down on a little knoll, chiefly formed by the bulbing roots of a fine old ash-tree, picking up scraps of crumbled clay, and, as all fair hands are wont to do, throwing them awkwardly into the water, an experienced eye would have pronounced that at such an age, so happy under the paternal roof, and hitherto as noted for innocent vivacity as for grace and beauty, Eliza Hartley, the heiress of Hartley Court, could have had but one cause for her grave abstraction ; and that our supposed critic would have been in the right, is shown by the following transcript of her thoughts at the moment. " Do I indeed prefer this stran- ger ? If I do not, I fear I may. Fear ? — why should I fear ?" She strove to smother a sen- sation before admitted. " Hold, though ; it would very nearly be love at first sight — and can I pretend to inspire that T'' Doubtfully, as it were, her eyes fell on the water ; in the na- tural mirror, now uncurled by a breeze, they beheld themselves bewitchingly laughing in answer ; she looked again ; they told her she was beautiful, and she believed the story. "But hold stiir — a shade of seriousness over- cast her sparkling face, as Eliza continued her VOL. I. c SSb THE CROPPY. soliloquy : *' may I not mistake my sentiments for the young Baronet ? Did I not once — and very recently too, imagine that I preferred another ?*" It must be remarked that she did not now start at the thought, as in the first instance she had done. — " Yes ; I imagined, indeed : — it was only a cold conceit ; — my feel- ings now convince me it was. Poor Harry ! many happy hours have we spent together; and had I not met this all-engrossing person — Poor Harry, poor Harry ! — I fear you will be a sufferer. And must not I suffer too at the thought of having allowed you to suppose you had touched my heart, when you but interested my friendly feelings ? My only consolation will be, that I never directly deceived you ; that, by words at least, I never gave you a right to believe your own strong preference returned. And yet, here is but a poor extenuation, after all ; — for, shall I disguise from myself, that my general manner and general conversation, the tone of the voice, the glance of the eye, often conveyed such assurances as you could not mistake, and such as, working upon your generous nature, may henceforth poison the happiness of your life ? — Poor Harry Tal- bot !" Mx THE CROPPY. 27 And after dwelling upon this picture, the eye which Eliza again caught in her primitive mirror, was dimmed with a tear. " I will write directly to my early and best friend, Belinda,'' continued Eliza; " and as she was aware, from the outset, of my childish prepossession for Harry — indeed, as she ap- proved and encouraged it— her usually superior mind may give me some direction. I wish she would now keep her old promise of coming to see me : yet, no, no ! much as we esteem each other, I dread, until I receive her answer at least, to encounter, personally, Belinda's strong and overpowering suggestions, whatever they may prove to be." And Eliza continued to ruminate, surround- ed by sunshine, and the songs and airy curvet- tings of the little birds, indifferent, for the first day of her life, to the joy-giving presence of both. Another person of her own sex had for some time sat unobserved at a little distance, not so insensible, though little of youth's smiling sym- pathy was in her heart, to the cheering sun- beam. This person relished the genial glow in something of the taste of the domestic cat, when, purring excessively, with half-shut eyes, puss c2 S8 THE CROPl'V. elevates her furry coat to admit the warmth of the winter fire. As Eliza Hartley looked along the chequered verdure of the river path, she perceived that one stream of light was wanted, in a certain well-known spot, and, advancing, she found that its usual passage was obstructed by the low burly person of Nanny the Knitter, who, sitting full in its way, monopolized to her round back the benefits of the ray that Nature had destined to a more general ministry, as, now stirring one shoulder, now another, her sensa- tions acknowledged its pleasing influence. She was intent upon the employment which bestowed her appellation of *' The Knitter." In a pocket, especially constructed to hold it, was deposited her ball of worsted, that turned round and round therein, as the thread extend- ing from it to her fingers became wrought, with almost magical art and celerity, into com- fortable coverings for rustic feet and legs, of different conditions. Her fingers moved and twisted, and came in contact with each other, so flippantly as to bafl^le the eye in its endeavour to trace regular motion, during a ceaseless ope- ration that was, nevertheless, invariably regular. And, sitting or standing, or stumping along, THE CROPrY. 29 for she was often afoot, this was Nanny'*s con- stant occupation. To carry on her staple manufacture, she en- gaged in a considerable and varied traffic. Needles, threads, tape, and thimbles, and a variety of other little et-ceteras, she bartered with the rustic dames around for small portions of fleece ; — nay, she travelled, at stated times, into the adjacent mountain district of Wicklow, to procure the finer wool of the small sheep ; and all this she carded and spun with her own hands, and transformed into stockings, for which she found a ready market, " both," to use her own words, " among the common sort and the quality, all the same." And Nanny's stockings were, indeed, of surpassing texture. But although such was the employm.ent from which she derived her surname and her regular means of existence, it was not the only agency by which Nanny filled " the weazel-skin purse with the yellow guineas;'' for there was such a purse, the neighbours whispered, " the length of her knitting-needle, to receive her savings for her, and not to make them the worse of putting up :" and under the head of " savings'" may be comprised nearly all the money she in any way obtained ; for eating and drinking cost ^ THE CROPPY. her nothing ; Nanny being always as a guest, from one farmer's house to another, or in the kitchens of more considerable persons. And upon the authority of a shopkeeper in the next town, the neighbours added that Nanny was in the habit of changing her copper into the small- est piece of silver ; that into a larger one ; and still, with the addition of more copper, or else by the junction of two minor pieces, from shil- lings she would create half-crowns, then crowns, and finally — the wonder and envy of her friends — guineas, themselves; and thus, although little acquainted with the sciences, Nanny discovered the Philosopher's stone, by the only process — although so different from the old theory — through which it will ever be attained. An account of the collateral occupation, by virtue of which as well as by virtue of her knitting needles, those rapid changes went on, must not be omitted. At one and the same time, and at all times, with her handicraft business — for, wherever she was, and however employed in talking, her hands were never idle — Nanny followed the profession of a Mercury in love affairs. Not, indeed, with the dispatch of the celestial messenger, because she often con- trived to prolong final terminations, in order THE CROPPY. SI still to hold the parties under contribution ; yet, if she was slower than upon similar occa- sions was the match-maker of the gods of old, never, like him, did she undertake an illicit affair ! Her embassies invariably had in view the uniting, in the bonds of wedlock, the youth- ful (sometimes the more reverend) folk around her. And various were her commissions to this end. Fathers and mothers engaged her to in- spect,* keenly the worldly substance of *' the boy" or the girl they had in their eye for daughter or for son ; and if matters appeared fit and proper, she would throw out hints sufficient to open a negociation. Shame-faced lads em- ployed her to sound the feelings of the lasses they sighed for, — a task they might not them- selves have ability to undertake ; and still oftener, bashful or clever maidens, as the case might be, feed her to attempt similar discove- ries. If a mother had a daughter whom it was advisable, no matter for what reason, to esta- blish in the world, Nanny was consulted ; and she was always ready to display an assortment of young men, as strictly in a mercantile point of view as the merchant when he exhibits his bales of goods : nor was her stock of young 82 THE CROPPY. women ever found less deficient or diversified. From her strictly proper views of things, mere love-matches, disproportioned in a worldly sense, as is almost uniformly the case, met no assistance from Nanny. She would indeed go so far towards the legitimate verge of her vo- cation, as to help a marriage, when competence, love, and a good disposition, sought alliance with superior wealth ; but, out of regard to her character, she was never known to be a party to any very unequal unions. In the way of business, she had taken certain steps, relative to the establishment of our he- roine as the lady of Harry Talbot ; and, in this instance, Harry's seeming amiability and liberal fees may be said to have engaged Nanny in one of the extreme cases of her professional practice. Upon the present evening, however, as she sat in the sun at her work, the match-maker's mind was embarrassed on this particular subject. It could not, even for a few hours, have escaped her eyes, or her ears at least, that the heiress of Hartley Court was likely to be addressed by a new suitor : and hence many serious questions arose. Would the new suitor be more accept- able than the old ? — Would he be more worthy THE CROPPY. 33 of acceptance, in point of worldly fortune ? — Would he employ her as often, and pay her as generously ? Nanny could not venture to say, for as yet she had never seen Sir William Judkin. " The bright evenin' to you. Miss EHza, my honey ! and the blessins o' life an' health be in your path !" she said, with one of her customar}^ duckings downward, having arisen as the young lady appeared. *' Good evening, Nanny ; and how Is Shaun- a-Gow's daughter?" — smiling at a recollection of the surveillance Nanny kept up over all the young females in the neighbourhood. " May I never do an ill turn, Miss EHza, my honey ! but she 's a comely, clane crature ; an' good wid all that ; an"* sprightly as a kittin, considherin' a counthry girl, like her. An' to tell nothin' bud the thruth, there was one spakin' to me about Kitty Gow. But,"" in a whisper, " I don't brieve it 'ill be. The father is a fraptious, cross-grained man ; an\ faix ! I 'm a'most afeard to meddle. I make a guess he won't let her have the body that wants her, thinkin' him not good enough ; but good enough he is for Shaun-a-Gow's daugluher, tho"" only a sarvent boy." c 5 B4f THE CROPPY. ** I wish well to pretty Kitty Gow, Nanny, and hope she may be happy in time, with her father's consent — if, indeed, her admirer is a young person of respectable conduct." '* Faix, my pet ! you 're a good judge o' that your ownself; you know him well: it''s one Tim Reily, his honour your father's man." " Indeed ! I did not suppose Timothy in- clined or even fitted for the shackled state." " Och ! never mind Tim, Miss Eliza ; he has the humoursome, plasant way wid him, to be sure ; but he 's no great fool, into the bargain !" " Well, well,''' said Eliza, beginning to think seriously about Kitty Gow and Tim Reily, and then about herself and two other persons. There was a pause in the dialogue. The Knitter bent forward, a little, her short, thick person, and protruded her round face a degree or two from beneath the hood of her blue cloak, which, according to her invariable mode of cos- tume, was drawn over her head, and surmount- ed by a masculine, foxy-coloured hat ; and, in this position did she peer at the young lady, with her whitish eyes glimmering out of beds of flesh, formed partly by bare protuberances where there should have been eyebrows, partly by the heights of her plump cheeks. Eliza THE CROPPY. 35 Hartley, once more immersed in her own affairs, seemed to have forgotten Nanny's presence, and so afforded, to her attentive observer, a good opportunity for study. From the inclination of her mouth to smile, and the half motion of the dimples of her cheeks, it might first be sup- posed that her thoughts were not of a disagree- able nature ; but her features afterwards as- sumed a sombre cast, and an expression of pity formed a watery film in her eyes, and wetted the long silken lashes, that gently bent towards the bloomino; cheek to dischargee the moisture. Nanny saw the thouglUs passing from the ingenuous mind to the countenance she con- templated ; and she deemed it a good time to speak. " An' the ould sweetheart, poor Misther Talbot, as we hear, may go wid his courtin*' to some other lady .'*" she remarked, in a whis- per. Eliza Hartley started, and to her fingers' ends she blushed scarlet deep. " Nanny," she said, "• you must never talk so to me." *' Poor young gentleman, the heart widin his body, will be broke." 56 THE CROPPY. " Foolish old woman, have I not forbid your freedom ?" An accusing conscience soured her temper, and, with a brow of displeasure, EHza Hartley turned towards her home. Nanny saw that she was nearly out of favour. The young lady paced slowly and with dig- nity, and she stumped after her. " But the heart's liking must have its way ; an"* quare would it be to say that Miss Eliza, the pet, that 's great, an' rich, an' as comely as the May-day, shouldn't have her own pick-an''- choose, be him lord, or be him arl, or be hira juke, or the King of England on his throne, if it came to that !" Still no answer. The offended fair one had gained a door leading through an orchard to her father's house. " Miss EHza, my honey dear, don't be vexed entirely wid your poor ould Nanny." Eliza turned round, and her face beamed on the apprehensive old woman the full force of its usual good-nature and condescension. " Where are you going, Nanny ?" " I 'm goin', my honey ! to look afther Shaun- a-Gow's daughther, Kitty.'' " Well, then, good evening, Nanny ; and when you have attended to your business, come THE CROPPY. 37 up to the Court, and the housekeeper shall have orders to provide you with your supper and a bed." ** Och, may the blessins purshue you and be in your road, Miss Eliza, my honey !" Miss Ehza smilingly bowed her head, and Nanny also performed her adieu, — not with any of that graceful inclination of person her young patroness would have used : much more simply, however ; that is, by suddenly bending her knees until her short petticoats touched the ground, and then as suddenly rising and duck- ing again, while the lady remained in view, and accompanying every curtsey, such as it was, with verbose ejaculations and prayers for her long life, health, happiness, and prosperity. When they at length lost sight of each other, Nanny put on one of her gravest, most import- ant, and most business-like faces, as she shook her head and reflected that a considerable source of occupation and profit seemed dried up ; for she had succeeded in persuading Mr. Harry Talbot, that she was all-powerful with Sir Thomas Hartley's beautiful heiress. There had been a listener to the conversation between her and EHza Hartley, as he was also a keen observer of their parting, or rather of 38 THE CROPPY. the little quarrel that had preceded it. Con- veniently for the purposes of an eaves-dropper, a grove of beautiful and varied foliage, enclosed by a hedge, rose immediately behind the large ash-tree, under which we at first seated our heroine, for such in reality she is to be ; and close to the hedge, completely out of view, this young gentleman lay in ambush. His post was originally assumed that he might, at full lei- sure, observe the fair and gentle deity of the scene, mellowed as her beauty was into a be- witching softness, by the cast of her thoughts as she looked on the river. When Eliza joined Nanny, he was induced to prolong his concealment, in the hope that their discourse would turn upon himself: what he thought of Nanny's peculating sympathy for a former and older lover, she and the reader will soon know. The Knitter heard a bounding, elastic step behind her; and before she could turn her head, a sonorous, and not unmusical voice, accosted her. " Whither in such haste, my good dame ?'''' She turned, and at the first glance her sage eye comprehended her man ; and farther in- formed her, that Harry Talbot's case was a desperate one. The person she scrutinized seemed to her perhaps the very finest young THE CROPPY. 39 man she had ever beheld; and Nanny prided herself upon being a judge in such matters, and a judge whose decision no one need ques- tion. He was tall ; formed in the haughty kind of beauty of the Belvidere Apollo ; (Nan- ny did not make the comparison, but her homely ideas may bear this classic translation) his face a fine oval, with as much red and white as became a man ; his eyes were large, lustrous black ; his clustering hair, as glossy as the raven''s wing, was, according to the fashion of the time, worn long; and his carriage, and the expression of his feature?, had the bold, dashing character which the fair reader will allow to be generally regarded by that sex whose opinion must give the law, with a favour- able, and sometimes a deferential eye. " Whither in such haste, my good dame •'''' One moment's reflection was sufficient to inspire Nanny with the idea of how it behoved her to act under the circumstances. — " Only jest a little way, your honour my honey !" she answered. " That's a most lovely young lady you parted from just now !" "Faix, an' it's no lie you're tellin', my honey ; an' there 's a pair o' ye wid the same fault." 40 THE CROPPY. " She seems very partial to you, old Nanny ; is not that your name f '' " Nanny the soggarth put upon me, your honour my pet, an' Nanny the neighbours calls me out o** frienship, an' by the way of being free wid me ; an' faix, yes. Miss Eliza, the graw, is as free wid me too — the blessins pour down on her purtyhead! — as free as sheM be wid one o' the quality, afther a manner." " Well, harkye, my old dame, you will be my friend with your charming young patroness ; and, for a reason why, hold out your hand — there is a guinea to get you tobacco, or whiskey, or knitting-needles, or whatever you like ; and more of the same kind of fruit grows on the same tree, you know !" '' The blessins—" " Nonsense — keep your tongue quiet, and listen to me. Never, as long as you breathe or knit, mention to her again that young person — that Harry — what d'*you call him — ?^^ " Square Harry Talbot, your honour, my honey !" " Ay, the same ! — if I find you ever do, by all that's charming — meaning her, — and by all that 's ugly — including yourself, — your round head shall be wrung off, and put in your pocket THE CROPPY. 41 for a worsted-ball, to spin your stockings out of." " Why, then, may I never do an ill turn, but Nanny washes her hands of him from this blessed moment out ! Would there be any harum in axin you, my pet, if your ear was cocked near the river's side a little while agone ?'"' " Certainly I was there, long before you came up, or how could I know what passed between you ?^'' " Why then, mind my words, my graw, — that I may 'tent die in sin but you '11 win the prize, as sure as I have my weddin'-stockins on me." " Win ! — To be sure I shall. Let me see who dares cross me : — win !" As he spoke, a confidence, perhaps the re- sult as much of former success in less important affairs of the heart, as of his high opinion of his personal qualifications, mingled with the haughty, yet manly, expression of his tone and features. " Why, then," her whitish eyes twinkhng at the raptures of her new acquaintance, as would those of a tradesman viewing a rich sample of his goods, — " why, then, a merry asther to 42 THE CHOPPY. me but it 's you I like, your honour, my pet ; you have the spudduch * in you ; an' if I was a fair lady to-morrow, it's such as you I M have, that wouldn't be snakin', an' creepin', an' — " " Well, I can't stop merely to prate with you. Good bye ; mind our terms ; be my friend, and expect some fellows to what you have got, and abundance of customers for your stockings, as soon as the beauty of the Slaney is mine : be my enemy, or even prove indif- ferent to my hopes and interests, and never wind worsted, or knit stockings more." " As sure as I 'm a lump of a sinner, your honour my honey, 1 11 do my endayvours, as pure out o** love an' likin', as for the sake o' the lucre." But before she finished this speech of half mistatement and half truth, her new friend had bounded out of view, on his way to Hartley Court ; and Nanny jogged on " to give a look after Shawn-a-Gow's daughther:" — her usual sturdy step, a certain swinging of her nether garments, and a corresponding motion in her shoulders, giving her the air of one who thought herself of some importance in the world. * Spirit. THE CROPPY. 43 CHAPTER III. The river Slaney, in its course through the county of Wexford, sports amid regions of -beauty. Nothing, indeed, of the bold, the mag- nificent, or the terrific, fills with awe and wonder the mind of a spectator ; but Nature is there to be placidly contemplated in all her diversities of wood, of verdure, and of water : such as, we may well believe, tempted the old mail-clad Norman to desire the possession of a land of so much lovely promise. On either side of the river, the grounds rise and fall in every change of soft form ; domain succeeds domain, and mansion is in view of mansion ; some in the little vallies, some crown- ing the little eminences ; and sloping fields of the tenderest green, clustering woods, or scat- tered trees of beautiful growth, each casting its own single shadow across the silent meadow, present an ever-changing landscape, which me- 44 THE CROPPY. dilative virtue would prefer to more tremendous scenes of nature. Sometimes, the dark wood clothes the quick descent, and seems stooping to bathe its branches in the water; or the grassy hill rises quickly above the stream's edge, and the foliaged height is at a greater distance; or the less abrupt mound slopes to the level sward, which soft and elastic, and studded with bush or tree, stretches to the limpid wave ; or here and there discloses itself but in patches between the frequent groves ; and the mysterious glen, with its dusky and shaded sides, conceals the course of some tributary rill. The Slaney, we have said, appears to gambol through these beautiful varieties. Clear and rapid, it rushes round the protruding point, bounds against the opposing hill, or in devious meanders winds towards the occasional level. And if the ancient superstition were to give to its local deity the care and guidance of the erratic stream, he might be described as a youthful divinity of mixed gentleness and sportiveness of nature, now frolicking along the margin of his river, now gently reclining on her banks, and in every change of mood fasci- nated with his situation. THE CROPPY. 45 In this sketch, we particularly have in view the banks of the Slaney before its near ap- proach to the sea, when it becomes more ex- panded, assumes a more sober and important character, and when its attendant fascinations are more stately and less frequent. But such as has been described was the scenery around Hartley Court, the seat of our heroine's father. And amid all the man- sions that looked down on the river, or contri- buted their lawns or groves to eke out the general landscape, that of Sir Thomas Hart- ley was peculiarly distinguished by a venera- ble character of age and solidity. The house stood on the west bank of the Slaney ; but in what particular spot, it is not, for sufficiently good reasons, convenient to point out. Its extensive front faced the public road from Enniscorthy to Newtownbarry, or more anciently, Bunclcdy ; and at the rear the windows overlooked the clear river, of which the green banks sloped up no more than the distance of a few paces, to the boundary of the edifice. A lawn of the most elastic turf ex- tended from the front to the road, guarded by a low wall, which at the spot exactly opposite the hall door, scarcely reached above the knee of the 46 THE CHOPPY. passenger, that so he might stop to admire the mansion, and from it be observed to pay his flattering tribute of supposed approbation ; and a few old pear-trees, planted by the hands of yore, and still sheeted with white blossoms in the spring, and bending with mellow fruit in the autumn, two hawthorns of surpassing growth, that perfumed the air in May, and some half dozen of umbrageous chestnuts and s3'camores, gave a chequered shadow to the lawn's bright green. From the right-hand side of the house, a row of ancient limes swept to the avenue gate ; and at the left, a corresponding row sheltered the garden, separated from the lawn only by a hedge, against the northern blast. Still to the right, beyond the avenue, a grove ran to the Slaney, adown a sloping hill. The garden, at the opposite side, was entered by a little gate- way ; over the garden appeared a hanging or- chard, whence, by a private door, the river's edge might be gained ; and here, two straight lines of beech formed, for a little distance, by the water, a shady walk ; while, farther on, arose the plantation within which a listener has lately been concealed, and outside the bounding hedge-row of which, was the old ash-tree, that THE CROPrY. 47 coiled up its roots to supply a seat to the beau- tiful object of his interest. The house, it has been said, was unique of structure. At either end of its front, stood two square masses of building, perhaps once in- tended to represent flanking towers ; but at present, instead of loop-holes, through which to annoy an approaching enemy, three stories of large windows were to be seen ; and a grove of slender chimney-tops farther indicated that those towers, if they may so be termed, now served for other uses than that of warlike de- fence. The front that connected them was con- siderable, and also full of windows ; and it ter-' minated above in a flagged parapet, over which peeped the pointed, precipitate roof. The whole edifice was dashed ; its colour of a som- bre greyish hue ; and the ivy, that rioted about the lower casements, told that Time had passed its walls. Advancing about midway towards the house, you discovered in the lawn, elevated upon a massive pedestal, a surly-looking warrior, or, perhaps, heathen deity ; and the windows of the edifice also allowed him to be contemplated by such of the inmates as were inclined to dis- cuss the question of his identity, or might have 48 THE CROPPY. had a relish for the Fine Arts. And, at length arrived at the mansion, another figure, more ob- viously a hero in Roman costume, regarded you, leaning upon his spear, from his niche over the hall-door ; although it was difficult to de- cide upon the classic name he claimed at your hands, inasmuch as the proprietor of Hartley Court would not, himself, venture to determine the point. We acknowledge an almost garrulous inchna- tion to continue a picture of the old edifice : — who can say what peculiar recollections and association of our's may cling, like the twining ivy, to its venerable \valls ? And the reader may therefore accompany us past the entrance-door, low and heavy, and altogether out of proportion with the mansion, into the spacious black and white marble hall, where he will be faced by the broad, polished oak-stairs, inclosed by its pon- derous and highly -carved balustrades, and where, at either hand, pannelled doors admit- ing to different apartments or narrow passages, also shine in the dark splendour of old oak, and that oak old Irish. Indeed, almost all the timber-work within view was of the old oak of the neighbourhood ; THE ciioppy. 49 extensive forests of which had, in times gone by, spread over the county of Wexford, and into the neighbouring county of Wicklow, where the wood of Shillela, perhaps the only remnant of these primeval plantations, yet stands to afford, (as, from something of national pride, we trust every body knows,) to the generous sons of green Ireland, native weapons of peculiar excel- lence in combat. As the massive hall-door is closed after him — not lightly banged to, with the velocity of the smart step of a porter of our day, or even of the day then in being, but requiring some time and effort to be toilsomely moved round on its hinges — the reader may proceed with us up the unyielding staircase, leaning his hand, if he is tired with his ramble abroad, upon the carved balustrade ; having gained the vene- rably shadowed landing-place, we propose, with- out waiting the formality of an announcement, to usher him through a door to his right, which he will perceive to be also surrounded with rich carving ; and provided he promise to give no disturbance, nor to make his presence irk- some by any unreasonable interference, we will place him in a comfortable arm-chair, at one VOL. I. D 50 THE CROPPY. side, where he can look on and decorously at- tend to what passes. The apartment was elegantly furnished in the modern style — that is, the modern style of about thirty years ago. In a window-recess, so deep as almost to hide her from our view, but that the slanting evening beam shot in to illumine her person, sat our heroine, Eliza Hartley. Her walking-dress, in which she last appeared before us, was doffed, and she held a book in her hand ; but that hand lay listlessly upon her knee; and the book was closed, ex- cept that one finger remained between the leaves, while its rose-tipped and taper com- panions spread over its cover. Her head leaned towards her left shoulder ; her blooming cheek was indented by the forefinger of her disengaged hand ; the next to that or middle finger, press- ed up her under-hp into a beautiful, discon- tented pout, and the others bent gracefully towards the silky palm : thus presenting that pretty contact between cheek and hand, which inspired the love-lorn Romeo with his cele- brated wish. Her eyes were cast down, and seemed to be intently contemplating her partly up-turned little foot. Through her whole position there THE CROPPY. 51 was a play of the curving line, so much esteemed by artists, perfected and rendered fascinating to any observer, no matter ho^y little of a con- noissieur, provided we suppose him young, by embracing, in its progress through the figure, those tender undulations that characterize mai- den beauty. The golden sun lighted up, into such a glow as might become a cherubim near the Throne, her always blooming cheek ; and, shining through her wavy hair, produced that vivid effect of transparent colour which we see in shrubs, trees, and flowers, when, at morning or evening, he shines through them to us. A little to one side, towards a window farther from the door than that occupied by Eliza Hartley, sat another female. She was employed in (we believe) embroi- dery, or light fancy needle- work of some kind. She wore a well-stiffened cap, formidably high in front. Tiny as were the waists of ladies, even at a late period, (not with our good-will, inasmuch as they gave us the idea of an ex- treme Uability to snap across in that part of the lovely female shape,) the second peison to be noticed, had a waist of even less circumference, and of a length that made one almost suppose she had been spun out to increase her height. D 2 UNIVERSITY OF ILLrNOtg 52 THE CROPPy. Below this stretch of waist, the lady increased so suddenly, and to so curious an extent, that, if the half of her figure above conveyed a no- tion of lankness, this gave a contrary and in- congruous expression of fulness. And such an abrupt variety in the construction of two ad- jacent portions of the same person, caused us for some time to wonder at the whims of Na- ture, until, having consulted a lady-relative of the last century, we learned that art had most to do with the previously unaccountable dis- agreement ; that, in fact, the cylinder waist had been formed by the powerful pressure of whalebone, and that semicircular pieces of the same material, (the idea taken, no doubt, from Cupid's bow,) fastened under the drapery, gave the second monstrous appearance. This great breadth of drapery continued to the floor ; and from beneath a stiff and rustling tabinet appeared just the very tips of two feet, or rather the sharp points of two embroidered silk shoes, propped at the heels upon three inches of wood, all in the style of forty years before. " Dear niece," said this lady, after a long silence had ensued between her and Eliza, " the tender preference is, believe me, mutual. I could not be deceived in the nature of Sir Wil- THE CROPFY. 53 liam's attentions ; for, though many, many years have elapsed since my ever-to-be-remem- bered loss, still I do not forget that exactly as your amiable admirer looks and acts in your presence, so, in mine, did the dear unhappy youth, now no more." " Absurd, my dear aunt, with your pardon," interrupted Eliza, getting tired of allusions she had heard from infancy, rather than of the former allusions which they would illustrate, although her words spoke her difficulty — " ab- surd, my dear aunt, to attribute such senti- ments either to me or to Sir William." '• Well, well, child, I but sought, I am sure, to alleviate the soft doubts and fears of your bosom, which escape every moment in those lonor-drawn sicrhs." " I sigh, aunt ! — nay, you only listen to the echoes of your own customary respirations :'** for, after every recurrence to the unfortunate termination of her early love. Miss Alicia Hart- ley was, indeed, in the habit of uttering what she believed to be a very rueful inhahng and exhaling of the breath. " Is that so very, very true, my love ?" whis- pered Eliza's father at her ear. He had softly entered the room, and stood behind her chair 54 THE CROPPY. unobserved by our heroine, during her medita- tive mood ; and he remained secured from Miss Alicia's notice also, by the deep recess of the window. " What, Sir ? is what true ? and tell me the difference, pray, between true, very true, and very, very true." Her serious mood now sud- denly passed away, or Eliza easily succeeded in shaking it off, and she turned up her head to address her father in that sportive manner that was usual with her. " Eliza, I would speak seriously to you." *' Seriously, papa?" her small voice tinkling with the effect of a merry note of music ; while she assumed a childish face of mock gravity, and looked full into her father's eyes, whose pleased and fond smile readily responded to her graceful fooling. •^ Fie, now Sir ; seriously, you know, — and yet, see how you begin !" " Dear child, I beheve you could make me smile in " In the next fit of the gout, Sir ?" *' No — I do not say as much" — recollecting, indeed, that Eliza's spells used, hitherto, to have but little effect, on such occasions — '' no ; but in more serious misfortune." THE CROPPY. 55 " Could I, dear papa ?" — and she sprang forward, and threw her soft arms round his neck, — " and nothing can ever make your Ehza so happy as to hear you say so !" *' Nothing, my child ?" " No, indeed. Sir." " Have a care, Eliza. I know you now speak of quiet, easy happiness, that soothes, without agitating, a young heart.'' " Oh, indeed, indeed, I do." — and she softly pressed his hand to her bosom. ^^ But is there no happiness above this, or differing from it, of which you form a notion, or have a wish for — a happiness that sets the heart vibrating to the sound of a voice, or glowing to a look — that sends little pleasing flutters through every fibre, and sometimes breathes out little airy hopes, that know not well what they hope ? — tell me truly, Eliza, have you no notion of any happiness like this ?" " Let me see, Sir. It is a difficult question — to say little of its being a long one — and re- quires a close and cautious analysis. I must have time to take it asunder; examine each part separately ; then put it together again, study the odd compound as a whole, and finally make up my mind for an answer." 56 THE CROPPY. " I will simplify the case: Do you love, Eliza ?" " Yes, to be sure, a great many things ; but what, papa ?" " Suppose— Harry Talbot !" " Very much indeed." " Do you love another better ?" " Oh, a great deal." ^' Who r " I love yourself, my dearest papa, a thou- sand times better." *' I thought so." " And are you angry at it. Sir .?" " Come, Eliza — to be, as I said, serious" — " Yes, Sir; — to be serious." " Not with that silly face, child." " Nay — now, papa is vexed, in earnest." " No, Miss Hartley ; but he may be." " But he shan't" — her eyes laughing into his ; " and what would he do to her, if Eliza really — really vexed him V^ '' I do not know : the occasion would sug- gest its proportionate severity : but I am not practised in this subject, dear child ; hi- therto, you have not given me opportunity to be so." " And that is all because her own dear THE CROPPY. 57 papa is too good, too indulgent to his saucy daughter.^' From this specimen of question and answer, may be gathered an idea of our heroine's toler- able skill in playing with a topic which she did not wish to meet ; and it may farther indicate how, upon, as Sir William Judkin thought, many propitious occasions, she was able to foil her lover's attempts to ascertain, by her manner of replying to his declaration, the favourable opinion in his regard, which indeed, for the last two months, needed the expression of words only. " I fear you are right, Ehza," resumed Sir Thomas, replying to her last little speech ; " but, for the next few minutes at least, I am determined to play the tyrant with you : here you stand, secured, at my side, and hence you shall not stir until I receive a rational answer to the question I have asked. Nor is it put idly, nor for the purpose of learning a secret. Consider, my child, that I have a father's feel- ings and fears upon this subject. You have been to me a very precious treasure ; the light and pride of my house, and, God knows, the only consolation of an early widowed heart." " Papa," said Eliza, while her father's glisten- D 5 8B THE CROPPY. ing eyes made her's stream profusely, " I will now answer your question seriously — but, Sir, not before your face.*" Smiles again sparkling through her tears, as, vvith both hands pressed against his temples, she gently turned away his head. " I do, Sir,'' — blushes clothed her face, neck, and forehead, and her voice sank into a whisper — " I do love.'' Sir Thomas was silent for a moment ; and the air of solemn concern which took possession of his brow did not escape the sidelong look of Eliza. After a painful pause, he drew a sigh, and spoke on. " I thank my treasure for her candour. But, in equal candour, it is my duty to say, that I regret the avowal. Long ago I hoped your heart had been given to another ; and that other, Eliza, commanded my good opinion. I had attentively observed him, while he grew from boy into man ; and I believed him capable of making my only child as happy as she de- serves to be." " Dearest papa — " sobbed Ehza, once more falling on his neck, " I should not — indeed, I should not — have formed this preference without your approval ; but you were away in Dublin at first, Sir, — and — but no matter; I have no THE CROPPY. 59 right to argue with my beloved father, and I will try — let the trial cost me what it may — I will now try to train my silly heart to your wishes." " No, my good and gentle child. God forbid I should, in its first youth, cause to ache that bosom which never gave mine a throb but one of pleasure. I am no tyrannical father. At my years, the nature of the human breast, while it is not a mystery, should be a warning against despotic measures. Let me proceed : — I now am anxious to say, that I can name no serious or particular objection to the young gentleman towards whom you entertain such favourable feelings. I should only wish to know him a little better, before I formally recognize him as my son. I had fixed my mind upon the other person alluded to, perhaps because I thought your own inclined that way : it was a mistake of course — " '' Oh, Sir !" interrupted Eliza, her conscience and high-mindedness prompting her to avow that it had not been quite a mistake ; but her emotions really deprived her of the power of farther utterance. " Do not distress yourself, my child ; do not try to speak ; we will, for the present, end this. 60 THE CllorPY. You will have my blessing on your love, Eliza ; and I feel confident that no man can so far forget his more human feelings, as ever to give you pain, or do your peace an injury. There, my child, — this moment, I ask God to bless your young choice — I ask the boon in a father's fondest anxiety — may it be granted !" After rising Avith her, supporting her on one arm, and religiously looking upward, he slowly kissed her fair forehead, tenderly placed her in the chair he had just left, and walked out of the room, — his eyes streaming tears, such as <^ Pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head." For some time, Eliza remained motionless in the seat in which her father had placed her ; many delicious feelings, and a few disagreeable ones, keeping her cheeks moistened. Could there be, indeed, any thing hidden from her partial eye, in Sir William's character, Avhich her father had observed, or heard of .^ She bent her mind to scrutinize him, from re- collection, very closely, and, as she resolved, without a shade of prejudice. His person was faultless ; that point seemed easily disposed of. THE ciioppy. 61 His birth, his education, were unexceptionable ; these points too. His manners were polished — brilliant — no common observer could deny the fact : a little gay, indeed, like her own ; and if he was objected to on such an account, so must she be. His tastes, his feelings, his opinions, his every mode of thinking, also coincided with her''s ; and again, if, upon any of these heads. Sir William's character had been deemed defec- tive, her's was equally so. Upon what, then, in the name of consistency, was founded her father's dislike ? But her father had merely preferred another person, because with that other he had been better acquainted ; he had not even found fault : away, then, with every doubt of her lover ! She had been wise, however, in hitherto avoid- ing to afford Sir William an opportunity for a declaration. And she would still avoid to do so ; — so much was due to her father. But Eliza contemplated no new transfer of her affections : that was impossible ! It was very unfortunate her dear father did not warmly approve. He had said as much as that he wished time to ob- serve her lover : well ; she would allow him full time ; and if her discernment of personal merit 62 THE CHOPPY. was not very much at fault indeed. Sir William would bear the scrutiny, and rise triumphantly from it. And thus, without much cause for grieving, after all, Eliza's path seemed smooth before her. Yet her heart would be sad. What was it o'clock ? — Surely, his hour — and hark ! — The massive knocker of the hall-door pealed, indeed. Sir William's well-known challenge for admission. In a few seconds afterwards, the Baronet ad- vanced into the room with a free and graceful carriage, different as was also the expression of his glance and the tone of his voice, while he nuirmured his evening salutations to both la- dies — from a certain dryness, hardness, and even swagger of manner, put on perhaps for his purposes at the moment, which marked his late interview with Nanny the Knitter. An air of laughing boldness now played through his fine figure, around his handsome mouth, sparkled in his eye, and was emblazoned by the rich, healthy, but not effeminate bloom of his countenance. The expression we would try to convey is indicated, if not fully given, by the French term erijoue, applied to such a mixture of pleasant-seeming youthfulness and THE CROPPY. 6S manly dash as pervaded the person and fea- tures of Sir WilHam. Among the people from whom the word is borrowed, it is a frequent characteristic ; and, after them, is perhaps oftener and more similarly exhibited by the Irish gentleman, than by individuals of any other country with which we are acquainted. But natural conformation of character is here meant, rather than its ingenious assump- tion : the one being as amiable as it is pre- possessing ; while the other, even where it is so aptly affected as not to prove disagreeable, often seems the result of daring habits of libertinism. In the world, however, little dis- tinction is made between the two : even to severe eyes they will occasionally be confounded with each other ; and we do not arrogate a sufficient degree of discrimination, to be able to say whether or not Sir William Judkin in- herited the natural grace, or judiciously dis- played the assumed accomplishment. To our casual observation, his enjoue air and manner appeared to sit easily upon him ; Eliza Hartley is of the same opinion ; and no farther does it seem necessary to put the question. Miss Alice rose up to receive him ; all the placid good-nature of her inward character 64 THE CROPPY. beaming from her face, and blending with her old-fashioned dignity of mien ; in truth, her return of the young Baronet'*s salute seemed equally compounded of kindness and stiffness, elegance and absurdity. The meeting between him and his mistress was not so formal ; though, indeed, his reveren- tial bow might be taken as one of devotion, ra- ther than of mere earthly admiration, towards the divinity of the sanctuary window-recess. But Eliza did not answer it farther than by a slight bend of the neck, and a sweet though tempered smile ; proclaiming at once her con- sciousness and pride of power, her sense of suf- ficient condescension conferred, and to us, who have overheard her late discourse with her father, her refreshed resolve to hold her slave, for some time longer, at a certain distance. And owing to the motive for the last-men- tioned expression of manner, Sir William, though he had this evening approached Hart- ley Court with most manful resolutions to possess himself of a certain acknowledgment, yet, when the hour came for offering his good- night, he found not only that he had failed in carrying his determinations into effect, but that, in consequence of too bold an attempt THE CROPPY. 65 to do so, he stood a few steps farther from success than he had stood upon entering the drawing-room. And while thus left an ohject of some doubt to our readers, we deem it a proper time to supply a farther account of the young and handsome wooer. He was the sister's son of a lately deceased old Baronet, whose estate he arrived to inherit, and which joined that of Sir Thomas Hartley. His mother had made a love-match with a young English officer, whom she met at a race- ball, or some such place of village adventures, and had become rejected in consequence by her high, aristocratic family. She was entitled however, by her mother's marriage settlement, to a considerable portion ; and with this to aid the slender income of his pay — his only an- nuity — she cheerfully followed the fortunes of the husband of her choice. He embarked with his remraent for the American war, and was killed at the celebrated battle of Bunker's Hill : leaving to his young widow a son and daughter, as an only legacy. She was, however, a thrifty lady ; and, return- ing to her native country, settled in the metro- polis, where, upon the income of her dowry, about three hundred pounds per annum, she 66 THE CROPPY. diligently set about the education of her chil- dren. The girl died in infancy, and her en- tire care and affection became centered in her son. Her mother was not alive at the time of her marriage, and, shortly after, her father also died. She had then remaining to her, of fami- ly connexions in Ireland, but a brother and a sister: the former inheriting his father's title and estate, and, along with both, his father's high-blooded antipathy to his imprudent sister ; the latter, an amiable young lady of twenty- five, not regarding her sister''s early error in a light so heinous as to cause her to forget all sisterly solicitude and endearments, or quite to forswear all sisterly affection. Since the battle of the Boyne, when the first Baronet, notwithstanding the princely no- tions of the family, gained his title and broad lands, all the Pierts had been eminent fox- hunters: some of them hearty ones; some of them morose ; and of the latter class was the abhorring brother of this lady. As selfish as riotous in his enjoyments, and careless about the elegancies or the comforts of home, he mar- ried to increase his means for half-savage grati- fications, and then treated his wife with less THE CHOPPY. 67 consideration than his horses : so that his un- sinning sister, finding his huge, noisy, waste house unfitted to her ideas of living Uke a lady, and altogether unpleasant to reside in, quitted it and settled with the mother of the present Sir AVilliam Judkin— and this step, while it augmented his aversion to the latter, hrought the fugitive also under his bann ; and his humour became irremovably confirmed towards the living interests of the one, and the memory of the other, when Miss Piert dying, bequeath- ed her portion, equal to that of her elder sister, away from him, and to the detested widow, just at the very time when he began to stand in need of some such windfall from the tree of fortune. No children followed his alliance with his ill-fated lady ; and thus deprived of the mo- ther's interest to console her for the husband's continued brutality, she demanded a separation. It was granted in a fit of high passion ; and she retired amongst her own friends, to live more quietly on her own well-secured settlement. Now he kept a kind of Bachelors' Hall, and drank and hunted quite independently ; until one fine sporting day, as trying to clear a treacherous fence, he came in sight of a death, 68 THE CROPPy. his hitherto faultless horse " toed" and fell under him, and the hunter's triumphant shout of jolUty proved, indeed, a death-halloo for another besides the hopeless Reynard ; who. it is said, burning in agonies, grinned ghastly plea- sure at the sudden fate of the greatest enemy his race had ever known : a thing not absolutely impossible, taking into account that he was a middle-aged and thrice-hunted fox, and farther remembering the many wonderful stories of cunning sagacity which, since our earliest childhood, have illustrated to us the fox's at- tributes. Although reckoning, perhaps, on some such leap out of the world as we have just seen him take, the old Baronet was never known to ex- press much abhorrence of the unavoidable suc- cession of his nephew, William Judkin. But he might have thought words superfluous on the subject, when he had inwardly resolved, that, provided he happened to hunt long enough for the purpose, there should be little for him to succeed to. And indeed, though thus suddenly curbed in the ultimate realization of his plan, he had so far arranged, as to leave to his young heir an estate much encumbered. And this leads us to debate or surmise a few questions. THE CROPPY. 69 After finding himself only a few days in possession of not much more than a nominal income of fortune, might not Sir William, young and ardent as he was, have acknowledged to himself, how opportunely the unincumbered estate of the heiress of Hartley Court, together with a good sum of ready money, and a better one in expectancy from the sentimental Miss Alice, would serve to bring out of bondage many an acre that his uncle had placed therein ? And if, upon the night following his unsuc- cessful visit, the fair sighing young lady thought for hours ; and. when she was tired of thinking it, only closed her eyes to dream, until the beams of the morning sun startled her from lier visions, of pure, unalloyed, and disinterested love, — did the gallant Sir William, as he also consulted his pillow, feel the arrow less deep within his breast, because it was barbed with gold ? Let Time, the truth-teller, answer our con- jecture. 70 THE ( ROPPY. CHAPTER IV. In the gay month of June our story opened. The reader will now please to suppose, that three moons have successively shone out and become dark again; that the trees have as- sumed the varied autumnal livery which paint- ers so much admire ; and the harvest been ga- thered home from the fields, and piled in large, well-constructed stacks in the " haggart." The last fruits of the year too, somewhat roughly shaken by the more gusty blast, strew the orchard overnight, and remind the owner that it is time to think of stripping his trees of their remaining burden. The birds wholly give up the tutelage of their young : and parents and children, assuming their gregarious instinct, mix on terms of equality. The sun does not shine with summer's heat; yet his beam is cheering, and less oppressive. And if the reader be of similar taste with Eliza and her lover. THE CROPPY. 71 he will find this a very delightful season for gentle exercise a- foot. Nature has put on such a happy variety of verdure, and the fresh breeze blows so pleasantly against the forehead, making every little exertion an act of enjoy- ment, and tempting forth from the shady covert of the darkened walk, to excursions more at large and more independent. In the estima- tion of our young friends, indeed, old Time seems to forget his hour-glass, and notes not the dribbling of its sand ; and his ever-moving wings, that sometimes flap with tempest-noise, or bear him on with lightning speed, only glide by them in silken motion, almost unheard and unnoticed, while he ministers to love and youth and beauty. In truth, the summer went, and the au- tumn came, unheeded ; and during the happy interval, many interesting rambles, and much covert play of mutual attachment, might be detailed and portrayed for the reader, did not a reasonable caution preside over our pen. If, by our descriptions, we fully succeeded in pre- senting to some sighing fair, or pensive youth, the most convincing pictures of her or his early experience ; we, at the same time, might fatigue our more sober friend; who, now that he can 72 THE CROPPY. no longer relish Love"'s bright illusions and " young dream," thinks all such occupations but as so much waste of the precious time, and of a valuable existence. The matter shall then be compromised between both : the more gentle reader, or the true lover of the other sex, may recollect all the little symptoms, and the many slight, but, to the interested eye, confirming proofs, by which either was able, previous to actual declaration, to ascertain the state of the heart, sought to be subjected to despotic rule ; and thus, while an opportunity occurs for a pleasing retrospect of the happiest period of existence, a true though creneral sketch of the proceedings of Eliza and her admirer, cannot fail to be brought before the mind of him or her. As to our cynical patron, he need not trouble himself with any such cogitation ; and therefore, as concerns him, we disclaim all in- tention of lightly occupying this paper. In the foregoing instance, something hke an admission seems to be made that, with three months passed over their heads, Eliza Hartley and Sir William Judkin are still only observ- ing each other — that, in fact^ they have not arriv- ed, at an explicit understanding. True ; and it is farther admitted that the fault still is Eliza's. THE CROPPY. 73 With an adroitness, not marked by the straight- forward sincerity which authors prefer in their heroines, she yet chooses to defeat her lover in his attempts at a declaration. Her father has long ago assured her that his doubts are clear- ed up — such is her choice, and yet why we are not quite prepared to state. Perhaps having, with her aunt's assistance, ascertained the great- ness of her power — a discovery within her ca- pacity to make, were her aunt out of the ques- tion — she was not precipitate in exhibiting her own feelings : or, perhaps, mixed with her de- ference to Miss Alice's notions of decorum in affairs of the heart, she wished to insure the durability of her lover's chains, by daily add- ing to them a new link : or, less to her credit, Eliza might have tyrannically taken pleasure in witnessing the vassalage to which she had reduced one who was a slave worthy of her bondage. Did there sometimes flit over the sunshine of her mind, the shade of a doubt— light as the thin-spun scrap of vapour, that, now and then, will pass across the most cloudless sum- mer sky ? In the midst of all her love, admiration, and confidence, was there, or did Ehza half fancy there was, some little VOL. I. E 74 THE CROPPY. ])oint of her lover's character not yet perfectly understood by her ? Had the recollection of Harry Talbot any thing to do with her seemingly playful he- sitation ? In the privacy of her chamber, after a morning, day, and night of undimmed hap- piness and vivacity, a thought of him would certainly awaken grief and remorse, and, in spite of her, terror, still. Eliza's opinion of herself did not allow her to suppose that she had over-rated the strength and intensity of the attachment of her former lover. Such an attachment, so long and so deep- ly rooted, he would not easily abandon ; and when called on to do so, Eliza feared she knew not what of dreadful consequence. For, although placid as the dove in her presence, Harry, she could learn, had once or twice, under peculiar causes of irritation, displayed a determination and sternness of character that she shuddered at the thought of seeing again called forth. Did she, then, vaguely temporize when pressed by visitations of this fear? — or, would she at least postpone the avowal of estranged affec- tion which Sir William's declaration, if per- mitted, must produce, until Harry's reappear- ance at Hartley Court, when, admitting the THE CROPPY. 75 State of her feelings, she might soothe him by truly asserting that his rival was not yet triumphant. Her friend, Belinda, had not answered her letter descriptive of her first meeting with Sir William ; and, in the apprehension that her young school- companion was hostile to her rapid transfer of affection, might not even this cir- cumstance assist to make her pause and co- quette, as it is admitted she did ? Belinda St. John, even when a girl, at school with Eliza, had been remarkable for a pensive and somewhat moody character. Silent and. thoughtful, she displayed little of the vivacity that sent her class-mate skipping about the room when task-hour was over, or the visit of the dancing-master at hand. But deep enthu- siasm of feeling lived under all this saturnine complexion of manner and disposition. Nature made her susceptibilities as quick as she made her habit of showing them deficient or lethar- gic, and her passions strong in proportion to the depth at which they lay from the sur- face. When she and Eliza, at very childish ages, interchanged thoughts upon the great subject which, we humbly presume, first engages the E 2 7G THE CROPPY. attention of almost all young ladies, aspirations that were only lip-language, or, at most, over- heated romance on the part of our heroine, were sincere, serious, and irresistible out-pour- ings from the heart of Belinda. The one fancied — the other felt all that was said. The one artificially sighed for a lover, in order to con- vince herself whether or not their eloquent theory of deathless devotion was to be reduced to practice ; the other knew it was, in her own person, at least : and if ever a doubt crept in of deceit or treachery from the yet unknown ob- ject of the passion she was prepared to lavish, Belinda only decreed an end to her own earthly happiness, or locked up in her soul the manner of self-assertion suggested by her moody cha- racter. Indeed, a close intimacy with Belinda — the only close intimacy permitted by that singular young lady — may be said to have taught Eliza all her early romance, and therefore entailed on her some of her present difficulties. Nor was it upon this topic solely that, from their first acquaintance, EHza deferred to the opinions of her grave friend, or received opi- nions from her. Belinda's strength of mind, or deep tone of feehng, gained, in fact, over Eliza a predominance that was perhaps as un- THE CROPPY. 77 consciously exercised as admitted. The very fact of selecting Eliza as the object of her un- divided affection, while to all other girls of the school Belinda was cold, distant, and lofty, seemed to patronize at the same time that it flattered and delighted ; and impressed Eliza, unknown to herself, with that source of obliga- tion which puts out of the question a conscious- ness of equality. If Belinda was unusually serious or abstracted, her lively protegee would curb her gayest gam- bols. If Belinda slowly smiled a tolerating smile, she would, in exerting only her natural viva- city, make every effort to please and be interest- ing. If BeHnda looked displeased with her, she took it more to heart than she would have taken the deepest frown of her awful school-directress. In a word, Ehza had got into the habit of forming no opinion without submitting it to the judgment of her friend. And lience, perhaps, it was but natural that Belinda'*s want of punctuahty in answering our heroine's epistle, might have been one of the causes of the part we have seen her acting with her lover. Doubtless, the dear and early friend of her youth was silent because she disapproved the hasty and unworthy transfer of her affec- 78 THE CROPPY. tions ; and perhaps Eliza would commit herself no farther until Belinda afforded her an oppor- tunity for self-vindication. She was, at all events, about to write a second letter when she received a note in reply to her first. The young lady had given a promise, as old as the period of their separation at school, to make Eliza a visit ; and this note intimated that she was at last able to keep her word, and would, the evening after its arrival, present her- self, out of the public coach, at the avenue-gate of Hartley Court. " The public coach V questioned Eliza. And, for the first time in her life, she began to ask herself what were the social rank and the connexions of her friend? A young lady of condition need not adopt such a mode of tra- velling. Nothing was said about her being protected or attended : would she come without a friend and servants, too ? But nothing, or very little, was said about EHza's letter either, and this omission created questions that absorbed all others. A post- script merely mentioned that the writer would speak, when they met, upon the delicate sub- ject lately communicated. Eliza, much as she loved her only friend, did not rejoice at the THE CROPPY. 79 announcement. What meant, after months of 'silence, this cold or mysterious allusion to the matter most dear and interesting to her heart ? — Belinda seemed, indeed, to approach like a severe and moody monitor; and as the shades of evening fell, heralding her promised appearance, a corresponding shadow fell over Ehza's spirits. Punctual to her time, Belinda stepped out of the coach, at the avenue-gate, where a servant from the house awaited her arrival. Eliza, posted half-way down the avenue, and saw, in so- lution of some former queries, — that, except that servant, her friend came on, indeed, unattended. Before they met, and while both were in mo- tion, the solemn, almost stern port of the vi- sitor, as her tall, straight figure alternately caught the moonlight, or was plunged in the shadows made by the spaces between the trees, and by the trees themselves, struck Eliza as something more extraordinary than even the dignified coldness with which she had pre- viously been familiar. The former steady pace was more measured, the head more erect, the person more imposingly carried. The friends came within a few paces of each other ; and Eliza almost stepped back, as a full ray of not uncon- 80 THE CROPPY. genial light showed her the still more remark- able changes that had taken place on the visage of her class-mate. When, in the first bloom of young charms, they had bidden each other adieu, Belinda's cheek, though in contrast with Eliza's deserv- ing to be called pale, was not without a delicate colour; her brow, though heavy and black, was arched ; her beautiful lips were rich red ; and her large, black eye, except when now and then intensely lighted up from her enthusiastic heart, was gentle, or quiet at least, no matter how serious. But now her cheek looked ashy white, and wasted too ; her brows, with- out absolutely frowning, hung low ; her lips seemed bloodless and thin ; and in her eye was an expression, fixed, determined, and disagree- able, which had not formerly belonged to it. They met. Notwithstanding her almost con- sternation, the impulse of friendship cast Ehza upon her neck ; but Belinda's embrace was grave and unimpassioned. Eliza slightly shud- dered, as the visitor''s spare, chill arms passed round her, and as her cold, wan cheek tamely presented itself for the salute which was not returned. They spoke: and Behnda's voice, once truly musical, though deep-toned, fell on THE CROPPY. 81 the ear of her young hostess harsh and hol- low. None of the old, familiar cadences of friendship modulated it. After the first greeting was over, they stood some time silently looking into each other's eyes ; Belinda gazing vacantly, or with most melan- choly recollections ; Eliza, not without an ex- pression of fear and distrust. So fearfully, indeed, was she impressed by the alterations of visage, manner, and character which she regarded, that Eliza durst not remark upon them, nor venture to whisper — " How changed you are, Belinda !" As if become aware of her feehngs, Belinda hastened to end the scene. Slowly taking EHza's hand, — " Does not the servant walk towards the house ?" she asked, and then led her friend up the remainder of the avenue. Eliza did not feel relieved. As, in reserved silence, Belinda paced along, sensations akin to terror possessed her : it would be difficult to define them ; they were made up of womanly weakness, that took a somewhat supernatural turn ; and she peered to the right and to the left, amid the moonlight quietness of the scene with which she was so familiar, in vague appre- E 5 82 THE CROPPY. hensions of she knew not what kind, at being now led through it by one that assumed, perhaps, but a mocking hkeness of her former friend. But ere they quite gained the house, Belinda again addressed her. " So, dear Ehza, your heart has at last been really given away ?" " Oh, I fear — ^'* whispered EHza. " And, EHza, I, too, have known what it is to love since we parted : — to love, and to be a wretch, for ever !" " Dear Belinda, do not say so ! I trust you but anticipate gloomily.'' *' Well, we shall talk more of all these matters, in a few hours or so. How your hand trembles in mine, Eliza ! Are you so chilled, indeed ?" " The air is very cold," answered Eliza. " I do not mind it. These are fine venerable trees at either side of us, and this a sweet walk, when the radiant moon lights up, as now, the gnarled trunks. Are you as partial as ever to raoonhght rambles, Eliza .^" " Quite, Behnda." " I forgot;— you should be : — you have now an additional cause to preserve your early pre- ference.'" The young lady spoke this in a tone THE CROPPY. 83 of suppressed emotion, and a deep, wretched sigh escaped her. They entered the house. In the tranquil, and as it were domestic hght of the hall, EHza was able to call back, in a degree, her scared feelings. She retained her friend's hand an instant, and gazed, now with more sorrow than fear, upon her features. '- Yes," answered Behnda, to her silent look ; " I have been very ill, EHza !" " What illness ? Fever ? or what, Belinda r " This," answered the visitor, violently press- ing her"^clenched hand against her heart, with an energy vehemently unfeminine. Eliza again felt her spirits strangely aiFected. She commissioned a servant to attend Behnda to dress in her chamber. Dinner had been retarded in expectation of the visitor ; and as soon as Belinda reappeared, it was announced. Sir Thomas Hartley seemed impressed by the commanding person and mien of his daugh- ter's friend ; and when conversation ensued, his favourable opinions rose higher. Belinda, somewhat condescending from the austere dig- nity of her first manner, displayed abundance of just remark and lofty sentiment, that con- 84 THE ciioppy. vinced the Baronet she had an intellect of the highest order ; and the evening closed with a feeling, on his part, of profound respect for her understanding and taste, and not a little of pre- possession for her personal attractions ; which, though clouded and dimmed to Eliza''s eye, and though in their best day never remarkable for any of the true feminine bewitchment that stealthily pervades every recess of the heart ere one is aware of its influence, still had a strong effect upon Sir Thomas. Miss AHcia's stateliness sank prostrate before Belinda ; and although the visitor condescend- ingly, and perhaps a little contemptuously, be- stowed much of her attention upon the worthy lady, her good-natured but meagre remarks seemed to have lost their value, even in her own estimation. At the hour for retiring, Eliza, obeying a hint from her guest, accompanied Belinda to her chamber. They entered the apartment in silence. Be- linda closed the door, motioned Eliza to a seat, became seated herself, then leaned her head upon her hand ; and, excepting the woe-be- gone sighs, almost groans, that escaped her, both were still silent. Ehza would have spoken THE CROPPY. 85 first, but had not heart to do so. Some of the former quailings of her spirit to the sohtary influence of Belinda, began to return. As the small lamp, not illuminating a third of the ex- panse of the old apartment, gave its full flicker to the bent features of the disturbed young lady, Eliza tliought she could see her cheeks fade into deeper paleness, her brows accumu- late their full gloom, and the lines about her mouth grow more rigid ; and when, at last, the visitor suddenly lifted up her eyes as slie pre- pared to speak, they again were full of their novel and strange expression. " Now, Ehza, we will converse about your affairs.^' The listener inwardly shrank from the hol- low tones in which the proposal was made, as well, indeed, as from at all discussing, in such a sad and doleful fashion, topics that she had always thought should be graced with smiles and roses. ~ " But first," Belinda continued, " let me speak a word of something that may well lead to your love-tale : let me speak of myself. " If my former depth of character and of heart has not surprised you, its present wretch- ed manifestation evidently does. You have a 86 THE CROPPY. right to know more about that heart than you ever knew before : and perhaps a glance at its early history is needful to explain its recent experience and present situation. " Nature doubtlessly made me what I am ; yet the habits and thoughts of childhood must have been a second nature to me. I was brought up in solitude, amongst mountain scenery of the wildest and grandest character, and at an early age found myself almost alone with it, to form my mind and influence my feelings. The boldness of the hill-tops and hill-sides filled my fancy with lofty thoughts; and tlie lovely, green valleys, often lying be- tween them, helped to give me, perhaps, the softness and tenderness that once formed a por- tion of Belinda. " Ere I went to school, constant thinking, and constant watching of my own heart, and attending to its least appeals, made me long for an opportunity to love and to be loved. You and I met, and our friendship was the first in- dulgence of my impulses. But our conversa- tions on another interchange of affection, must have proved to you how entirely my happiness and hopes in this life were doomed to be won or lost upon a single chance. That single chance THE CROPPY. 87 is now played, Eliza; — played, and decided against me. " With a mind only improved into more re- fined views of my early prepossession, and a heart only more delicately susceptible to its influence, I returned to my mountain solitude. Let me be candid; at least ; I returned still worse prepared for it. Though this is the first time you have guessed the secret, learn, that ere we parted at school, I loved the only man that, till the earth hides me, can waken a love-sigh in my bosom. " You seem surprised. I do not wonder. Eliza, you were even by my side when I first beheld him. Do not interrupt me — and do not think of asking me to be more minute ; it will be in vain. Let me only continue my dark story. " Soon after I left school, he joined me upon one of my lonely mountain paths. We became more intimately acquainted. He seemed to love me ardently. / loved to adoration. 1 gave away my heart, my existence, to his keep- ing, and " powerful emotion, as powerfully combatted, stopped her ere she added — '• he proved traitor to his trust.'"* *' Alas, dearest Belinda !" 88 THE CROPPY. " He left me — left me, without one sigh, to roam over the solitary walks I had walked with him, now rendered hateful for his abandon- ment. Do you still wonder at the cheek and brow I wear, Eliza ?" '* Indeed, my poor Belinda, I pity you :"' — and Eliza, at length more softened than appalled, threw her arms round the neck of her early friend. " Well. I have come, with my withered- up heart, to talk to you, Eliza, of your own love. You say, the sentiment you now feel is stronger than your former affection for that young Harry Talbot ?" " Oh, Belinda ! not only a stronger senti- ment, but a different one." " In turn, then, I cry, 'Alas !' for you. It will never bring you happiness."' "Belinda!" " Take counsel, Eliza, of the wounded deer. Stake not happiness, life, on such a venture as the chance of mutual affection. It was our school-dream, nothing more. It is not to be found in a world where MEN are to decide the chance. Women only can love. Those cold and cruel ones but toy with the trifle." THE CROPPV. 89 " I think, nay I am certain, Belinda, that I cannot be deceived — he truly loves." " Tush !" cried Belinda, in bitter scorn, " did not I think so too ? Have not the thou- sands of our wretched sex who, day after day, vainly become our shame and our w^arning, thought it? Child, child, but a few months ago I would have sworn to you that he, who now shows himself a base villain, lived only on my smile, or for my happiness. Hearken. I come hither to warn you. Tear the dangerous mistake from your heart. It is a gentle, timid, quaking heart, and, were you left desolate, would droop and sicken, hour by hour, till death brought it relief, without vengeance. It would not, like mine, harden in the fire of rage that consumed it, until it grew into a means of revenge, dangerous as their own sharpened steel, upon the head of the supercilious traitor. Ay, you may stare at me !" — she continued, as Eliza showed alarm at the increased energy of her words, voice, and eyes — " but my betrayer shall yet repair or repent his crime, and learn that one woman, at least, was not born to be the passive slave of his pleasures. Because the lamb looked not milder when I smiled trustingly 90 THE CROPPY. upon him, he thinks that, outraged and scorned, I cannot start to my feet with more than the spirit of the wild beast in my heart !" EUza now arose, and with clasped hands, and cheeks as pale as those of her passionate friend, besought her to curb her feelings. " Curb your own, Eliza: that is still my word ; the word I have come to your house to speak — and to speak in solemn warning. Oh ! my first friend, listen not lightly to it. Let it be an antidote to the bane — the deadly poison, that now throbs feverishly in your bosom, only as the precursor of its own withering desolation. But if you shght my counsel— and if, at a fu- ture day, you feel the pang that now rends me — maddens me, — remember, Belinda''s warning. Your fate be on your own head, Eliza Hartley, for you are forewarned !'' " Belinda, you terrify me — indeed you do f ' Eliza stood trembling from head to foot. *^' Good-night — or let me only call for lights :" the small chamber-lamp had flickered so low as to leave them almost in darkness. " Good-night, then — " said Belinda, stalking after her, while she shrank towards the door. " Your hand, dear EHza : I did not wish to terrify ; I am sorry if I have done so : — ^good- THE CllOPPV. 91 night, dear friend ; — and the good night is enough ; 1 want no brighter light to tend me to my pillow : — farewell ; but — " as Eliza hur- ried over the threshold, " do not forget the warning : — you will find it ' a prophecy.' '' They separated for the night. We cannot testify if the sanguine Behnda slept ; but our heroine's couch often shook to her terrified startings from her broken slumbers. Many were the shapes in which fancy presented a re- sult of her friend's solemn warninjr. Now there was a victim, weltering in his blood, whose pale features resembled Harry Talbot ; now she gazed, in wordless consternation, on the mangled body of lier new lover ; anon, it was a stranger upon whom fell the mixed effects of Belinda's prophecy and vow of vengeance ; or she watched her father*'s corse, her heart telling her that Belinda was his murderess ; or, in the fantastic gravity of dreams, Eliza looked down on her own untimely bier, and still it was her friend who made it. The morning sun glanced in through the chinks of the oaken shutters of her chamber- window, ere Eliza sank into undis- turbed sleep. Long after her usual hour, she awoke. Her first recollection brought before her the pale, 92 THE CROPPY. stern, and impassioned face of Belinda, as she had last seen it ; and Eliza involuntarily shud- dered. Assisted by a calling-up of the visions of her disturbed sleep, the solemn caution Belinda had given almost equally affected her, though she could not satisfy her reason why it should do so. It was surely nothing more than an ebullition of the strong passion which agitated her friend, thus bursting out with the peculiar vehemence of Belinda''s character. There is an egotism even in wretchedness, which, out of circumstances similar to those that have pro- duced itself, will augur wretchedness to every one else ; and some such principle must have supplied matter for Belinda's paroxysm, on this occasion. Yet, to bring the circumstance even to this simple shape, to behold the passion of love producing such frantic excess of feeling as in Belinda's person was exhibited, — startled Eliza nearly as much as the most vague of her former omens. What would be her own state of mind, if her dearest affections were flung back upon her with scorn and contempt ? Bitter misery was in the prospect. Had she not better begin to curb her trusting and irresistible devotion to an object, who possibly — but no ! that could THE CROPPY. 93 not be ; his very soul was centered in her slightest look or movement. Belinda had indeed prophesied his treacherv. But stripping her augury of every thing but the egotism Eliza had before ascribed as its prompter, there was another way of arguing the case. Was Belinda a woman to be truly and perseveringly loved ? Was she not too passionate, too moody, and too violent ? and might not a discovery of lier unfitness to pro- mote happiness have reasonably disgusted her lover ? Then, was Eliza herself so likely to revolt the man who had once given her his affection ? The '' no" soon followed. Besides, there were hundreds of instances in which men proved themselves even more faithfully attached than women. In fact, the whole matter that had so fearfully disturbed her, now seemed, as far as she was concerned, ridiculous ; " and I am a weak-minded fool," thought Eliza, *' and I will shake off the timidity of spirit, that, without being able to assign a cause, thus bows before one who seems herself to act more from head- strong impulse than from sober reason." And yet, once again, the pale and distorted face of her young friend, filled with its newly- 94 THE CROPPY. come character and meaning, arrested the mind's eye of Eliza; and, once again, our heroine'^s nerves failed her as a terrible question oc- curred. " Good Heaven ! is she insane ?" Much of incoherency and wildness certainly appeared in Belinda's manner and sentiments. The thought grew more distressing ; but, at the same time, it still farther stripped her words of import. In any view, they could have no re- ference to Eliza. Thus revolving the events of the preceding night, she finished her toilet. And then she moved herself, to make Belinda a hospitable call at her chamber door, upon the first morning of her visit at Hartley Court. '*' We shall now converse quietly and sen- sibly like sensible people, and on terms of per- fect equality too," resolved Eliza. But Belinda was not in her chamber. Eliza descended to the breakfast-parlour, and found it, also unoccupied, save by Miss Alicia. Tim Reily respectfully motioned her to the door. " The masther is set out to look afther the cracked lady that come last night. Miss Eliza." Eliza startled, " Cracked lady. Sir ?" " That's what myself takes her to be. Miss ; THE CROPPY. 95 as cracked as Polly Mac Namara, that wanted me to go take tey wid her in the moon : only I tould her to wait, as you may suppose, an^ for good rasons, Miss/' *' Why do you say this, Timothy ?" ** I '11 tell you that, Miss EHza : 'Twas just at the break'n o' the mornin', an' I was in a raal sauvaun* of a sleep ; when I thought to myself, I hard somebody callin' out, ' Tim Reily ! Tim ! Tim !' Wid that I cocked my elbow undher me, an' listened : an' sure enough, ' Tim ! Tim !' was called over again. — ' Don't bother me,' says I ; 'let me finish my drhame !' — ' Get up, you sleepy hound l' says the voice, ' don't you hear the dhrawin'-room bell ringin' the house down ?' — * Who 's ringin' id, Peggy,' says I ; for now I knew Peggy's own voice, Miss Ehza, — she sleeps nigh-hand the bell. — ' Go an' thry, Tim !' says Peggy — ' Wait for us, Peggy !' says I, makin' answer. — ' Och ! yes, indeed,' says Peggy ; an' as I gave a lip up, she ran like the wind. Well, now I hard the ringin' myself, Miss Ehza ; ' An' I wondher what 's the matther,' says I ; * may be it's the poor ould house is a-fire ;' and then I brought to mind oncct on a time, when Miss • Comfortable drowsiness. 96 THE CROrPY. Alice's ould cat stuck in the bell-pull, and brought me runnin' up, in the middle iv a winther's night, to attend her ladyship: an' faix ! I was for goin** to bed once again, when another loud ring come — "*' " Timothy, I cannot remain listening to your tedious story V " Don't turn off for a little start. Miss Eliza, an' I'll go bail we'll come to id !" But as, notwithstanding this promise, Miss Eliza did turn off before much more was told, we cannot follow Tim through the whole of his detail. At another time, indeed, she and we might, perhaps, have smiled at his recital ; given, as it was, with the utmost care to " suit the action to the word." He stooped to imitate the cautious, squeaking voice, that called "Tim ! Tim !" he gave a bounce to convey properly his manner of leaping up from his couch ; a short run across the hall to describe Peggy's flight ; and then he hastily set to robe himself in dumb show ; working his arms up and down his per- son till they sank petrified at his side, as he mentioned the last bell-ring. Having impa- tiently re-entered the breakfast-parlour, Eliza summoned Tim ; and, with a caution to avoid his former digressions, directed him to end his THE CROPPy story, by answering her only a few words to whatever she should each time demand of him. The narrative accordingly proceeded in the form of question and answer, to the following effect : that Belinda was the person who at break of day had rung for an attendant ; that, upon his appearance in the drawing-room, she got from him the key of the hall-door, and went out ; that, since his " raal sauvaun" was broken up, he thought he might as well have a walk himself; that he went into the planta- tion before described, as bordering on the river; that, from its concealment, he observed certain actions on the part of the strange lady, which, taken with the fact of her issuinij forth alone, " at sich an unchristian hour o' the mornin', when no one bud a fool iv a bird 'ud lave his bed ; or a worse fool iv a worm, to put himself in the bird^s way !" convinced Tim that the lady was, as he termed it, " cracked !" Ehza now required an exact account of the proceed- ings of Belinda, to which he had yet only ge- nerally alluded : but here Tim once more broke bounds, and would or could answer in his own way, or not at all. While he described her as first looking up for some time, at the top of VOL. I. y 98 THE CIIOPPY. tlie ash-tree, with the identity of which EHza and we are well acquainted ; then, as clasp- ing her hands and talking to herself; then, as rushing to the water's edge ; and then suddenly kneeling on the grass; and, lastly, as starting up, and walking, in a hurried man- ner, out of his view ;-^while these different actions were mentioned, the following came in by way of illustration : — '*' Here she went," — putting himself into a solemn attitude, and turn- ing up his eyes, — " wow, wow, wow," throwing his face into a pensive cast, moving his lips, and emitting a sound which denoted that the voice, without words, reached his ear. Anon he walked forward : — ^' this yallow sthrip o' the carpet is the river, I 'm supposing Miss Eliza ;" and he looked down with a ludicrous melancholy of countenance ; soon after dropped on his knee ; sprang up ; walked quickly to the door; turn- ed round ; bowed, as actors do ere the curtain falls ; and — " That 's the very way it was, Miss Eliza," he said ; " and don 't you call them cracked capers ?" " Now, Sir,'' resumed Eliza, in a tone of grave and severe remonstrance, — " I have, thus far, tolerated your very impertinent remarks THE CROPPY. 99 on this young lady, only because I wished to ascertain how far all the facts you could mention would bear out the opinion you presumed to form, and, with so much buffoonery, to .declare to me. Mark what I proceed to say. If to any other person you dare thus lightly mention the name of Miss St. John, I will, — notwith- standing even the good service by favour of which you hold your present place — (without gracing it, I must add) — immediately apply to Sir Thomas to have you dismissed. And now begone, Sir,""* anxious to get the man away, lest the expression of grief at her displeasure, mixing with his habitual buffoonery of features, might deprive her of all command of her own countenance. Tim made his penitent bow, and his exit ; not really cast down, however. " Divil aconcarn it is o'mine !" he soliloquiz- ed, as he crossed the hall : — " all Tim has a right to be on the watch for, is, to take good care she doesn''t get nigh enough to bite him ; an"* I don't think I'll let her; she couldn't come round that, barrin' she was mighty sweet on me, aforehand ; so, I 'm on my guard. An' by the hokey, w^e have a one to kiss us, widout F 2 100 THE CRorpy. ofFerin* to snap at us, purtier and claner than ever she was, so we have, by the hokey !"' and with a caper, notifying his rapture at the thought, he danced down to the kitchen, to know *' what 's th^ rason Peggy made the noise so arlv, that mornin' ?" THE CilOPPY. 101 CHAPTER V. Shortly after Timothy's disappearance from the parlour, EHza saw Belinda and her father comirfg up the avenue. At a nearer approach, Belinda's face seemed much more than on the previous night, to wear the likeness of her early friend and class-mate. Deep sad- ness, rather than high and strange excitement, was now its prevailing expression ; and her large jet-black eye, though still lucid with a portion of its recent vagueness, or meaning, was less disagreeable than it had been. " Per- haps," thought Eliza, " the lovely presence of nature has relieved my poor friend, by calhng forth some weeping bursts of her smothered passion." Sir William Judkin had now been some days from home. At parting from Eliza he had named a time for returning, but came not as punctually as it did. Our heroine was anxious 102 THE CROPPY. for his arrival. Apart from the pleasure of seeing him, great in anticipation as that was, she wished that Belinda might judge, from his presence, what little ground appeared for her fears of his constancy and honour. Eliza also longed to have her admit that Sir William was, in every respect, worthy of a lady's love, or, according to Malvolio, " worth a lady's eye."" A very slight hint served to send Nanny the Knitter, to inquire the cause of his absence. He could not return for another week. Parti- cular business, connected, in fact, with the arrangement of part of his late uncle's embar- rassments, unavoidably detained him. During this listless pause, although Eliza and Belinda took many walks together, they were not so frequently in each other's company as they had been at school. The visitor seemed to prefer solitary rambles, and when confined to the house, generally, excepting at meal-times, sat alone in her chamber. Eliza's spirits grew saddened and depressed. Her lover's absence, and the baleful shadow thrown round her by her friend's melancholy, jointly produced the effect ; for, since their conversation upon the night of her arrival at Hartley Court, deep melancholy and reserve, instead of her first THE CROPFV. 103 agitating vehemence, continued to characterize Belinda. That memorable conversation was not resumed. Eliza sought not its renewal, and her friend never by a single word alluded to it. For some days beyond a week, Belinda St. John had been at Hartley Court, without bring- ing joy or gratification to her youthful com- panion, or making a friend around her. At Tim Reily's showing, notwithstanding his mis- tress's orders and caution, the servants deemed her " flighty," or " cracked ;" or, weaving this opinion, the meanest among them revolted at her unbending, imperious coldness. She was attended by them merely as their master's guest, without any inclination to do her a kindness. Sir Thomas Hartley, indeed, still conversed with her on topics generally supposed out of the range of those with which it is sought to entertain a young lady ; but her rayless gloom of character and manner had evidently de- stroyed his first interest. Miss Alice absolutely dreaded her stern brow ; it made the amiable old lady wince, she knew not why. And it must be supposed, that all this could not escape the observation of the person most interested ; 104 THE ciioppy. yet, she did not seem to notice any thing. She was always wrapped up in herself, or, to the exclusion of every exterior interest, em- ployed with her own thoughts. Upon the eleventh night after her visit, (Eliza remembered it well,) our heroine had retired to her chamber, when Nanny the Knitter sent up, from the kitchen, a respectful request to be permitted an audience. The boon was granted. With many duckings, and much dusting; of her feet with the tail of her cloak, the old woman entered the chamber, and, as if conscious that nothing appertaining to, or at all bringing to mind the other sex, should pre- sume to appear there, she took off and left out- side the door her foxy man's hat. " Sit down, Nanny ; you look tired," said Eliza. " Thankee kindly. Miss Eliza my honey ; bud, wid your purty lave, I'll just plank my- self on my hunkers, the way I 'm in the fashion o' doin*, an' the way that 's most fitther for my sort, in the same room wid one o' the quality." Eliza concluded, from Nanny's face, that she had something of importance to communicate. But even Nanny's preparatory proceedings would have intimated as much. After having THE CROPPY. 105 " planked herself on her hunkers/' she delibe- rately took out her knitting apparatus, which, with her, in every presence, and under every circumstance, was as necessary a preliminary to chat, as was his few inches of thread to the forensic orator mentioned in the Spectator. If he could not properly twist the thread of his plain cause without simultaneously twisting his pack-thread, Nanny, also, should be per- mitted to knit her stockings and her narrative together. With ominous rapidity, Eliza's thoughts flew from Nanny's solemn preparation, and her mysterious countenance, to Belinda's prognos- tic that her love would prove unfortunate ; and, fearful that the question might produce the mention of Sir William's name in some way distressing or dishonouring to herself, she dread- ed to demand Nanny's business. At length Nanny broke silence. " What I have to say. Miss Eliza my pet, 'ud be betther tould betuxt yoursef an' my- sef ; an' so, you may all as well send the good little girl to her bed." " Why, Nanny, this is a solemn and formal preface you make : what can be the matter ? Does it relate to me ?"' F 5 103 THE CiiOPPY. " It does, an" it does n't, my honey pet ; an*' there ""s every word o' the thruth for you — don"*! let it bother you—now,"" after she had mo- mentarily contemplated Eliza's features — *• there 's nothin' in id about your father, Sir Thomas, the blessins on him, or about Square Talbot, that we wish well, though we want no more rubbins wid him, or about Sir Wil- liam, the darlin' iv a boy ; not a word in the world ; it 's all about women : an** the most about one sart'n woman, or lady — I don't know which is the right name to call her." As soon as, in her own way, Nanny had come to the name she knew Ehza thought of, our gentle heroine felt much relieved. And now she rang her bell ; told her maid, who appeared in answer to it, that she could dis- pense with her for the night, — Nanny was go- ing to tell her a story ; and, as it grew late, her tire-woman need not remain up. Accord- ingly, Nanny and her protegee continued alone, without fear of interruption. '' An' now, Miss Eliza my honey, would id be in coorse o' manners to ax what kind iv a lady she is that come to see you, here, in your good father's house ?" THE CROPPY. 107 " First — why do you put such a question, Nanny ?" " Fa'ix, an' indeed, my honey-pet, I have a good rason to ax you, let alone any rason I wouldn't daare to have out o"* curosity, and all out of love an' duty to your pretty sef ; the same I 'm in duty bound ;— -bud — first, too — it's what I'd want is to know if you're sart'n sure of the sort she is ?" " Well, Nanny, to indulge your good wishes towards me, and while I am convinced you would not lightly intrude on this occasion, I admit that I know little more of Miss St. John than that she has been my school-acquaintance, — friend, indeed, — and always supposed of high birth and blood ; — but farther — though her manners certainly bear out the last fact — I, to this hour, know nothing." " That 's not the thing I was for axin', Miss Eliza my honey." " What, then, did your question import ?" " May I never do an ill turn, this holy an' blessed night," — Nanny bent over her knitting, and spoke in a very low whisper — " but she 's either moon-sthruck then, or, I'm afraid, mad, out-an'-out^-or else, this — a bould woman, 108 THE CKOPPY. Lord keep us from cratures o' the kind, an' from all evil doins !'' " Have a care, Nanny : — the young lady is my friend — is in my father's house : you as- tonish me — shock me."" " Oh, faix, an' as I'm a lump iv a sinner, Miss Eliza my honey, blessed be the Holy Name ! that 's the way I was in, my own sef, wid what I seen, on the head iv id." " Tell your story, Nanny, — but, remember — carefully and faithfully/' " That I maytn't sin, Miss Eliza, bud you'll have id, as thrue an' as clane as if I was on my marrow-bones foment the priest." " It was eve-a-last night, my pet, — an' sure that was the last night o' the month, of all nights in the year, — I was at Andy Maher's wake, rest his poor sowl ! — " " Nann3% you seem determined to tire my patience." " Ntchu, ntchu"' — we cannot find better orthography for the smack of Nanny's tongue against her palate. " Ntchu, ntchu, — och, sure there 's nothin' farther from my thoughts, Miss Eliza my honey, as in duty bound to you and yours, — an' to yoursef, above all ; bud, my ould tongue THE cRcppr. 109 has sich a way of clack, clack, ever an' always; an' I'm so cooramuch^^ sittin' here; so purty an' so snug, bless the good providhers ! Well, to come sthraight upon the thing we're discoorsing about. It was apast twelve in the night when I left the wake. Miss Eliza my honey ; I was going to take my bed at Shaun-a-gow's, that night ; Shaun, himsef, was at the wake, an' so I knew I could get in ; and, whether or no, it 's seldom 's the time for this while agone, you'll get them in their honest, quite beds, at Shaun-a-gow's; they do have roarin' work at the anvil, in the forge, at night, more nor by day ; an' the boys comes there, I'm tould, to get wicked weapons made for themsefs out iv ould iron of all sorts. The times is growin' bad, I'm afeard. Miss Ehza my pet, for us poor women ; there'll be bad dcins goin' on, as sure as this needle is runnin' to an' fro': the Lord purtect the poor, an' the wake, an' the forlorn ! Bud I'll tell you all about these doins, another time, when we'll have the night to oursefs an' nothin' else to spake iv. — Ntchu, ntchu ; — Well. — As I was thramping to Shaun-a-gow'?, just as I come widin a little sthtrech o' the aveny gate, below, — you know, Miss, I seldom * Exceedingly comfortable. 110 THE CROPPY. or never makes much noise wid the way o** walkin' I have — " Eliza nodded assent. " The moon was a late one, Miss Eliza my honey ; it %vas n't high up enough to shine down sthraight; bud the light iv id was here an** there, whenever nothin' was to the fore to shet id out. You know there 's a little wood, like, runnin' down to the river, that wouldn't let id shine through ; an"* so the road, at that place, Avas purty dark ; an' then the aveny threes gave a help to make id a bit darker ; bud, through the arch that ""s fornen the gate, it come bould, as white as any sheet, an"* looked quare an' odd. ' Well,' says I to mysef, ' isn't id a euros way the moon shines over that one place ; an' its purty/ says I, ' to look on id, when a body is in a right mind, an' not afear'd, at sich a time o' the night : bud' — says I, agin, stoppin' talkin', ' what's that goin' through id ?' an' I stopped the feet, too, to look closer. I seen a tall wo- man, Miss Eliza, comin' over the stile at the side o' the aveny gate, an' she crossed right along the sheet o' moonshine, and she went undher the arch. At the first look, it was, for all the world, as like a ghost as one egg is like another — a ghost that ud be warmin' itsef in THE CROFPY. Ill moonlight thracks, after comin' out o' the could darkness that was round about id, every where. I often hard o' ghosts ; an', sure an' sure, there 's sich things, they say, — the praises be for ever given, I never seen one yet, though I thravelled often by night, in the most lonesome places. Bud, a ghost's foot doesn't give a sound — not as much as my own foot, that gives so little— an' I hard the stamp, stamp, through the silence acrass the road; for I was nigh hand, Miss Eliza ray honey ; — an' — that's the lady that come to see Miss Eliza, says I ; she 's cracked in the brains, they say, an' goes about this way to be spakin' her raumaush^ to the moon, as her likes has the fashion o' doin', the world over.*" ^' Can this, indeed, be possible .^" ejaculated Eliza, much moved ; " you may have mistaken the person, Nanny ?" '' I know'd her gate o' walkin. Miss Eliza, my honey, afther she tuck the first start out o' me ; bud id come into my head, I 'd make more sure." " And did you quite assure yourself?" " Harken me out, my honey. I came here, to the house, the last night, an' I got my own little bed, — may the blessins o' this life an' * Nonsense. 112 THE CROPPY. the next be in store for the givers ; an' my good supper afore id ; an' I said my share o' night prayers near the fire ; afore I went to my sleep, though my thought was taken to sleep little. As soon as ever there was silence, widin"* an' widout, I rose up, an' — knowin' the ould house so well — I stole, — asy, asy, — to the stair- foot, in the hall — sure it's time for me to know the ins an"* outs iv id, as well as another; an' no wondher. Well, I opened the dour that lades down from the hall into the kitchen — sorrow 's in id for one dour, it nigh frightened me, wid its craking — an' I peeped about an' about. An' it wasn't long till the clock sthruck, an' I reckoned the sthrokes, one by one, till I counted a good dozen. ' It's about the time', says I, thinkin'. Well, my pet ; it wasn't very long, agin, till I hard a foot coiiiiii^ down the stairs, an' I shet the dour, asier than I opened id, all bud a little, an' I spied out through the split. An', sure enough, I seen the body I was spyin' for, un- lockin' the parlour dour. She had a candle in her hand ; so I could remark her. In she stepped, as asy as myself could do id ; bud, for as cute as she went to work, I hard her takin' the bar from the winder " THE CROPPY. 113 " What !" interrupted Eliza, terrified; "are you quite certain, Nanny ?" " Wait, my pet ; an' I hard the winder risin"' up, ever so quite an azy, agin ; an' id went down, then, an' the shetthers came to- gether, closin' outside. I waited a space, an' I stole into the room ; an' I seen the candle in the grate ; an' I seen she pult the shetthers afther her, as soon as she got out." " Shocking ! Did you then go to rest, Nanny ?" *' No, my honey ! that 'ud be lavin' the stockin' unfinished for the sake o' the last one or two rows. No, faix. I waited an' waited in the hall ; an' it was a good hour, or more nor an hour, afore I hard her steps comin' to the winder ; an' then I stole behint the door that lades to the kitchen, over agin ; an' I hard her staUn' in ; an' boultin' the winder afther her ; an' lockin' the parlour-dour the way she found id ; an' goin' up stairs, wid her candle in her hand ; an', as she crossed the hall, sure I seen her, face to face, through the split." " Oh, this is terrible, Nanny ! What am I to do ? — how arrange ? It must not be made a talking matter, whatever happens ; — tell me, 114 THE CROPPY. Nanny, have you communicated these matters to any other person ?" " To no livin' soul, Miss Eliza; ' for,' says I, it wouldn't be the best way to make a noise o' the thing, because the honey, Miss Ehza, ud gain no good will by havin' id known or said she war friends wid a bould woman like her, Lord keep us all far from one o"* the sort ! — or if she 's not so bad, only cracked an"* moon- sthruck, it wouldn't be charity to tell the world o' the poor cratures tanthrumsy^ " I am obliged by your consideration and prudence, Nanny; and, till I make up my mind on the subject, you have my commands to act the same part. You could not possibly be mistaken in the person ?" '* Ntchu, ntchu ; wasn't id to make cock-sure I done all this. Miss Eliza ? — an' — bud. Lord save us !" lowering her voice, and raising two fingers, with a knitting-needle stuck between them—*' h-ushth ! what 's that, now !" With startled features and breath kept in, Eliza listened. Belinda's chamber was the third from her's, in a corridor passage that ran the length of the back of the house. Eliza dis- tinctly heard a door creak on its hinges. A stately * Mad vagaries. THE CROPPY. 115 and measured step then came along the passage. She was in an agony of terror, she knew not why. Nanny stole, without fully rising from her former position, to Eliza's side, where, again squatting " on her hunkers," she looked like an old puss much startled in her form. The step stopped at the door of our heroine's chamber. The handle turned. Eliza, unconsciously, laid her hand on Nanny's shoulder ; while, on her part, the at last discomfited Knitter held fast by the young lady's skirts. The door opened, and BeHnda St. John, at her usual slow pace, but with an unusual dignity, joined to a re- newal of the high excitement of features that had formerly terrified Eliza, walked into the apartment. " She hard me," whispered Nanny, " an' 1 11 get my -killin' from her." " Eliza Hartley," said Belinda, not seeming to notice the conscience-stricken Nanny, " I am come to bid you a farewell." " To bid a farewell, Belinda !" Eliza strove to compose her features and control her nerves. " Yes, my early friend. True, you are sur- prised, and I do not wonder. You cannot con- jecture why I should, at this strange hour, and 116 THE CROPPY. SO suddenly, prefer to depart. Let it suffice that I have reasons for my conduct, which I cannot now explain, but which, at another time, you may perhaps learn." So far, Belinda had addressed herself to Eliza, in the middle of the chamber, a good distance from her and Nanny. " Dear Belinda, it will seem strange, not to say unkind, if you indeed leave us in such a manner,"*' resumed EHza. " You do me only justice to wave the charge of unkindness. Strange it may seem — I can- not help that ; unkind to you I am not in thought or heart. And other parts of my conduct, while under your roof, will, no doubt, seem very strange too. You do not know that, when sleep closed the eyes of all other dwell- ers in Hartley Court, I have been rambling in the dear moonlight, about your lovelj^ walks here." Nanny gave a cautious pull at Eliza's skirt. " But, whatever turn my fancies may re- ceive, I am not, as I have heard some menials in your house whisper, Eliza — I am not mad." She advanced a step, and Nanny caused to recede the only portion of her round person which, from the way in which she sat, she THE CEOPPy. 117 could prudently put in motion. Belinda con- tinued — " Believe me, Eliza, — although of late, I have thought until my mind spun towards the verge of insanity, Belinda is yet mistress of herself, and perfectly understands the why and where- fore of her actions. To others, her intellect, with her fate, may appear darkened. Farewell. I will shortly clear up all doubtful appearances. —Your hand." As she continued very slowly to advance, Nanny increased her twitches at Eliza's skirt, accompanying them with what she would term " nudges" of her elbow, as she again whis- pered — " Don't put thrust in her, Miss Eliza, my pet — it's their cute way o"* talkin', till they can once lay hoult. Bid her stay off, an' let us call up Tim an' the poor masther." But Eliza's self-possession had in a degree returned. She arose to receive her friend's adieus, still pressing upon her, and now more warmly than before, tlie propriety of deferring her departure until morning. *' No, Eliza, it cannot be. I did not even intend to disturb you : after writing you a note, I had purposed to leave Hartley Court by 118 THE CROPPV. Stealth ; but seeing your light, I concluded you had not retired to rest, and then could not re- sist the temptation of a personal farewell. God bless you, my earliest, and now only friend — What ! do you fear me ? Am I doomed to lose your love, too ?" '• Fear you, dear Belinda," answered Eliza, with a forced smile, " what folly would you suppose? Farewell, if it must be so""* — tears wetted the cheek she had held out for a salute. " EUza," whispered Belinda, ere she com- pleted her farewells, " my first and last words must be the same. Be faithful to your first love — or — remember the warning.'"* She solemnly kissed Eliza's pallid cheeks, and slowly paced out of the chamber. Nanny and our heroine heard her open the parlour- window. They did not exchange a word. But, when sufficient time had elapsed to suppose her fairly out of the house and out of hearing, Nanny, re-establishing herself in the full comfort of her usual sitting position, and gathering together her somewhat deranged knitting apparatus, said, with a relieving sigh, — " An"* a good riddance, Miss Eliza my honey." THE CROPPY. 11^ Eliza Hartley and Belinda St. John did not soon meet again ; but when they did, it was amid scenes of grief and horror, for an account of which, the reader must have patience to wait till almost our closing chapter. 120 THE CHOPPY. CHAPTER VI. In the calmer reflection of the ensuing morn- ing, Eliza's terrors gave way to mere surprise. All her former arguments against attaching any importance to Belinda's prophecy were severally gone over with renewed success ; and, sup- posing her friend not mad, the singularity of the young lady's conduct while at Hartley Court, was the sole matter connected with her, that now engaged our heroine. But the mystery of Belinda's actions remained impervious. Eliza could not fully credit her assertion, that her midnight rambles had been taken merely out of a preference for nocturnal exercise in the open air ; and she vainly set about assigning or discovering another cause. In vain, too, did Nanny exercise her keenest and most cautious scrutiny ; and our heroine was obliged to content herself with the disagreeable, and, in recollection of former days of pure and virtuous THE CROPPY. 121 friendship, the distressing inference, that they could be no proper motives which induced Be- linda to put on with her concealment the ap- pearance, at least, of impropriety. In about a week from the scene with which the former chapter concluded. Sir William Judkin re-appeared at Hartley Court ; and in the sunshine of his fascinating society Eliza's disquietudes gradually faded away. Belinda's prophecy only called up a smile, as, seated by her lover's side, she received, day after day, new proofs of his tender and ardent devotion ; and the whole recollection of her old school- fellow's visit, of its mystery, its gloom, and its dispiriting impressions, had no more effect than the dream of night, which, in possession of our senses, and surrounded by friends and substantial happiness, we recombine by snatches, rather for mirth than out of fear. No matter what we have previously conjec- tured concerning our dear heroine's deferring practices with her lover, one ground for her procrastination we do now venture, out of a feeling for her, altogether to give up: — she could not, surely, share any of the nature of the household cat, when that little half- tamed hyena sports with her prey, and seems merely VOL. I. G 122 THE CROPPY. to laugh out at its lengthened anguish. And whatever may really have been Eliza's former reasons for keeping her captive in similar ago- nies, it is with equal satisfaction, still, on her account, that we can at last announce his pre- sent comparative state of felicity. So, upon the morning of a day dedicated to an excursion, in which the reader shall accompany him, Sir William, when he least expected to hear them, caught the few accents that made him an ex- tatic man ; and, although between his specula- tive approval as a lover, and his real accept- ance in another chararacter. Miss Alicia, alive to the proprieties as well as to the sweets of the tender passion, contrived, by a formal inter- ference with Sir Thomas and her niece, to cast a weary interv^al of probation ; still, while the lover prepared to attend his mistress upon the excursion mentioned — an excursion, by the way, doomed to influence the fate of both, his newly acquired certainty of mutual attachment, conferred a tranquil joy, which not even that tantalizing prospect could for the present, at least, disturb. The reader will please to observe, that our heroine, and, of course, all our other person- ages, are now six months older than when he THE CROPPY. i^S and they first became acquainted. We have arrived, in fact, at the season when white- bearded Winter lords it over the infant Year. It is the month of January 1798, — that baleful year which, yet in its cradle, was doomed to witness, in Ireland, such scenes of convulsion, of carnage, and of horror, as, to this day, leave a shuddering recollection amongst the inhabi- tants of our country. " They were dreadful times/' the Irish peasant will mutter ; '' may we never see the like again !" A party of dragoons, on their route from Wexford, where they had been quartered, seized, at the market of the next village, the horses of some of Sir Thomas's tenantry, over- loaded them with baggage, ill-used them, and, at the termination of a long march, not only gave no payment for their services, but exact- ed money before they would restore them. Some of the same regiment subsequently made an incursion into his neighbourhood, laid hands on the property of his poorer dependents, and, when remuneration was sought, bestowed only blows and insult. Sir Thomas made applica- tion for redress to their commanding officer ; and the answer, ** that the Croppy rascals were treated as they deserved," by no means satisfied G 2 124 THE CROPPY. his ideas of justice. He resolved to appeal to higher authority. The announcement of a re- view by an inspecting general of the military force of the county, seemed to afford his oppor- tunity. He would state his case of grievance to the general, on the review-field, in the face of the soldiers and their officers ; and this was for liim an unfortunate resolution. Eliza, not unagitated at the idea of a mus- ter of so many hundreds of red-coated heroes, prayed to be allowed to accompany her father : and true as the index to the hour, the needle to its pole, the shadow to its substance, (we wish we could, without much pause or trouble, invent some new figure,) her knight waited upon her. But, by the way, though the last figure, like the other two, is hackneyed enough, and though we cannot replace it with an original one, it strikes us that, at least, a novel use may be made of it. Are not human attachments more variously comparable with substance and shadow than allusion has hitherto shown them ? When the sun shines, or even when the less lustrous moon is brilliant, the shade attends upon the person who walks in the beam of either ; but, alas ! when clouds or storms blot out the god of the firmament, or when the moon THE CROPPY. 125 is gone, and darkness wraps the world, the du- teous shadow is no longer in waiting. And, during the gloom of our reverses, is it not just so with the obsequious followers in the blaze of former prosperity ? Do they not prove them- selves shadows, indeed, vanishing with the de- crease of the ray, which, falling upon us, cast them into our train ? Well ; and if they do : one phenomenon seems as inevitable as the other, and cannot be corrected by any prosing sorrow of our's that it is so. Our three friends set out in Sir Thomas's ample and rather heavy family carriage, and without any mishap arrived on the review- ground : it was a large, level field, not far from his residence, and also contiguous to the ancient town of Wexford. The whole military force, which for some time had been assembled, showed, at the first glance, but a very small proportion of regular soldiers. In fact, whe- ther from the imperfect information received by Government, the isolation of the district, or the character for superior industry and intelligence attributed to its inhabitants, nothing like a force sufficient to curb the insurrection, which quickly followed, had yet been sent into the County of Wexford. Now, in January 1798, 1S6 THE CROPPY. only a few months from actual warfare, there was upon the review-field but one troop of regular dragoons, supported by about three hundred militia ; while the great remainder of a thousand men, or more, were made up of yeomen horse and foot : an undisciplined, mot- ley, and grotesque body, for whom old Leham- berg's humorous description, in 1688, of his Northern Irish colleagues, might in a degree stand good. It is our intention to take the reader by the arm, and, in the suite of Sir Thomas Hartley, Eliza, and Sir William Judkin, point out to him the different elements of which the array was composed. And, during our progress, we farther intend to be in good humour, and to smile whenever we meet excitement for our risi- bility ; because, in truth, we are weary of the seriousness of the last chapters, and disposed to relax the muscles of our countenance. Yet, before we engage in our walk of inspec- tion, we are called upon to notice a certain cha- racter, who seems to think himself connected with the interests of our heroine, and accord- ingly claims our passing regard. It was a fine afternoon, although one in the icicle month of January ; old Winter tried to THE CROPPY. 127 put on a smile ; the sun shone out with a clear, sharp lustre, through an atmosphere of quick-descending frost, which, though itself invisible to the eye, by catching the noontide beam upon each of its myriad atoms, gave much of the sparkling brilliancy peculiar to this kind of day. If the young heart be free from care, a desire for brisk, laughing exercise is felt in such weather. The air, chastened of the drowsy fog, passes in a free current through the lungs, and the blood is sent freshly through the frame ; as the youthful eye glances around, the firmament is a brilliant blue ; the earth, having its clinging clod dried up, is pleasant to the foot, and the wish for the bounding walk or the hearty race involuntarily starts into the mind. Had Eliza been at home, near her ash- tree, alone, and unobserved, perhaps she would have given way to such an impulse; even in her present situation, she, tired of the gloomy old carriage, and, at her request, her father, and, it need scarce be added, her lover, descended to walk about the review-field. ^ As she leaned on Sir Thomas's arm, Sir Wil- liam, with obsequious bend, partly forward, and partly to one side, assumed his place at her opposite shoulder, anxiously seeking to catch 128 THE CROPPY. the most slightly whispered opinion ; not for the purpose, it is deemed, of questioning its cogency, but that he might assent to it heart and soul, no matter what it proved to be, as " wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best." Such is the tiny tyrant, that, not content to give the heart away, he bestows, along with it, all our faculties and perceptions ; so that your true lover becomes a heartless, stupid lad ; and yet, strange to say, he is valued for those defects by one who, excepting that she is mortal, is, in all other respects, a divinity — that is, to the sight- less eyes of her infatuated '* thrall."" But this is digression upon digression ; and, indeed, we begin to suspect ourselves of a prodigious incli- nation to gossiping. A serene frost generally suspends the labour of those employed in cultivating the earth, as can be vouched even by all of our London readers, whose ears have been invaded, about Christmas-time, with the startling whoop of " Poor gardeners froze out.'' But the husband- man, particularly, is made idle by the rigours of a frosty season ; and to this circumstance we may partly attribute the presence of a number of peasantry on the review-ground. At the side of the field opposite that upon which the troops THt CROPPY. 129 appeared in line, they were collected in various groups. And perhaps, even had the weather been auspicious for country work, many amongst them would not have lost this opportunity to witness — under the impression that they might be called to cope with the men before them — a display of military evolution. Much jeering remark might be heard from them as they descanted on the unsoldierlike appearance of *' the Shoneens,*^ or " Johnnys" — a term of derision applied to the lower class of the opposite persuasion, who had been plant- ed, by certain landed proprietors, among the native peasantry, as, in some degree, an antidote to the amazino' fructification of Catholicism. Even to the inexperienced eye, the bungling and slovenly attempts at martial appearance of many of these poor men, were quite visible ; and the abhorring peasant would not forfeit an opportunity of allowing some of his hatred to ooze out in humoursome contempt. Mixed with bitter taunt, there might also be overheard a muttered threat, or perhaps a more steady re- mark upon the best manner of contending with such enemies. In passing these groups. Sir Thomas Hartley was greeted by cordial salutations of love and G 5 130 THE CROPPY. good-will. Indeed, notwithstanding his dif- ferent religion, the Baronet was in reahty re- garded in no other light than that of one who, at some future day, would be a commander over " the boys," in the expected insurrec- tion. As our party approached a corner of the field, the most remote from the armed line, they observed a crowd assembled about a particular spot ; while a voice, hoarse from over exertion, bellowed out from amongst them — '* It's on the sheet, an' it's on the dice ! — Twenty-four is three pound — an' I won't pay you in your paper-rags, either — no, ma-hurp an-duoul ! — you moost get it in white an' yal- low — Twenty-four is three pound — Thirty is four shillins' — Forty is three tasthers ! — Rowl in, here, my sportin' devarthers ! — faint heart never won a fair lady ! — worse than lose you can't — an', by the powers, you'll win ! — Goold and silver for the ould bits o' brass ! — Is there no spuddoch wid any o' ye ?" Ere the close of this speech, the crowd im- mediately encircling the speaker divided, and gave Sir Thomas a partial view of his person. The Baronet was somewhat of a curious student of his fellow-creatures of every class. He felt THE CROPPY. 131 an impulse to stop a moment and look more closely at the fellow. Eliza pressed his arm ; he became alive to his situation, and moved forward. But much farther progress was now a work of some difficulty. Outer circles of peasants had closed round the fashionable party, as well as round others of the same rank, all eager to be spectators, at least until the inspecting general should arrive and the re- view begin, of the losses and gains, the hopes and disappointments, of such of their class as might venture to try their fortune " on the sheet." Eliza shrank from a bustle through the increasing crowd more than she had from standing still ; she also recollected her father's disposition to be amused with such characters as the rustic gamester, and, at her instance, Sir Thomas and Sir William gave over these endeavours to make way. A group, composed with but few excep- tions of the younger peasantry, encircled a small dial- table, over which bent the agitator of the scene. He was a man of middle age and bulky form. From the tendency of his dark sandy hair and whiskers to assume a grey- ish cast, and from the appearance of one or two slight furrows in his cheek, he might be 132 THE CROPPY. about fifty ; but his face was ruddy, and, even without the effects of the weather now so vi- sible upon it, must have shown rather a youth- ful colour. When his full, well-formed lips rested on each other, they parted forward with an expression of bold self-confidence ; and when in motion, always showed a half- suppressed, jeering smile. Occasionally, as he raised his head, his dark hazel eye shot round from face to face with such rapidity, that the person it scrutinized scarcely became aware of the glance which conveyed, fully for all purposes, to the acute observer, his character, or his state of feeling. The complex expression of the man's visage was made up of habitual cunning, a chuckling consciousness of superior sagacity, comprising perhaps contempt for his dupes, and all glossed over by a frank, bullying, good humour. Industry stamps value upon acquired means, indeed upon acquirement of every kind; but sudden and undesired gains generally seem to be as little regarded by their possessor, as, in his person, by the world at large. Successful knaves often spend as fast as they get ; and, amongst the lower classes at least, whatever may be their uniform good fortune, they never THE CROPPY. 133 even look respectable. Their-very clothes in- dicate their unsettled state of self-estimation. In the present instance, our individual rogue was dressed in that style of shifting contriv- ance which marks his tribe. His coat, ori- ginally manufactured at the nation'*s expense, and first worn by some one of His Majesty's soldiers, had undergone a process, by no means unusual, for adaptation to its present tenant. Its cape had been stripped off, and then it had been dipped into the hatter's vat, whence it etnerged boasting a nondescript colour, liable, at a distance, to be called black, but, at a nearer view, showing the primitive underground of dusky red. The fellow's vest was of dap- pled calf-skin, the hairy side out, and buttoned (let us not suspect why, as, since his day, such a mode of wearing vests has become fa- shionable) to his chin. Round his neck was loosely tied a tattered silk-handkerchief, stuff- ed with some uncouth kind of wadding, into the shape — perhaps not unaptly prophetic — of a thick halter ; and his rusty hat, much too capacious for its chance wearer, had been pre- vented from falling over his eyes by a con- trivance that, in our opinion, gives a pecu- liar and finished air of vaorabondism to its 134 THE CROPPY. adopter, — namely, the filling up, with a truss of rags, the superfluous space between the fore- head and the inner edge of the beaver. On the Uttle deal-table before him was a spa- cious sheet of paper, described at the top, in great red letters — " The New London Sheet Lottery." It was divided into square compart- ments, each of which contained a number ; and beneath every number might be deciphered either a certain sum, by way of prize, or the much more frequently occurring *' blank, blank, blank :" — the former printed in red, the latter in mourning black ; as if the meaning of the word could not sufficiently distinguish it, or suffi- ciently distress a loser. In a tin vessel, bulged, battered and bent, the result of many spirit- ed or despairing knocks against tlie table, he rattled a set of dice, eight or nine in number, fabricated without any attention to uniformity of size or shape, — one being oblong, another nearly triangular, another inclined to a sphe- rical form, but none exactly square ; and so contrived, no doubt, in order to be managed to good advantage by the proprietor, and, in an increase ratio, by occasional amateurs. As he continued to rattle these dice in their curious tin box, the bold knave still growled THE CROPFY. 1S5 forth — (for, as has been mentioned, all clearness of voice was gone, by constant exercise) — " It's on the sheet, an' it's on the dice, I tell ye ! — whoo ! rowl in ! there 's the getherin' o' three pounds for the beggarly pinnies ! What 's the matther wid ye ? Tundher-an'-turf ! an' tun- dher-an'-ages !" He gesticulated most extra- vagantly, and flourished his rattling box about his head, and then thumped it down, as he went on : " My heavy curse stick to ye all, like wax ! is there no courage among ye, at all at all ?" But there seemed to be a stagnation of the gambling disposition among his audience ; chiefly owing, perhaps, to the ill-success which, in their oAvn persons, or those of their friends, had attended late speculations. " Hould up, here !" suddenly elevating his shoulders and arms, to get rid of some who pressed upon him : '' hould up, ye beg-avaw* thiefs ; is there none o' ye has the spuddock, I say agin ? Ah ] mec7iauya /-f* my shame be upon ye, every mo- ther's son ! A poor man an' a coward, the saints above hates — so they do ! Here 's the money wrastlin' for the bare life in my pocket below, wantin' to see which o' ye comes out * Good for nothing. f A term of contempt. 136 THE CROPPY. first, an'' no one 'ill give id a chance ! Take a throw, ould daddy !"" lowering his voice, as he suddenly addressed a withered greybeard, and stooped across the table to catch him by the lapel of the coat. The old fellow gave a smile of denial, that half-pretended to know " a thing better,"" and half had a silly expression. '' Take a throw, daddy ; — I '11 call you my daddy, becase you "re ouldher nor me ; an', by the piper ! a purty little ould man too ! I wish I had such a clane ould daddy, in thrue arnest ! Take ; — my sowl to glory ! bud I 'm for your good — " The sire still smiled and shook his head. " Do— just a throw ! you'll win ! There 's a loocky dhrop stannin' in your eye ! Come, your sowl ! — You won't ? Well, then, take a throw for nothin'." This proposal was accepted : the old man took up the tin vessel. '^ Rattle 'em well !" continued the orator ; " thump their heads together, to warn 'em aforehand what you want." While speaking, he contrived to peep into the cannister : — '* Down wid 'em now, my boy !" and he prompt- ed the adventurer's hand to the action. " That's THE CROPPY. 137 your sort ! that 's id ! — well done, ould daddy! — now, there *s money on the faces iv ""em : wait, a doochey-bit, 2i-cuishla^ as the old fellow mo- tioned to examine his venture, and all heads were poked down to witness the luck. ** It 's myself won't let ye have id to say bud I gave ye a chance. Is there ever a one to pay for the daddy's throw ? there 's the worth o' the money undher the can ; — will you pay for the throw ?" abruptly slapping the shoulder of a man with a round, pock-marked face, and large puffy eyes, who, his under- jaw dropped, stood gazing and gaping ; and now he started, almost jumped aside, and looked frightened, at the suddenness and briskness with which he was addressed. And " No — a — '' he drawled out, " my mother didn't gi' me any laffenas,* comin' to see the sodgers, for fear I 'd — '^ " Go home, out o' this, to your mother, then, or I 'II send you ridin' on a thrawneen wid the fairies, for a year an' a day." " Oh — a — musha — a — oh — a — ," said the person thus exhorted, as, in real alarm, he slowly withdrew from the cabalistic scene, to meet us, however, at another time and place. * Halfpence, 138 THE CROPPY. " Hah I hah !" laughed the master of the ceremonies, " I done for that ownshuck. Pay for the throw ?" now speaking to a smart-look- ing lad opposite to him. " You 're too great a rogue, Rattlin' Bill ; there 's neither loock nor grace near the ground you stand on/' '^ Only it 's not the way wid me,"" retorted Bill, " to be callin' poor people, like you, out o' their names, I'd say i/ou were an honest boy. Will nobody pay for the throw ? Daddy, be your own friend, pay for id, yoursef.'' " Didn't you give the throw for nothin' at all .?" questioned daddy. " Och ! to be sure I did : an' didn't you take id for the same price?" pushing his jeering face close to that of the querist : " bud, to give the chance o' money for the nothin' that the Connaughtman shot at — that 's a horse of another colour, ould daddy. Come, take your own gor 9oon's advice, an' pay for the loock ; — you won't ? well, remember, I gave the offer." His oratory availed nothing; but, in the very critical moment of confirmed caution of him and his tin box, a ragged fellow, whose knee rested on a wooden-leg, while the proper member poked out at full length behind, stump- THE CROPPY. 130 ed and bustled his way to the table. " Come," he said, assuming the most innocent of guileless smiles, and having shoved up his bulged hat for the purpose, he applied his fingers behind his ear, " come, I '11 thry my loock ; an' who knows, by dad ! but a poor boy that 's in the want iv id, 'ud have gain comin^ to him ; sure, we "*11 have the good- will o' the neighbours on our side, any way;'' and he modestly looked for an assurance into the faces of those around him. " Our good- will is all you '11 have for your money," said one. " By my conscience !" remarked another, "a dhrop o' liquor to warm your heart 'ud be betther for you than the rattiin' o' the cannis- ther, in regard o' your good threepence." There was a loud, assenting laugh. The ad- venturer looked dubious, holding his pence between his finger and thumb. " Pitch 'em all to the dhunnm^ said Rat- tling Bill, snatching the threepence. " Give us our money," whined the fellow. '* Not a rap farth'n," answered Bill, pushing the cannister to his hand. '* Well, here goes, at any how," again as- suming his innocent smile. 140 THE CROrPY. He threw, and won sixpence. Agreeing to take two casts more, in lieu of his prize, he still rattled the dice. His last venture entitled him to four shillings. " That 's wrong T exclaimed Bill ; " a wrong throw, by ! I won't give into id." " Och ! boys, boys ! don't see a poor crature sarved this way: I have bud the one leg, boys i" appealed the man with the wooden member to the lookers-on. " Pay him his winnins, Bill V cried a voice. " Not as mooch as a keenogue,''''^ said Bill. " You must down wid it !" added many in- terested voices. " Gi' me my own, you rogue o' the world," whimpered the cripple. " It 's you is the born thief,'"' retorted Bill. '' Come, pay the poor crature his money !" exhorted an athletic lad, frowning ominously on the owner of the dice. The crowd prepared to second him in a mere act of justice. " Here, ye robbers," at last said Bill, thrust- ing his hand into his pocket, " ye shan't have id to say that I hung my ears for four shillings, — no, by the piper ! nor if they war pounds : — * An imaginary coin — half a farthing. THE CROPPY. 141 here, you DiviFs darlin' !'' and he grinned into the face of the winner — " here ! an' that your other leg may turn out sthraight afore you, the same as the one behind, just to have you aqul at the two sides !'' '• By dad V replied the other, smiling and winking on the crowd, as he turned the money over and over in his hand : — '' By dad ! them that loses is welcome to be cranky, an' why not, rememberin" the auld sayin"*, for them that wins? so, we'll say good by to you, a-vich, while weVe well off." And Rattling BilPs accomplice, with whom, as well as his res- pectable principal, we are doomed to have much to do, stumped through the throng, nodding and smiling, and exhibiting his very consider- able gains. The bait took. Upon witnessing the indis- putable good fortune of the wooden-legged hero, many again ventured ; but, blank, blank, was the successive recurrence, for every throw. Eliza had perceived that almost as soon as, to indulge her father's humour rather than her own taste and indeed to avoid scrambhng through the outer mob, she had stopped oppo- site the gambling-table, the presence of the *' gontlefolk" was observed by Rattling Bill. 142 THE CROPPY. Yet, after the quick glance that gave him his information, the master of the dice seemed un- conscious of their proximity : and this appear- ance he for some time well supported. But, during some of his most vehement ges- ticulation or rhodomontade, and while employed in his knavish business, our heroine afterwards caught the man's eye stealthily fixed on her's, with an expression of maliciousness, joined to its rude familiarity, which rendered it peculiarly disagreeable. As the scene of his triumphant rascality proceeded, his glances, always cauti- ously and cleverly ventured whenever the eyes of Sir Thomas and Sir William were turned away, became more bold; and Eliza was at length about to urge her father to leave the spot, at any risks, when a new occurrence sus- pended her intention. After innumerable repetitions of the doleful word " blank," the crowd, of whom the greater portion had, by this time, been losers, began to wax suspicious and discontented : and one, who, instead of his anticipated prize, nay of his lost threepence, had just heard the hated sound, grew restive. He could not read ; but he took it upon himself to affirm, that the number he had last thrown was the same upon which the THE CROPPY. 143 wooden-legged man arrived at wealth, for the day. Some thought he was right, others knew he was wrong, yet, in revenge for their own losses, gave judgment against Bill. In this dilemma, the baited juggler appealed "to the gintlemen ;" now, for the first time, seem- ing aware of the presence of the two Baronets. The group immediately round the table turned to ascertain to Avhom the reference had been made, and recognizing Sir Thomas, they, with much officious deference, opened their cir- cle to admit the arbitrators. Sir Thomas, smiling to find himself thus ap- pointed by acclamation to dispense "even-hand- ed justice" in so curious a case, stepped to the table. Overstrained condescension was, per- haps, one of the faulty traits in his character, although it caused him to be idolized by the people in his neighbourhood ; and, in this view, might be supposed to minister to his pride bet- ter than a more lofty and distant demeanour. If at any time reminded of his foible, he showed a degree of ill-temper to which he was, in all other circumstances, a stranger. Eliza, accus- tomed since childhood to observe her only parent, knew all these facts ; and her recollec- tion of the latter would not permit her to draw 144 THE CROPPY. back, even as her father advanced more close- ly towards the person whom she thought there was some reason she should avoid. " Now hould your clattherin"* tongues, ye set o"* sprissauns," said Rattling Bill ; and Sir Thomas promptly informed the demurring loser, that the number thrown was indeed a blank. " Well," said the discomfited though now acquiescing lad, " any honest body'*s word ^ud do wid me, not to talk iv your honour's, in the place o' that kiln-dried rogue foment you ; for, as sure as there is a place below," pointing downward, " a place that we won't call by its name, out o** regard to your honour^ an' the young misthress, God bless her ! ould Nick 'ill be rattlin' dice in his skull yet, if he doesn't chate the bouchal of his bargain, as he chates the rest o' the world." " Ay," replied Bill, not so choice of his lan- guage, " when he 's thro win' for bad sowls on red-hot griddles, wid sinners' burnt killy- bones in the place o' the nath'r'l dice; an' then, if he doesn't win you^ at the first offer, nawbocklish * — that's all." *' For one crooked sthraw, 1 'd send you to * Never mind. THE CHOPPY. 145 him sooner nor ye both bargained for !" retorted the vexed loser ; and he clenched his cudgel, and looked ferociously at Rattling Bill. " Be quiet, my good lad," said Sir Thomas Hartley, laying his hand on his arm ; " you must not proceed to violence." '* Then he ought to be down on his knees, prayin' for your honour, if he hasn't forgot to do the like ; or, by the stick in my hand ! I 'd put him in a way that wouldn't let him be chatin** the country-boys agin." The wrathful youth withdrew as he said this, now and then turning his head over his shoul- der to look his postponed purpose at the in- different person he threatened ; and then he took up a new^ position, a little outside the inner circle, chafing and muttering, and, with many idle graspings of his shillelah, repeating, for his own satisfaction, what he w^ould do "if his honour wasn't to the fore." " Come, boys !" resumed Rattling Bill, al- most as soon as his last hostile word had been uttered, now assuming a very jovial look and tone ; and he was about to proceed with some new matter, when Sir Thomas and his party turned from the table. " Your honours,'' he then went on imploring- VOL. I. H 146 THE CnOPPY. \y, ** don't go till ye just see this ;— your hansome young honour, look here !" addressing Sir Wil- liam ; " maybe, you'd hke to thry id yoursef : I'm goin' to ax the poor boys to take a throw that 'ill tell their fort'ns. Come, gor9oons — no charge — the loock in store for some o' ye wouldn't be worth payin' for — I '11 tell any boy among ye, the colleen that 'ill be his own yet.— Who '11 take a throw to know aforehand, the plague that '11 stick to him all the days iv his life ? Will i/ou ?" holding the divining can- nister to a stripling near him. " No," said Sir William, who had turned round in good humour at Bill's personal appeal ; *' give it to the lad by your side. I know ^/w, and should like to judge of your prophetic powers in a case where it is not likely you have prepared the person to prophecy for himself." " Wid all my heart," readily assented Bill ; " here, a-vich, take it — rattle 'em well — now ! that 's id — " as the lad smote the table — *' again to id !" — another throw was given — " Whuop ! thry your hand the third hait — third an' last settles it for you." The third throw accordingly ensued. The knave consulted the dice a moment. THE CROPrY. 147 " Now hoiild your ear, a-hagu ;"" he ^vhis- pered the youth, who, at his first word, started and first stared upon Bill in fearful amazement, while the conjuror returned his gaze with a leer of self-satisfied cunning. In a few seconds, the lad became aware of the confessing state of feel- ing he had exhibited, and, making an awkward attempt to dissimulate, blushed to the eyes, as he stammered out — " Bud you 're wrong now — you didn't guess id/' " What colour is red ?'*' queried Bill, sink- ing his head towards him, and using a confi- dential tone, loud enough, however, for his purposes. The strippling made no reply, but, blushing again, dropped his chin on his breast, and seemed consulting the toes of his brogues. " Don't be afeard o' me !" resumed Bill— " keep your sacret, an' it 's all between yoursef an' mysef;" and the fidgets, and continued silence of the detected lover, belied his former words, and told that Bill had made a true hit. " Won't you thry your hand, neighbour r" continued the juggler to another present. The same ceremony was gone through, as much on the part of the adventurer, for the pleasure of rattling the dice in the noisy tin box, and of H 2 148 THE CROPPY. thumping the table with it, as from any serious calculations on the results. Again, however, Bill whispered this second candidate for know- ledge of the future ; and, '• Who the duoul tould you that?" ques- tioned the young rustic, in sudden alarm. " Who tould me ? Don't you see id on the dice ?" The lad looked as if a secret of vital impor- tance, which he had believed no one but him- self ^nd the powers above and below were aware of, had just been whispered in his ear. Our party were again retiring. " Won't your young honour thry your own loock ?" asked Bill of Sir WilHam. " Some other time, perhaps,'* answered the Baronet good-humouredly. " But the handsome young lady, won't she .P" Eliza bowed her head in cold dissent. Bill briskly wheeled round the table, with the con- juring canister in his hand, and confronted her. " Just touch your lily hand upon id, an' we '11 throw for you, 'twill do as well." Our heroine looked haughtily offended. Sir Thomas glanced among the peasants, and ob- serving that they seemed gleeishly to expect the condescension, whispered — " Touch it, my THE CROPPY. 149 love, if only to get rid of the mountebank, and please those poor people." Thus exhorted, EHza complied. Bill was at his table again in a moment. Our friends would not wait to witness the result of his divi- nation ; but, as they made way through the now yielding crowd, Eliza heard him shake the ill-fashioned bones in the vessel, and then thump it down three times, as in the former cases. She was not moving away from Bill with her back directly turned ; and ere they quite lost sight of each other, her eyes involuntarily re- curred to the place where he remained. Stand- ing upright over the table, and with one finger resting among the scattered dice, as if he had just summed up their pretended prediction, she found the fellow looking at her more expressive- ly than before. Malignity, she thought, mixed with the bold, personal meaning of his glance ; and Eliza felt some terror and much disgust at its expression. Yet, in a fit of fascination, similar to that which causes the lonely boy, in his quaking journey through the midnight dell, to rivet his eye intensely on the bush his fears have shaped into some fearful form, she could not immediately withdraw her gaze from the look that thus agitated her : and, during the 150 THE CROPPY. few seconds she continued fixed by it, its dis- agreeable character increased, or Eliza's fancy made her think so Having passed the outskirts of the throng, and lost all view of her insolent tormenter, our heroine shook off these sensations, however, and brought herself to consider them as both un- becoming and silly. THE CROPPY. 151 CHAPTER VII. We proceed to perform our engagement of accompanying the reader along the martial line drawn out for his inspection. Its right was composed of horse. To the extreme right were two troops of heavy-dragoons; the remainder were yeoman-cavalry. The dragoons were able-bodied men, whose bearskin-crowned helmets shaded brows of menace and of daring purpose. Their attention to the exhibition, nay to the exaggeration of person deemed necessary to impress beholders with an idea of prowess, and their minute ob- servance of uniformity of costume, bespoke the soldier by profession. Their well-burnished accoutrements, disposed with fastidious re- gularity, gave fearful show of readiness for combat. As they sat in their saddles, erect and motionless, it seemed the situation for which they had been created ; so much " pride of 152 THE CHOPPY. place," and such grave self-possession did they exhibit. The noble steeds they bestrode, proud to bear such burdens, switched their long, shining tails, or pawed the turf, to express their wish for the clattering career; yet they stirred not from their positions ; their strength and power altogether at the disposal of the weaker but reasoning beings who had acquired habitual sway over their shghtest will and motion. Whatever may be the practical value of a well-disciplined column of infantry, the appear- ance of an armed man, thus mounted on his curveting war-horse, is immeasurably beyond that of the foot-soldier. His proud mastery over his charger, and the picture of both, dashing like one high-souled animal into the roar of battle, give a lofty idea of human power. And influenced, perhaps, by such an idea, the greater number of the yeoman force under our eye were caparisoned as cavalry. But other reasons might have guided the preference. A man who could furnish himself with a battle- horse, was palpably a person of more considera- tion than the mere pedestrian servant of his country. At a first and inexperienced glance, too, there seemed less of fatigue in military THE CHOPPY. 153 evolutions performed by one's horse, instead of oneself: and, again, if the man of impetuous courage could be borne into the combat with velocity equal to his daring, it may have pru- dently occurred to other cavaliers, that, on the retreat^ the united efforts of man and horse have a manifest superiority over the soldier who can only run away on foot. The yeomanry corps next to the regular dragoons, was one to which precedence was yielded, in consequence of its appearance, and of the consideration of those who mostly filled its ranks. They were indeed, generally speak- ing, men of property, who bore, in their new guise of soldiers, the characteristics of their civil rank in life. The young fellows amongst them had succeeded in convincing their fair friends, whether sisters or mistresses, that the helm sat gallantly on their foreheads ; and white palms were often closed together in ad- miration of their air, as they vaulted into the saddle, or older ladies looked with pleasure and pride through their spectacles, at tlie man- ly form now dihgently displayed in its new attire, and at the dashing deportment which a change of calling suggested as necessarily in character. As these handsome patriots strutted H 5 154 THE CROPPY. to the fireside, and fe arfully flourished their flashing blades, eyes, of which the beams, like the lightnings of those same polished weapons, were but the harbingers of a death-wound, closed in an appeal of mock terror, to be spared the impending blow; and there is authority for adding that, in many cases, suits which had been but coolly received at an every-day civil pleading, were promptly yielded to the cou- rageous accolade of the yeoman. The post next in honour was occupied by the mounted and armed citizens of Wexford : some, gentlemen of independence, more or less ; some, the more respectable traders of the town. The former description of persons rode good serviceable steeds, and not a few amongst them were mounted in gallant show, filled their saddles with habitual ease and confidence, and altogether put on the warrior with much military assumption. Many of the trading folk also boasted sleek horses, and were well-accou- tred and caparisoned ; but contrast and variety might on a closer observation be noticed. Paunches that used to inconvenience the wearers on foot, rested comfortably against the soft bearskin of the holsters. AVhite locks were cumbered with a heavy headpiece, which threw THE CROPPY. 155 its stern shade over features of much pacific Christian endurance ; and " shrunk shanks/' that but half filled the heroic boot, rendered a horse necessary to enable the loyal old man to prove his principles in the field. Indeed, such an individual, riding about under the serious fardel of his accoutrements, supported his cause rather by self-infliction for its sake, than by any very effectual work he could be supposed to do amongst its enemies. Passing this corps, many others may be massed together who were composed of the most respectable of the middle classes of the neighbouring villages, or of the most wealthy among the Protestant gentlemen farmers ; and, generally speaking, each was commanded by the chief landed proprietor of a district. And to such corps attached the character of respect- able appearance, notwithstanding that, in some instances, little gallantry of attire, or little glitter of weapons or accoutrements, fascinated the eye of a beholder. The casque might press firmly down too, without adorning the head it defended : and the feather, astray of its proper smart erectness, might droop back- ward or forward, yet there was a soldierly expression about the men which recommended 156 THE CROrPY. them to notice. They looked as if they had mounted their serviceable horses for something beyond the purposes of display. If they sat imgracefully in their saddles, one could judge they would hold their places firmly ; and that the rust of the scabbard would not hinder from smiting bitterly the blade it preserved for no holiday purpose. The majority of inferior country corps, raised among the very lowest orders, by some obscure zealot, whose new title of captain was his first earthly dignity, looked as if they had pushed this feeling into fierce or stern excess. In fact, along with the untrained state of passion in- cidental to their general habits, they brought into the field the darkest religious prejudice — the darkest, we say, for they could not en- lighten themselves, much less others, with an account of why they hated ; perhaps, not even with *' an account of the faith that was in them ;" antipathy to the prevaihng creed of the country often forming the greater portion of their own. And in military outfit they were as imperfect and as shabby as in mental order. Uncombed locks strayed, along with glances not of the gentlest expression, from beneath the peak of THE CHOPPY. 157 the helm; their jackets were soot-stained, their uncleansed and smoke-dried boots crippled up knees unused to such control — indeed, in some instances, worsted hose was the only defence the leg could boast ; and very often a single rusty spur served the unbooted cavalier, who, how- ever, might vindicate his omission of the other, upon the principle of a certain well-reasoning poet, according to whom, if one side of a horse be compelled to travel, its fellow will not lag behind. And their untrained, ^shaggy steeds stood under them, spiritless and inert, drowsily enjoying, with closed eyes and necks poked downward, the '^ stand at ease," allowed before the arrival of the general. Not a whit puffed up did they seem at the new and ennobling service they were called to fill : not a whit transformed, in spirited imaginings, into warring- chargers, merely because a very rusty scabbard chafed against their ribs. Our inspection of the infantry now com- mences. The military heading its line were only part of a regiment quartered in the county ; they were attended, however, by a band of music. iMany will recollect that, at the time we treat of, the dressing of a soldier's head, for parade 158 THE CROPPY. or review, was the business of a morning. Powder and pomatum should have been the ingredients used at his toilet, but the private's scanty pay obliged him to substitute flour and soap ; and a compost of these matters having been abundantly mixed with the hair, he combed his locks at either side into two goodly chevauX'de-frize, leaving at top a ttte-toupee ; the whole much resembling, in miniature, a fortress on a hill, defended by lower outworks. But this was not all. The soldier of battalion farther wore, half-way down his back, a queu, a tail long enough for many among the monkey tribe ; and the grenadier displayed, between his brawny shoulders, an iron-bound packing-box, containing, or supposed to contain, hair, of the polishing and adjusting of which he was bound to be as careful as of his more valuable accoutre- ments. There was some sense, though of a tardy growth, in the order that dispensed with these curious appendages to manhood and soldier- ship ; and at the time of its promulgation, a punster did not lose the opportunity of observ- ing that, in any future affray, the soldiers of his Britannic Majesty could never again " turn tail/' Upon the review-field our militia marched into line without a hair awry. Their casques. THE CROPPY. 159 half-way between the succeeding cap and the horseman's helm, sat precisely above the chevaui- de-Jrize. In all other respects^ too, they showed like soldiers of that day. Coats, belts, pouches, white small-clothes, and tight black leggings, glittering with buttons, were spruce and debon- nair. The sun flashed from the polished barrels of their muskets ; the prim feathers stood per- pendicularly in their caps ; their chins rested easily on their stocks. But we cannot yield to these men more praise than that excited by their outwai'd show of dis- cipline. In habits and conduct, as soldiers, they had been debauched, and were a part of the force previously described by Abercrombie as " licentious and disorderly." Called to conflict, soon after they were em- bodied, not against equal foes, from whom the danger to be expected in attack renders neces- sary a systematized courage, but against nightly insurrectionists, who fled from regular contests, and who were to be put down by piecemeal vengeance, they had acquired, perhaps irre- sistibly, notions of military service destructive of discipline. In the particular instance before us, sectarian hatred gave energy to this half- bandit feeling of duty; and in the name of God, 160 THE CROPPY. as well as in the name of the King, cabins were rased, and, sometimes, the unresisting peasant met the fate of a resisting one, without much danger incurred, on the part of the slayer, of being called to account for the accident. As the yeoman cavalry of Wexford took the post of honour near to the regular dragoons, so the yeoman infantry of that town stood next to the militia. It has before been hinted, that many soldiers from the town of Wexford allowed themselves to be enrolled for his Majesty's service, rather to give a proof of their loyalty, of which readi- ness to take up arms was the test, than on ac- count of any great liking they felt for the new profession, or indeed any fitness they displayed for the hot struggle of the battle-field : our former remark will hold particularly good for the corps now passing under inspection. We remember one, at least, amongst them, who bore his musket strictly in this _sense, and in this only ; — that is, he was content to give the demonstration of principles required by putting on a red coat, and endeavouring to learn, late in life as it was to begin, the theory of a soldier's trade ; but of any. step beyond this, he never entertained a notion. He attended drill a? THE CROPPY. 161 punctually as he opened his shop ; but when his corps was sent to shoot at a target — a me- morable one, which had served for a whole month's practice, and was but little injured at the end of the campaign, — he never cared to put ball-cartridge into his piece, nor could ex- hortation or threat compel him to do so. — " Me !" he cried — " is it me ? — not I, upon my word and credit ; how do I know but I might hurt some one ?'' And another occurs to our recollection, who, after he had feelingly bidden his children adieu, would :°ssue forth to the day's duty, with a face of studied quietness that -seemed to say to all beholders, " although I carry this musket, let no man fear injury from me." Yet, we should admit that the front rank of this corps boasted a majority of well-dressed, well-looking soldiers, who did much credit to their native town, although serving as a screen to a number of uncouth figures in the rear; men, such as we have sketched, with so mucli of themselves in advance, that, at the word " close order," when they imagined they took up only one pace of ground, their covering files were pushed out of line ; and other feeble wights, who literally tottered under their mus- 162 THE CROPPY. kets, and took but little pride, and derived but little enjoyment from the vain pageantry in which they were compelled to bear a part. The corps we will next pause to notice, was also from the county town, but of inferior caste to the former honourable company, being com- posed of working mechanics, or persons not of trade or business, who held with them the same social rank. The first-mentioned brought into the field the several characteristic marks of their several occupations, by which, in civil attire, they might easily be distinguished from each other. The butcher handled his musket as if it had been a cleaver; the carpenter, as if it had been a saw ; the blacksmith, as if it had been a sledge ; the barber's muscular calves betrayed him ; the pale, hard-worked, and me- lancholy visage of the weaver was not to be mistaken ; and no previous drilHng of a Sunday, in the church-yard, by their serjeant, who was parish-clerk, (with the organist for lieutenant, and the lawyer for captain,) could invigorate the loose-kneed tailor, or give alertness to the nailer's swollen extremities. In closing our walk of inspection with a few general glances at the whole yeomanry force, it may be said that, in very many other instances, THE CROPPY. 163 men looked or dressed themselves exactly in keeping with their original civil characters. The snug and sober small farmer donned his cap, distinguished rather than adorned by the waving feather, in the same fashion that he used to wear his domestic hat, and which caused his ears to protrude like tiny wings, while it covered his neck behind. He contrived, too, to put on his military coat in the identical way he had, for twenty or thirty years, put on his loose frieze suit ; and,while plodding to the field, his pouch thumped stoutly behind him, as if it had been a pair of saddle-bags, and his mus- ket lolled over his shoulder like a flail. He still retained, too, the air of homely seriousness, that, in less perilous times, he constantly ex- hibited when, of a harvest morning, he eyed the firmament to seek early prognostics of the weather. Nor did the parish-clerk, a character often occurring in the yeomanry ranks, lose the chilly mien of decency which piety and an empty church had long inflicted upon him : nor the parish schoolmaster his pedagogue severity of brow, now so useless where he was himself a pupil, and not an apt one either ; nor the petty shopkeeper his sidelong or downward look of 164 THE CROPPY. calculation, by which, at its first assumption, he would fain have it concluded he was a man who could buy and sell at proper seasons. Our next parting glance recognises the fact that the yeoman cavalry, along with being the most numerous of the half-volunteer force, made, on the whole, a much better figure than their infantry fellow-soldiers :— it should how- ever be added, that upon the day of real ser- vice, which soon followed, they were found of little use, and suffered the mortification of being eclipsed, to a certain degree, by the men whom they now outshone. Indeed, if any of the yeomanry of Ireland could lay claim, in the subsequent contest, to a sprig of laurel, it was earned exclusively by the shabbiest and most unwashed of the foot-companies that have passed under our eye ; by men, whose old corderoy or frieze small-clothes, clumsy worsted stock- ings, and broken foot-gear, denied them, from the waist downwards, all seeming right to the name of soldiers. Nay, a leaf of the above- mentioned sprig may be awarded to corps called Supplementary, (we were ashamed to notice them before,) whose only outward pretensions to that high-sounding title came from their having dingy cross-belts huddled over their THE CEOPPY. 165 smeared working attire, and dusty muskets on their shouklers. But hereditary prejudices fitted such men better than fine clothes could have done, for the unhappy cause which called them out of their obscure abodes of rancorous ignorance, to deal life or death throughout the land : and although, upon this review day, they clutched their weapons awkwardlv, a close ob- server might predict that, under less formal circumstances, they were persons who would ram the cartridge home, pull the trigger with unshaken nerve, and blanch not at the sight of blood, whether shed in the battle-field, or at the lonely road-side. 166 THE CROPPY. CHAPTER VIII. " A flourish,, trumpets ! beat, alarum drums !" The veteran general has at length arrived, and, in obedience to some such command as is contained in our quotation, his welcome is sounded on the brazen trumps of the dragoons to the right, and by an imposing burst of martial music from the band at the head of the militia infantry. " Attention !'' echoes, in tones of high command, from one officer to another along the line ; and no voices shout the word louder than those of the yeoman captains. All put on their best appearance for the first glance of the general's eye ; and if there be some jostling and confu.sion among certain corps, and some under-breath growls against them by the drilling officers, let us not be hypercritical, but rather admit that all managed as well as they could. Even the old commander, while he THE CROPPY. 167 looked with an eye of steady, frowning scru- tiny on the regular troops, smiled indulgently on the essay of the others : we fear, indeed, the smile occasionally amounted to the more pal- pable expression of merriment, while some in- dividuals caught his notice. He had ended his observation of the line, and assumed his place in its front, when Sir Thomas Hartley thought there was a good op- portunity to address the general on the subject which had brought him to witness the military exhibition. The Baronet's salutation was politely received, and his complaint attentively listened to : and as he pourtrayed the acts of aggression for which he sought reasonable redress, the veteran glanced sternly towards that part of the line against which the facts were stated. " Order Major of the — Dragoons to advance," he said, abruptly turning to his aid- du-camp ; and while the officer galloped across the field to obey the command, he addressed Sir Thomas Hartley. *' I have heard. Sir, upon my route, but too many circumstances like those you relate : — I am sorry to say, my ears are sickened with them ! — A complaint is preferred against your 168 THE CROPPY. troop. Sir," speaking to the Major of Dra- goons, who had now come up — " a complaint which I am verj' sorry to hear." " I am ignorant, General, of any censure which can rest upon ni}^ people ; they are loyal subjects, and brave soldiers in His Majesty's cause." " And yet,'' said Sir Thomas Hartley, '■' Ma- jor will be good enough to recollect, that I have already submitted, for his consideration, more than one charge against them, little cre- ditable to soldiers, — which, however, he did not choose to examine." " Sir Thomas Hartley alludes to some very trivial matters," replied the officer ; — " acci- dents happening when the King's troops had to deal with disguised rebels — as all the fellows hereabout are known to be."" " Sir," returned the old General warmly, " I can no more assent to the justice of your sum- mary mode of argument, than I can counte- nance the proceedings it would defend. A man's claims to bravery become doubtful when he acts tyrannically, or when he lavishes his force without dreading retaliation. Your men, Sir, will not mature their valour in such a school ; and I am ashamed that soldiers should THE CROPPY. 169 SO nearly act the parts of banditti, as to terrify, by the bravado of weapons, the passive and de- fenceless. Such conduct, Sir, has a manifest ten- dency still more to alienate the people from us, and from tlie King and cause we serve ; and if it is not a palliation for defection, a single friend can, assuredly, never be gained by it. Attend me at my quarters, Major , after the inspection ; and you, Sir Thomas Hartley, will also favour me with your company ; when, so far as is possible, amid this general want of discipline, I will see justice done to your tenants." He bowed his head, as a signal for terminat- ing the interview. The major slowly rode back to his troop, but not before he had fixed an expressive look on his accuser ; and Sir Thomas, returning his stare, joined our heroine and her lover. The Baronet had scarcely again disposed him- self to attend to the progress of the review, when his interest, and that of Eliza and Sir William, and, obviously of the General, was engaged by the approach, to the latter, of a strange horseman. He seemed a person ad- vanced in years, tall, gaunt, his head partially covered with a black hunting-cap, his coat, VOL. I. 1 170 THE CROPPY. like that of a dragoon soldier, but much tat- tered, as also were his soiled leather small- clothes, and his jack-boots. By some chance, his spurs had erred from his heels midway up his leg, but with them, even in such a situation, he continually gored the sides of a stout horse, on which he was mounted, and which he pushed straightforward toward the general, as if about to tilt with him ; not that he held his saddle, indeed, with the erect vigour of a knight of yore ; on the con- trary, at every plunge of his steed, he shook from side to side, like one about to fall, — con- triving, however, still to avoid the ground, with the pertinacious instinct of one accustomed to every predicament of horsemanship. As the general looked on in amazement at his furious career, and as our friends expected to see it end in a sudden shock between them, the knight, arrived at speaking distance, sud- denly threw himself back in his saddle, pulling at the reins with all his strength, while his long legs pushed forward nearly to a level with the horse'^s neck ; and by this masterly movement the animal became so instantaneously and vigo- rously checked, that he almost fell back on his haunches. His master, too, all but tumbled THE CROPPY. 171 over the crupper ; then, with something of the reaction of an overstrained bow, came forward again thump against the pummel ; then assumed a tolerably upright position; and finally pulled off, in flourishing soldierly style, his huntsman's cap, and looking as if confusedly full of some momentous matter, began, out of breath, an effort at articulation. But his tongue did not promptly act its usual part, — two or three words only escaped, much thickened, and after having suffered much elision ; and it became visible that he was in that delicious state which trans- forms the beggar into as great a personage as the king. " Plaise — your — honour—*' he stuttered. " Well, Sir ?" questioned the General. The cavalier paused, drew in his breath with a long wheezing gasp, expelled it in as long a groan, gulped it down again, and at last said, still very disjointedl}^ — " Plaise your honour, won't you ixcuse the poor Bally-bree-hoone cavalry .^" " State your business more clearly. Sir," an- swered the General, puzzled, after returning one of his many salutes, to understand his meaning. '' The poor Bally-bree-hoone cavalry," con- I 9. 172 THE CROPPY. tinued the courier ; " tliey M come, an"* they 'd be here ;" still waving his cap, as once more he wavered from side to side ; " an' they ""d take up their ground the first o' the field, an' they'd show a patthern 'ud take the light from your eye, — Gineral, — not like them garron-killers, beyant;— an' they 'd charge ! a}^, in stylo !" — and he darted spurs into his horse, and pushed him forward until his nose and that of the animal ridden by the General came in contact, at which the old commander reined back — '' Yes, by the great Saizor I'' (Cagsar) — " to the right, wheel ! to the left, wheel V^ and he tugged his steed so rapidly through what he deemed the evolutions answering to these commands, that the animal seemed chasing his own tail ; — and, this done, the knight recurred to his petition ; — ^' won't your honor, i' you plaise, an' I''ll be much obliged to you, ixcuse the poor Bally-bree-hoone cavalry ?" " Certainly," said the General ; " now that I comprehend you, Sir, I am quite wilHng to excuse the Bally what do you call them ?" " The poor Bally-bree-hoone cavalry, Gineral; an"* you don't know the rasons : the clothiu' didn't come— oh ! my heavy curse on them THE CROPPY. 173 tailorin' thiefs ! Flog 'em, Ginerel ; flog 'em wid their own needles, welded together into a cat-o'-nine-tails."" " Your business is ended, I think. Sir.*" " Och ! my poor Bally-bree-hoone boys ! will they stand ixcused, your honour ?"" " They do, Sir— they do.'' The intercessor made a profound bow over his horse''s neck, put on his cap, filed off, pul- led up half-way across the ground, and return- ed at a renewed charge, only to prefer his old request. •' Force that man back," said the General to an attendant dragoon. The command was in- stantly obeyed. The dragoon's sword flourished terrifically round his head, and its flat often visit- ed his shoulders ere he could be brought to com- ply with the orders issued with regard to liim. Again he forgot that his corps had been " ixcus- ed," and could only think of asking the dragoon to intercede for him and them with the General ; and, still bewailing to himself the hard fate of the Bally-bree-hoone cavalry, the man at last left him at a side of the field, where he was shortly surrounded by a crowd of mischief- loving boys from the town of Wexford, who, after listening with mock gravity to his accu- 174 THE CROPPY. sations against the tailors, contrived a series of torments for him. One pulled a leg, another its fellow ; another twitched his skirt till he thought it was torn off; until, at length, he charged amongst them, crying out — " Quit, ye sons o' thiefs ! or, by the great Saizor, I '11 gallop over ye !'' Scarcely did he succeed, however, in scattering his urchin foes, ere they again cautiously approached to renew the contest. Meanv/hile, much bustle went on along the line. The word was given for forming into subdivisions, and roared successively by each commander to his men. Before the better de- scription of yeoman-cavalry horses could be constrained to form properly, much capering and prancing, and frequent assaults upon each other, ensued between them. Among the in- ferior classes of animals, hard tugging with one side of the bridle, and many sore inflictions of the rusty spur, were found necessary to force them, in any kind of regularity, into their po- sitions ; and in some cases, which came under our own eye, a downright refusal on the part of the lazy beasts, put their crest-fallen masters hors-de-combat. The yeoman-infantry, though having to ma- THE CROrPY. 175 nage only their own legs, exhibited just as sad a state of confusion. We saw a man, not even as self-possessed as tipsy Cassio, mistake his right for his left, and, when he supposed him- self whirling into line, come thump against his neighbour ; and then he insisted that right was not wrong, and, their noses poked into each other's faces, the comrades exchanged a curse or two before the mistake was corrected. The business now to be done was that of taking a circuit of the field, and marching bv the general, who kept his position about equi- distant from its either end, and contiguous to a fence that opposed the line. The dragoons came proudly forward, their horses tossing their heads, glaring war from beneath their frowning brows, champing the bit in impatience of its restraint, and scattering in snowy patches over their chests the froth produced by the motion. The men looked haughtily conscious of their own appearance and of the power it implied, and, perhaps, were not unforgetful of the contrast, so much to their advantage, between them and their less regular brethren. The principal cavalry corps pranced next, making a showy figure indeed ; but the whole 176 THE CROPPY. attention of the riders was concentrated in a continual effort to curb the metal of their holi- day steeds and keep them in something of an orderly pace. The others followed as well as they could ; some gravely going the prescribed round as a matter of business, some as a matter of necessity, to be performed to the utmost of their power, and some as a penance full of in- flictions. Among the rustic portion of the force, many animals proceeded in the only pace they knew, — excepting, indeed, their snail-like walk under the plough ; the movement alluded to being accomplished by slinging one side for- ward, and then, leisurely and soberly, slinging the other after it : and their riders seemed to regard this as a very good pace to go to battle in, and jogged on quite comfortably and smoothly, under, or rather over, a shaking that would have forced more fashionable horsemen to breathe hard at every jolt, with some anti- cipations of the state of the spine next morning. The militia infantry went through the ordeal as became men who had made military evolution their business ; and we profess that their ap- pearance and bearing gave us much pleasure. The wealthy town infantry, next coming up, showed a good front-rank ; but, as before no- THE CROPPY. 177 ticed, this was only a screen to the greater por- tion of its rear, who, stumbling or tottering, perspired and groaned through their fatiguing march. Behind the corps, his person erect as a poplar, and his legs pacing with mathematical preci- sion, as he gave the exact '* seventy steps for a minute," came its dreaded permanent ser- geant, " un brave," who had seen much service, and borne the reputation of being the neatest soldier and best disciplinarian of his company. Loudly did he stamp against the hard, frozen sod, repeating in that kind of under-tone which will be distinct amid a shouting crowd, " right, left; right, left;"" and this for the purpose of keeping his pupils upon their show day, or rather his pupils' feet, in concord and unison. But he often interrupted himself with excla- mations, such as the following speech will ex- emplify : — <' Right, left ; right, left ; I say, Mr. Sanfey, — p-'nations. Sir, why don't you mind ? — right, left ; right, left ; — Mr. Gorman, I wish, fi'om my heart, your legs were in hospital : right, left ; — I say, do you hear, Mr. Callahan ? — body square to front — spring from haunch — stretch ham — and point toe, Sir ; — right, 1 jft — will you, 178 THE CROPPY. I say. Sir — d — n it ! will you ? — Mr. Jenkins, front-rank man, are you about to ground arms, Sir ? Butt to front groin. Sir — lock turned out, arm tight under cock, Sir — itfider, I say, not over, d — n it ! — right, left." The captain of this remarkable corps was a man of goodly bulk, looking, at a first glance, fierce and formidable ; but, under a close inspec- tion, the knitting of his brows, the staring and rolling of his |pes, and the severe confusion of his lips, might hint inward fretfulness at the labour he was undergoing, joined with mortal fears of not being able to acquit himself credi- tably. His sash had been unskilfully tied by some over tender hand, so as to save painful pressure to that precise circle of his prominence where the circumference was greatest, and below which was a very quick descent of diminished rotun- dity. The rapidity of his march unfortu- nately loosened from its resting-place the silken badge of his rank, and first gradually, and at last precipitously, it fell down the descent. He had come to the general, at the head of his men ; he had just called out ** Present arms !" his corps were obeying the words with unusual felicity of movement ; he was putting THE CROPPY. 179 his hand to the peak of his cap, and carrying his sword to the salute — when suddenly the sash dropped to his heels, and at the next step he fell headlong upon the earth. " As you were, Captain," cried a jocose member of his corps, using the term addressed to recruits, when it is intended to make them repeat a movement, in which, half-way, they have failed. With much exertion, and some assistance, the commander recovered his literal Jaux-pas; but considerable confusion resulted from it. Those behind him, ignorant of the occurrence, pressed too closely on each other ; and those in advance of their prostrate captain marched a considerable distance beyond their comrades. These demurs were observed by the curious cavalier who had lately accosted the general in apology for the absence of his men, and who had since remained pretty nearly where the dragoon had placed him, alternately charg- ing the tormenting boys, and, in the pauses of the contest, bitterly bewailing the absence of the Ballybreehoone cavalry; who, if they could only have got " the clothin'," in time, from those villanous tailors, would, he was con- fident, have taken the right of the field that 180 THE CHOPPY. day, and ashamed every corps he cast his eye upon. When the accident just described became ob- vious to him — " Oh, murtlier !"" he exclaimed, '* what sodgers ! look at 'em, now ! Wher's the Gineral, or what is he doin' ?" and he deviated from his soliloquy, by roaring out, at the top of his lungs — " Halt !" and there was a general halt in consequence. " What is the meaning of this?" inquired the bewildered commander. His attention was di- rected to the person who had usurped his privi- lege, and who now appeared galloping towards the advance of the force, waving his whip, and spurring his steed till the blood streamed down the poor animal's sides. Orders were given to secure his person, and two dragoons accordingly tilted in full gallop, too, against him ; but, ere the parties met, he had reined up, faced the town corps, and, seeing he had in his first orders been so punctually obeyed, proceed- ed to issue additional commands; so that lit- ' tie violence was necessary to place him under arrest. '* Advance, division ! hould fast, there !" he began ; when the flat of a sword, now a second time applied to his shoulders, gave him to un- THE CROPPy. 181 derstand he was not the person he supposed himself to be ; and farther discipline, together with a short explanation, convinced him he must relinquish his authority, and consider himself a prisoner, in the name of the general. As one who had a high notion of discipline, he bowed with grave submission to his important fate, and allowed himself to be quietly led back to the fence, where, until farther orders, the dragoons guarded him, one at either side. We would now represent the line as again formed, and the word given to fire. There was a greater variety in the discharge than is prac- tised by more habitual professors of noise and fume. Some precipitately pulled the trigger the instant the musket came to the shoulder, and others, either tardy from apprehension, or perhaps not at once able to distinguish the guard from the important little matter it in- closed, tugged stoutly at good steel that had not been intended to yield to a touch, and were therefore too late with their contributary shot ; and some who had missed fire at the first at- tempt, cocked, and tried again, careless about uniformity, so that the discharge was valiantly got over ; and many near them, who were slow at priming and loading, fired singly, or 182 THE CROPPY. did not fire at all. And all this time there was fantastic commotion among the horsemen to the right of the infantry ; the spirited but un- trained steeds jostled, intermingled, plunged, kicked, and sometimes bit each other ; strong cart and plough-horses backed, or burst for- ward beyond all control ; though the poor sorry " garrons,"" who bore the persons of the shabbiest of the cavalry force, showed them a better example ; for, not boasting even as much stamina as could be terrorstricken, they only shook their heads and stumps rather vehe- mently, to express their dislike of the noise. But the wealthiest of our Wexford corps were fated to suffer most in the campaign of this eventful day. One of the front-rank — even of the front-rank — was a prosperous man in trade, who, had his character for loyalty stood no chance of being impeached, would never have ventured to meddle with a weapon, dreadful to him almost from his cradle. At a very early age, indeed, a loaded blunderbuss accidentally lay in his way, and, without knowing what it was, he played with it till the infernal engine exploded, jump ing out of his infant hands, and, with its butt, spinning him about the floor. Since that day THE CROPPY. 183 he had shuddered at the sight of any instru- ment of its kindred. The panic never left him. But times arrived, in which he must either try to chase it out of his heart, or run the chance of being selected, by the keen eye of some in- former, as a fit subject, already suspected, for a drum-head court-martial, and suspension by the nech, a few minutes after, from the lamp- iron opposite to his own d(jor. With many struggles, he therefore chose the least of the two evils, and became a yeoman. During the terrors of the volley, this gentle- man, thinking it sufficient that one of his senses should be outraged, kept his eyes closely shut while he " let off." The touch-hole of his musket had remained clogged since the appren- tice, as part of his general work, last undertook to clean the weapon ; it did not, therefore, explode, though in his agitation he thought it did. A second volley came on ; he rammed a second cartridge over the first, and a second time falsely imagined he had with much impe- tuosity discharged his shot. A third volley was ordered — the third cartridge had been man- fully added— and, congratulating himself on the success which had attended two fearful ex- periments, he once more dragged back the 184 THE CROPPY. trigger. The whole contents of his piece now ignited at once, and, with a force that might make a castle totter, the musket recoiled against his neck, and then bounded from his grasp ; he staggered from side to side, dis- placing his comrades at every movement, and finally fell backward with sufficient impetus to prostrate, along with himself, his rear-rank man. This was surely enough ; and yet more in- jury was preparing for him. The ci-devant commander of the field, and sergeant of the Ballybreehoone cavalry, still kept in durance at the opposite fence, did not escape, notwith- standing the frowning presence of his dragoon- guardsmen, the persecution of the hardy imps, who had marked him as, at all hazards, fair game for the day. His horse''s crupper was sufficiently near the fence, in his rear, to allow them to execute a new and deep-laid plan of annoyance. A bunch of furze was provided : two of them crept up the fence from an outer field ; when one cautiously, but firmly, had tied it to the animal's tail ; the other suddenly let the overstrained tail flap down ; and the poor horse, who had no right to suffer for his master, as suddenly darted forward, terrified THE CROPPY. 185 beyond self-control, and certainly beyond the control of the rider. So unexpected and fu- rious was his first plunge, that he gained many yards in advance before even the dragoons spurred to chase him ; and, right ahead did he sweep, his prickly annoyance still dangling behind, and increasing at every bound his fright and fury ; right ahead, and straight across the field, to the first Wexford yeoman- infantry ; in through the gap left in their front by the recent mishap ; until, in trying to clear the prostrate Mr. Jenkins, one of the animal's hoofs struck his breast, just as he was recovering from his first fall, and caused him a second and more dangerous overthrow. The pursuing dragoons avoiding, from a sense of humanity as well as of discipline, to charge after their fugitive through rank and file, now galloped along the line to its nearest end, in order, after clearing it, to recapture the prisoner. But this gave him an advantage in time, of which, now beginning to calculate his horse's unrestrainable speed in application to his own interests, he did not want tact to avail himself. Directing with spur and rein the still tortured animal to the lowest part of the fence, close behind the military line, one bound 186 THE CROPPY". brought them both on the road towards home. The dragoons, aware that it had only been wished to keep him quiet in the field, saw no harm in letting him take his own way out of it ; and the enfranchised trooper might be seen, for the very short time he remained with- in view, over the hedges, waving his black cap in exultation ; for, though ignorant of the cause of his own mad speed, he took credit to himself for the brilliancy of his achievement ; while those who were the promoters of his li- berty and happiness, shouted in glee and ad- miration of the result of a prank meant for his discomfiture. It was soon ascertained that the fallen soldier had sustained serious injury. He was unable to rise ; and some, who had amused themselves with his first upset, assisted to bear him across the field, out of farther danger. They deposited their burden near to the spot occupied by our party. Sir Thomas Hartley recognized, in the almost senseless campaigner, one with whom he had often dealt, and v/hose integrity he held in high esteem. Without such a recommendation, indeed, bis nature would have urged him to lend assist- ance ; yet the discovery quickened his zeal. THE CROPPY. 187 He unclasped the choking stock, and was about consulting the state of the pulse, when a hoarse voice, not unfamiliar to the ears of him, or of Ehza, growled out, near them — " Bleed the crature — bleed him ; or King George will have the loss of a bould sodger."" EHza quickly recognized the proprietor of the gambhng establishment, who, at their first coming into the field, had interested her father. Rattling Bill, noddin": at Sir Thomas with the famiharity of an old acquaintance, continued in his jocular mood — " Tundher-an*'-turf, your honour ! dhraw the red puddle from his heart, or, by the piper, it 'ill put the rattles in his wizen." " I believ^e you are right, my good fellow," replied Sir Thomas ; " but where is the surgeon to perform the operation ?" '* Near at hand, maybe," replied Bill ; "just let myself at him — an', by our own sweet con- science ! if we don't let it out through his arm, or through the spot next his heart — if such was for his good — why, let him call me a botch iv a bleedher, the next offer." While Eliza walked away a few paces with Sir William, the conjuror thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled up from among the dice. 188 THE CROPPY. which were heard to rattle as he felt for it, a rusty lancet. And — " Hah !" — he laughed, beginning to brighten it, in some fashion, by moistening it with his breath, and then rubbing it with the skirt of his old soldier's coat — " hah! — can I do id for him ? Is there a handle to my face?'' Sir Thomas, reminded by these words of some risque to be run, said, *' Have a care, my good fellow, that you understand this matter." " ril biggin wid your honour, if it 's a thing tliat you have the laste fear o' me," answered Bill ; " an"', if I don't send your honour's good wine spoutin' half-way across the field, widout hurt or harum to you. 111 ate this sick sodger's wicked goon, jest to hindher him from killin' himself wid it once agin."" Sir Thomas, assured by the fellow's easy con- fidence, and also reflecting that by such persons the esteemed process of " bleeding"" was at due seasons undertaken all over the country, often very uselessly, but always harmlessly, consented to employ him. And Rattling Bill, ordering one person to do one thing, and another to assist him, in a specified way, as if he had been the most regular and popular practitioner, evinced, THE CROPPY. 189 by the manner in which he operated, that the business was no ways novel to him. He ban- daged the arm, felt for the vein, and duly made his incision, if not very tenderly, at least very effectually. At first, indeed, the relieving stream came but slowly ; but by skilful excite- ments of friction, it soon had vent. " Look at that, now, your honour, wid both your eyes !" he boastfully exclaimed ; then sinking his voice into a whisper, as he bent his head to a frieze-mantled Milesian — '' the raal Protestan' dhrop, by the piper ! — as black as ink." At the proper instant he staunched the he- morrhage, as a licensed surgeon would say, though the present operator called it '* plug- gin' the leak." " An' now," he went on, " this soft-fleshed poor creature might as well have no shanks to his body, when they 're not able to hauld him up ; an' for the same rason, he must be lifted an' carried wherever he has to eo ; an' I 'm sure your honour 'ill stand to me for my fee, now that the job is done in style-o." " You have certainly got through your ope- ration very well, doctor: here is your fee; and, as you say, the gentleman must instantly 190 THE CROPPY. be helped to my carriage, in which I will convey him to his own door^ in the town of Wexford." " Whoo ! I pray that your honour may won- dher at the loock you '11 have/' replied Bill, putting up the money, " an' that the time is commin' when you '11 be kilt yoursef, just to let me cure your honour : an' so we have only to lend a hand to this murtherin' sodger, that 'ud win a battle by himsef, havin' no one to help him — an', divil thank him, when he'd shoot off four or five bullets at a time. Och ! presarve us from such slaughterin' roolachs ! Here, you sir," addressing a looker-on, *'did you ever play ' Carry -my -lady- to- Lunnon?' — hands across, here — quit, you bosthoon ! — that 's not the Avay ! — ay, now you have id — come, now, you ter- rible yeoman." The wounded hero, placed on the seat formed by the crossed hands of Bill and his obedient assistant, and his languid arms thrown over the necks of both, was borne to Sir Thomas's carriage ; Bill jaunting him along to humour a silly verse he sang out — one of those used to lull Irish children asleep, and which, for its purpose, has a soothing, soporific air ; it ran thus : — THE CKOPPy. 191 '' We will go. Says the crovr. To Shaim-a-Gow's garden. An' we will ate A gosh o- whate In Shaun-a-Gow's garden/' &c. Sir Thomas Hartley and Sir William Judkin got into the carriage with the wounded man, for the purpose of properly placing him, before Eliza should ascend the step ; and while she stood near the door, awaiting their reappearance, Rattling Bill, suddenly changing his manner, and takinoj the leaf of his hat between his fin^^^er and thumb, sidled close to her, and in a lower growl than she had before heard him use, said, " AVe thried your loock on the dice, Miss ; an', when wather doesn't run, an' grass doesn't grow, you '11 be the lady of the brave gin- tleman that walks by your side ; but not till then." There was a keen earnestness, and a look of triumphant cleverness about the fellow as he spoke this ; and before Eliza could sufficiently recover from the effect of his strange words and his manner of address, he had hurried off. We have admitted that our heroine had some faults. In the same spirit of candour, we point 192 THE CEOPPY. out an additional one. Perhaps, naturally, her mind took interest and even pleasure in the marvellous. By that process which enfeebles so many intellects, namely, the stories of her nurse, whispered, with a frightful murmuring, into her childish ear, the propensity had been wrought up to a terror of omens, and of every thing seemingly supernatural. To balance the defect, Nature had given her a strong and clear un- derstanding, and happy fortune a good mother, who, early aware of her weakness, appealed to it to curb the dangerous bias. Eliza was brought to examine into the cause of the nightly sound that had alarmed her, or to scrutinize closely the form that twilight had shaped most fear- fully. The result of this salutary system was as gratifying as, considering the force of her infantine prepossessions, could perhaps have been expected. A habit of reflection was ever at hand, to chase away any sudden appeal to her supernatural fancies. And yet such fancies would start up, even at the most absurd pro- vocation ; she detected herself looking with earnestness at the wiiiding-sheet on the taper, or starting at the long midnight-howl of the house-dog. In fact, until reason and intellect could find time to drive away the delusion, she THE CROPPY. 193 continued, to this day, liable to be agitated by any occurrence apparently out of the natural course of things. Hence, upon at last taking her seat in the car- riage, Eliza was fluttered a little at the prophecy of the mountebank conjurer. But, as usual, a few minutes' reflection enabled her to contemn the impudent knave, and to smile at her own credulity. *' He but seeks to terrify me,"' said Eliza, *' by an unfavourable prognostic, out of a douceur ample enough to make him consult his fiend again, and come back with a favour- able one/' She would at once and comyjletely dismiss the paltry occurrence from her mind. But at the very instant she formed this rational determina- tion, the stern figure and pale visage of Belinda St. John, in the act of uttering a similar augury, started up to her imagination, and Eliza again sufl*ered a temporary return of her supernatural fit. It was strange, at least, that two persons, totally unconnected, and unknown to each other, should successively agree 111 warning her of an unhappy termination of her love ; and while Eliza only said it was strange, she felt the coincidence to contain a vague something more. Again she was successful, however, in bri- VOL. I. K 4 194 THE CROPPY. dling her tendency to the ominous : after a short but vigorous exercise of her understand- ing, the ravings of Behnda went as cheap as the designing knavery of Rattling Bill ; yet, though a second time tranquil, the little strug- gle of Eliza's feelings left her saddened, and inclined to anticipate, from other causes than the influence of the stars, misfortune to her lover and herself. As Sir William kept up with her father an animated conversation upon the events of the day, his fine face still turning however, like the sunflower, to the light in which it lived, the unbidden thought that ill- ness or accident might, without any superna- tural intervention, snatch him from her for ever, brought tears into the eyes of the gentle and love-lorn EUza. And ere her journey was ended, she seemed to be presented with a new- cause for real alarm. During the progress of the review, we al- lowed ourselves, perhaps blaraably, to indulge in observation of events not immediately connected with our persons, or the conduct of our story. Indeed, we have now to acknowledge a greater error than digression to what did not vitally concern us — namely, omission of something that did. The reader has not been apprized, in THE CROPPY, 195 fact, that one of the most respectable of the yeoman-cavalry corps was headed by Mr. Hen- ry Talbot, who, bravely attired and accoutred, and wearing a settled though not ferocious frown beneath the shadow of his helmet-peak, made one of the most martial and gallant figures in the field. The timid glance bestowed upon him by his former mistress, as, during the march past the general, he had come rather close to our party, might have told him, that along with some lurking terror of his outraged feelings, and a graceful though involuntary show of womanly consciousness, his appearance had even in her eyes had its due effect. But he either saw her not, or was willing to seem ignorant of her observation or her presence : — perhaps the lat- ter conjecture comes nearest to the truth ; for, as he rode by, a cool spectator might have seen him carry his head more proudly, and knit his brow into an expression of hauteur, provoked, it could be supposed, by the ostentatious man- ner in which his supercilious rival took care to exhibit, at that critical moment, the good terms on which he stood with the fair object of their common love, and the fair cause of their hatred of each other. K 2 196 THE CROPPY. Now passing tl^e road, very near to the right of the cavalry line, Eliza caught another glimpse of Harry Talbot, but in such a situa- tion as made him less interesting than ever he had been to her feelings. Rattling Bill stood at his stirrup, in close conversation with Harry, who leant from his saddle more confidentially to pursue the conference : — and, that her old lover should, upon any account, condescend to familiarity with a character so common and dis- reputable, shocked and disgusted Eliza. This, at a first glance, was her first feeling : it then changed into a different and more alarming one. While the carriage yet came on, at a distance, it evidently drew the attention of both. They often looked towards it; Bill pointed at it more than once ; and, upon all such occasions, their engrossing converse was renewed with vigour. Suddenly, and with appalling effect, to her- self, Eliza once again called up the conjuror's prophecy; — not now, indeed, as one to ensue according to supernatural preordination, but as one to be brought about, in her opinion, by events planned with his knowledge, and planned by— Harry Talbot. The old lover, maddened by disappointment, THE CROPPY. 197 had, Eliza concluded, employed this fellow to assist hini in thwarting her union with his ri- val. But could it be possible ? — Could Harry Talbot, whom she had known so long and so well, enter into such a league, with such a person, for any dishonourable purpose? No. She would reject the thought ; yet she resolved, without communicating fears that might lead to bloodshed if they did not prove vain, to hold herself watchfully on her guard : and in this undecided state of feeling, EKza, after losing sight of the objects of her terror, pur- sued her journey. We are grieved that we cannot much farther enlighten the reader upon the real subject of the conversation at which our heroine only guessed. Indeed, we arrived, as evesdroppers, within hearing of Talbot and his discreditable acquaintance, only in time to catch the con- clusion of their dialogue. " Slap palms wid me, Capt'n,"' said Bill, extending his hand; and that of Harry was placed in it. " Stand by me," he continued, " and, by the piper ! you're the man to win her, yet." " Call upon me, this evening," said Harry, " and come up when it is dark." 198 THE CROPPY. ** Does your bottle open its throath to a sthranger, Capt^i ?" " It shall be at your service." " Then I '11 be wid you, as sure as I 'm a dhroothy sowl — an' so, loock to you, Capt'n !" and they separated. THE CROPPY. 199 CHAPTER IX. It was the day but one succeeding the re- view, that Nanny the Knitter was seated, at her own humble request to that effect, in Eliza Hartley's private parlour. She necessarily as- sumed her old position, before described as " on her hunkers:" her knitting apparatus, in full work, announced, as usual, an intended long conference; and, as on a former occasion, out of respect to her fair patroness, her head was covered solely by a white linen cap, without border or frill, fitting tightly, and allowing to escape some tresses of her strong, grey hair. She resembled much one of those hierogly- phic representations of the human figure to be found on Egyptian monuments — an uncouth bundle of coarse attire, with, above it, a head clumsily indicative of humanity ; for, in truth, Nanny's face was little more than a lump of reddish flesh, of which the features had been so 200 THE CROPPY. slightly marked as not to be made out without a close inspection. And no figure one can imagine could look more distinctly out of character with the ele- gance of the apartment, or more opposed to the beauty, youth, and grace of its gentle mistress. Ireland alone, at the time we delineate, could supply such a contrast for the artist's pencil : and we have never since seen any thing like it excepting Leslie's Sancho, seated on his stool, in the presence of the sumptuous and queen- like young duchess. " Well, Nanny," questioned Eliza, " and what is the important matter you have now to communicate ?"" " Ah ! then. Miss Eliza, my honey, the rason that ould Nanny comes to plank hersef, as it little does fit her, in this nate place here, is by coorse iv a whisper was given to me yes- therday-night." She paused, expecting what did occur, that she should be desired to repeat the whisper. Nanny began, however, wide of the mark ; while Eliza, who had good cause to know her style, did not, except when taxed beyond endurance, venture to interrupt her. " There's one Davy Moore, Miss Ehza, my honey, an** he 's the only son iv the ould widow THE CROPFY. 201 Moore, Molly Beehan she's called, most com- mon, by rason it 's her father's name, that was Davy Beehan, rest his sowl ! talked iv, in his day, on the head o' bein' beyant the world wide, for makin' reeds for wavers; an"* Molly's son was chrishened afther the grandaddy, ould Davy Beehan, the great reed- maker. An' it would put you laughin'. Miss Eliza, my honey, for yoursef to hear the way Molly brags o' the reeds he used to get his livin' by ; sich as there 's not to be seen, high or low, now-a-days : an' it may be thrue enough ; bud she' s not the one that ought to be ever tellin' us iv id. Mysef, from the day I got an ounce o' the sense in my head, always put it down to be the hoighth o' nonsense to be braggin' out o' dead people that 's wid the worms long ago, purtect the hearers ! an', for the same rason, I never lets on about my own poor father, rest his sowl in glory ! Amin : — though he had two milch cows in his bawn, many's the day, an' plenty widin an' widout, an' store of every thing, an' to spare besides — though I say id that shouldn't say id." '' Nanny, you must allow I have patience with you ; what has all this to do with the in- formation you promised me .'*" k5 202 THE CROPPY. " Och, then ! Miss Eliza, my pet, it's you has patience; an** has everything that's worth havin"*; an' I pray to have id left wid you now and for ever. Amin !" " Come to the subject, Nanny ; my time is precious." " An' that's what I give for advice to the young girls, when they're beginnin' to think of themsefs too soon, on the head o' gettin' the husbans ! Peggy, I'll say — or Anty, or any other name it'll be for the time, — 'Don't be idle the day long;' mysef is always doin': let it be little, or let it be mooch, it keeps bad thoughts out o' my way — a thousand praises over and over agin be they given, for the use o' my fingers ! Bud we were a-talkin' about Molly Beehan, the mother o' Davy Moore, the waver ; wasn't id. Miss Eliza, my honey ?" '* As you like, Nanny." ^' Well, ntchue, ntchue ! he lives in the house on the side o' the hill, over the village ; an' it 's said by the neighbours, that Davy Moore has the gift o' seein' ghosts an' fairies, an' the likes, an' his mother the same afore him ; an' he "II swear down sthraight, that he sees some o' the sort every day. An' so Molly Beehan obsarves me comin' by her dour yestherday THE CROPPY. 203 evenin"*, an' she calls afther me : an' ' Nanny,' says she, * stop and take a mouthful o' supper ;' spakin' to mysef. — * Wid all my heart, Molly,' says I, makin' answer — ' an"* it 's a friend that axes/ An' I crossed the thrashhold, biddin' the blessin' o' Heaven afore me, — the w&y I always, an' ever does : an' says Molly, when we war sittin' down by a good lire o' sc/irochs:* hersef on the chair, an' mysef on the stool ; — * I'm growin' ould, Nanny,' says she. — ' Faix ! Molly,' says I, 'that's thrue enough!' — She thought. Miss Eliza, I'd say she was'nt ! bud, I'm often given to make a little joke for mysef, an' I saw she was hurted at id. — ' An' we're all growin' ould, Molly,' says I : ' may we get the grace to be ready for the last wnrnin' :' an' so we went on wid our gosther, the way of all ould people, till it come out what she want- ed in arnest. The boy, her son, that 's Davy Moore, as I war spakin' of. Miss Eliza, *ud want a good manager for himsef, when she 'd be gone, she tould me ; an' she was thinkin' over in her mind to get him marred while she'd be to the fore to choose for him in the manner he'd desarve; for he was a hard work- * A peculiar kind of fuel. 204 THE CROPPY. in' boy, an' a good waver ; an' one yard o' linen from his loom is worth three from an- other's : an' so I sed over for her all the young girls in the place, that 's come to the time to he marred for themsefs ; an' she pitched her choice on Kitty Gow, the daughther o' Shawn- d-Goic beyant ; bud, I'm purty sart'n, though Molly has the thought that her oun son is a match for a Gow, comely Kitty 'ill be think- in' conthrary-wise ; for she 's the thruth iv a nate clane crature ! not to spake iv a likin' she has, though she won't let on, that I tould you of, Miss Eliza ; an' Davy is only middlin' to look at — ornary in the fatures, though a big sthrong man : bud, for all that, a handy waver. An' it often turns out, that them hansome boys doesn't make the best o' husbans ; an' war it comin' to my oun turn to do the thing, I'd never mind the face o' the man : howsomdever, it 's not the same wid younger girls ; an', to tell the blessed thruth, when I was younger mysef , an' we '11 say nothin' o' my bein' purty, though I 'm not despisable to look at, I was like the rest, all for plaisin' the eye ; an' a c-lane boy poor Tom was ! an' good and in- dusthrous — rest his sowl in glory above ! Amin. THE CROPPY. 205 An' Kitty could twist Davy round her finger ; for he wouldn't as much as cross the threshold widout her lave ; the same he does by his ould mother this day : only he 's not very bright in the head, I. belave, but has some demur, for all he 's a good workman : not manin' that it 's my business to throw a matther out o' my way by tellin' my mind to his mother, concarnin' whatsomever I 'spect, but let her go on, and do my endayvour, an' then she can't lay blame to my dour, " An', says Molly to me, says she, ' The boy is gettin' into years himself, Nanny — farther nor people thinks — bud' — an' she whispered me not to tell it to sthrangers — ' he 's nigh-hand upon forty, Nanny; bud' — says she, agin —' there's no use o' talkin' o' that to Shawn-a-Gow's peo- ple.' — ' You 're doin' a wise turn, Molly,' says I, * to be keepin' the story to yoursef ; for though forty is not over ould for a marryin'-boy, it 's the hoigth o' what's foolish to be talkin' about bodies' ages, be they men or be they women, an' many 's the time it does a hurt : — an' you '11 see fools o' people, Molly,' says I, ' an' nothin' 'ill sarve 'em bud they must be given to writin' down, in books, an' the like, the day their chil- W6 THE CHOPPY. dher come into this ugly, sinful world — may we be kep' from all evil in id, hopin' for glory in the hereafther !" Eliza had frequently amused a leisure hour with Nanny's peculiar strain of volubility, al- lowing the old woman to gossip on just as was pleasing to herself ; and having once tolerated the habit, for pastime, she could not now hope to control it, however disinclined to feel amused, and although suffering its infliction in expec- tancy of some result interesting to her present situation. It might, under any circumstances, prove, indeed, impossible to drive Nanny from the circuit always prescribed for excursion pre- vious to her arrival at a given point. And yet she never rose from her " hunkers" until, ac- cording to her own fashion, an}^ information proposed was fully and clearly communicated. Her manner of telling stories much resembled the accompanying process of knitting her stock- ings. If the first few loops gave to an observer no idea of the shape of the article of which they were the embryo, neither did her first words seem remotely to concern the intelligence she was anxious to convey : — after many, many rounds, both, however, were found connected, THE CROPPY. 207 in unbroken series, with the gradually-formed stocking and subject. And on she knitted, and on she talked, without pause, or the slightest variety of intonation, compelling the hearer to listen to her diligently looping of word upon word, until she produced, at length, a finished discourse, — quite to the purpose, however un- promising it might at first have appeared ; and fitting the occasion as cleverly as her manufac- ture was known to adhere to the legs of her customers. But Eliza now lost all patience with her. " I have attended, Nanny, to your unceasing tongue, in the vain hope of catching a word that concerned me, and at last arrive at the conclusion that you come here merely to gossip ; — but I am not in the humour for your stories to-day; and, in fact, we must part." " Oh, then. Miss Eliza, my honey, don't turn me away, nor don't go from me, becase what 's to come concarns you much, an' it's fit- tin' you ought to hear id — an' sure you well know, my graw ! I wouldn't be so bould as to be cockin' mysef up here, Uke my-lady-in-ordha* * My high lady — one assuming a station unfitted to her. 5808 THE CROPPY. if 'twasn't for your good, Miss Eliza, my honey !" " Then, Nanny, endeavour to leave out all farther preface, and do come to the subject." " An' sure I will. Miss Eliza, my pet, wid the help from above ; an** why not ? You know it was spakin' to Molly Beehan I was, my honey .^" " I am sorry, Nanny, you mistook the per- son." " Well, I tould you, Miss Eliza, that Davy Moore, the waver, — the boy Molly an"* I was talkin' about, — has a gift o' seein** things the neighbours can't get a sight of; an', to spake nothin' but the thruth, they haven't much wish for the same. The mother, Molly Beehan, has the like gift, bud not near so good as Davy Moore. Well ; Davy was at the pradin' o' the sodgers, the day afore yisterday ; an' he was lookin' at a terrible man they call Rattlin' Bill, throwin' dice there, as I 'm tould, in the divil's name; an' sure the wicked sinner must go for to tell poor Davy, he'd send him ridin' on a thrawneen a year and a day, wid the fairies, only because Davy hadn't money for him ; an' Davy come home an* tould his mother ; an' the both wint back together, wid some money to THK CROPPY. 209 him ; an' the moment Molly Beehan saw Rattlin' BilJ, she knew him well, though all the people here thinks him a sthranger; an^ then she grew more afeard, knowin"* the man had the power to do what he said he would. An' so she was makin' up to give him the hoosh-money, when she seen him bleedin' a sodger — a man in years — an' I 'm sorry to call him a fool into the bargain — that went a sodgerin' in his ould days, when he ought to be makin' his sowl ; an' sure, Miss Eliza, my honey, Molly was waitin' for her time to spake wid him on the head o' not doin' any thing to Davy, an' she folly ed him about the place, until she hard him whisperin' you, my graw ; an' she hard him tellin' you. Miss Eliza, that you 'd never be marred to the brave gintleman. Sir William Judkin, the honey pet ! while grass grew or wather run : an' to know did Rattlin' Bill say such a thing in thrue arnest, is what brings me to plump mysef down here, where the sort o' me has no call to be ? ' " There was a presuming person addressed me to that effect, indeed, Nanny," said Eliza, a little startled at the old woman's first mysterious allusions to the dice-thrower. " Then presarve us from the power iv ail evil things and people, now an' for ever, Amin !'' 210 THE CROPPY. said Nanny, crossing her forehead, and piously looking upward ; " that's a bad chance for you. Miss Eliza, my honey-pet, when the heart is fixed upon the love o' the hansonie, good-na^ thured gintleman ; an"* '11 be sore hearted, I'm afeard, wid the loss iv him, Lord help id !" " Tush, Nanny ; I am only sorry I did not represent his impertinence to my father, and have the man punished for his freedom." "•* An' you don't b'lieve what he says 'ill come to pass, Miss Eliza, my honey ?" *' Do you think me a fool, silly woman ? Unless the fellow is an agent in some plot, devised and to be executed by another, with whom I have seen him in conversation, I can laugh at such a ridiculous prophecy." " An' who was the other you seen him talkin' to. Miss Eliza ?" " I grieve to say — Harry Talbot.'' " Ah ! then, as sure as I 'm a lump iv a sinner afore glory, this holy and blessed day, maybe there is somethin' o' the sort goin' on, my poor graw iv a Miss Eliza." " Explain yourself, Nanny ; and now, for Heaven's sake ! be brief and to the purpose." " I never seen Rattlin' Bill, to know who he was ; but it comes into my head that I laid THE CROPPY. 211 eyes on him, for all that, the very mornin' o' this day, an"* overhard him, morebetoken, spakin' some words to Square Talbot. Tell us. Miss Eliza, is Rattlin' Bill a thick short man wid a bauld saucy face and a cunnin' look wid his eyes, a thiefish gait o' goin", and second-hand shuckerazvri^ clothes on his back, difFerin' from the honest counthry-people's sthrong, lastin* frieze, that looks like as if he picked up one thing here an' another there, an' none o' the same kind." " You have described the man, Nanny." "See that!— it was him, then, I obsaarved and hard, sure enough, wid Square Talbot — bad manners to him, I say, for keepin' sich company !" " Tell me, clearly, what you saw and heard, Nanny." " It was brave an' arly in the mornin"* when I left Molly Beehan's cabin. Miss Eliza, my honey ! an' I was makin' my way over to the Coort here, becase the heart widin me longed to ax your ownsef about what she was tellin' me : an' to be here soon, I was makin' a short cut through the fields. Miss Eliza my pet ; — an' * Meanlv-contrived. 212 THE CROPPY. it's a way I have to be sayin"* my prayers afore me arly in a mornin' ; blessed be the holy name, I says a little share, at all times : sich as three pattherin-aveys or the likes, or maybe more, or maybe less ; jist as I'm hurrid, or has time; an' gives my thanks, the best I 'm able, for all things, when I rise up from my bed ; and, becase I 'm growln' ould, like Molly Beehan, an' moost be thinkin' o' the last home, — purtect the hearers ! — I always says exthra prayers^ goin' quite an' asy, along the fields, an' the road, an' while I'm fastin': an' morebetoken, it be- houlds us to offer up a prayer, too, for our bennyfacthors ; an', never a day o' my life. Miss Eliza, my honey, bud I says three pattherin- aveys an' a creed, an' axes Heaven to give you loock an' happiness, on the head o' them : an' the same I 'II do to my dyin' day, an' afther — when I 'm gone into my Glory, as I have hopes iv, poor sinner that I am, — the mercies on my wicked sowl now, an' in the day o' judgement, Amin . " Well. I was goin' the path by the ditch,* that's about one or two fields, more or less, from Square Talbot's house ; an' his voice sound- * Hedge, meant. THE CROPPY. 21S ed at th' other side, an' a great, hoarse voice makin' answer to him ; an' I stopped in my prayers, keepin' the dicket o' my bades betuxt my fingers, till I 'd know where to begin again : an' I sed to mysef 'twould be betther not to go in Square Talbot's way, for fear he 'd pay me, maybe, for all his misfort'ns : that I maytVt sin, says I, it 's a little way but he might hurt me ; an"" so I sits down, an' stoops my head, the manner he couldn't ketch a view o"* me; an' up he come, at th' other side o' the ditch, he an' his crony — an"* merry asther to me — bud they stopt for a little start, for- nent me; an' I hard Square Talbot sayin' — '"' (To give an idea of a person of superior cast, Nanny assumed a lofty tone of voice, held up her head, and looked as grand as she could.) " ' An' when do you mane to bring your plans into action,' (I believe it was) says Square Talbot, spakin"* to the impident lookin' rogue iv a fellow, as free as if he was discoursin' one iv of his own sort. " ' All in good time," says th' other, in his big hoarse voice, but not hoarse the way a body would be when he'd kitch a cowld, bud like as if he was spakin' far down in his throath." 214 THE CROPPY. Nanny need not have described Rattling BilPs cadence, as she had ably imitated it while giving his words; and she again took up a high tone to represent the squire's manner and bearing. " * Wouldn't id be betther,* says Square Talbot, makin' answer to th' other, ' wouldn't id be betther to go on in the plain, simple way I advise ?"* ' Hah !' says his crony agin, an' this was by way iv a laugh ; but it wasn't a laugh, bud more like the gruff bark iv a bull- dog when he' d be runnin' to saze a hoult he wouldn't let go till the piece came out wid him — ' Hah T says he, ' lave all that to me, Capt'n ; an' if I don't put 'em asundher — ' " " Good Heavens !" interrupted Eliza. " ' If I don't put 'em asunder, an' lave you the prize to make your own iv her, — why. Bill Nale doesn't know what he 's about, that's all, though I would'nt b'lieve the bosthoon 'ud tell him as mooch.' " * You may depend on my eternal gratitude,' says Square Talbot, an' they both biggined to walk away wid themsefs; an' pullin' off the hat, an' cockin' the ear out from my head, I jest hard the bould-lookin' man sayin' — (Nanny bent her head, and again spoke in her throat) — THE CROPPY. 215 ' An' a thankful gintleman wid a purse in his pocket, I"* m proud o' knowin' !' an' then they went beyant my hearin' ; an' when they was far out o' soight, I crossed the ditch, an' made my way to the Coort dhroppin my dicket, an' sayin' all the prayers on my bades afore me as I went ; two pattherin-aveys for one body; two more for another body ; maybe three for another body, jest accordin' wid their bein' good bennyfac- thors ; an' when I sed 'em all out-an'-out, I put up the bades in the little pouch is for 'em, here a-one-side o' the big pocket that houlds the worsted, an' all sorts; an' I was wondherin what the two was talkin' about ; bud, faix ! Miss Ehza, my honey, it never come into my thick head that you and the darhn' Sir Wilham Judkin was concamed in id, till you spoke jest now o' their cullodgin together, that you seen wid your own two hansome eyes." " Oh, Nanny ! can this be possible ?" Since the old woman's report of Bill's first words, Ehza, almost petrified at being again strongly presented with what was, upon the review-field, only a vague suspicion, had remained in an agi- tated reverie, scarce alive to the succeeding ramble of the gossip's monotonous voice. The means by which it was threatened to separate ^16 THE CROPPY. her and her lover, were imagined in many frightful shapes, of which the most vivid now appeared in her address to Nanny. '' Oh, Nanny ! can this be possible ? Can Harry Talbot have been all along such a de- ception ? Could he possibly contemplate — would he be accessary to — " her voice failed her, and died away into a feeble whisper — " to the murder of Sir William Judkin ?" Nanny started in real terror at the sudden, though, she soon concluded, not unplausible conjecture. " Och, purtect us an' save us, now and for ever ! Amin. I '11 never be the one to say. Miss EHza, my honey, that Square Talbot 'ud plan sich a terrible thing. Lord keep all sinful an' wicked thoughts o' the sort far from every mother's son : bud — presarve us once again ! — there 's no knowin' the kind them men is made iv till they 're put to the thrial ; an' more par- ticklar, where the love is crossed wid 'em. I knew many a one in my time do things, when their hearts 'ud be scalded that-away, that no one in the world wide 'ud think they 'd do afore- hand ; an' sure I tuck it on mysef to larn the fashion Square Talbot went on at home, sence the day he larned you wouldn't have hhm ; an' THE CROPPY. ^17 his ould housekeeper, (she and myscf are gos- sips, by rason she stood for the little girl o' mine poor Tom's only child, now settled snug in Ross town, praises be given !) — Nelly tould me that he 's not the laste like himsef, that used to be ; bud has the cloud on his brows for ever, an"* goes through the house widout spakin a word, or else a wicked one to whomsomdever opens their lips to him, or stands afore him." " Heaven protect me, then, Nanny !" *' Bud I'm amost afeard to tell you, my honey, what it is '11 make id the greatest thrial to my darlin' pet. Miss Eliza." " Say it out, Nanny.""* " Och ! then, the mercies above grant you grace an' patience through the whole you '11 have to suffer, Miss Eliza. You war sprightly, an"* you war hearty, an' 'twould make an ould heart to be joyful only to look on your sun- shiny face, my graw ; an"* a sharp body might be sayin"* you war giddy, an' had no notion o"* thinkin' afore you ; an' why not ? for it was a fair mornin"*, an' no sign iv a storum to blacken id ; but poor Nanny saw you had only the joy o** young days upon you ; an' that there was sense an' forecast waitin' in your heart, for the time that 'ud come : an' I put thrust in the Holy VOL. 1. L 218 THE cROPrr. Name, for you, that when your thrials flock thick about you, you '11 be stout an' able for 'em all." Nanny paused a moment, and looked, through swimming eyes, at her fair young auditor, who, in return, bent upon the old woman such a look of troubled attention as might be wondered at, if one considered the contrast in rank, edu- cation, and state of intellect between the two persons. But Nanny's manner was impressive : in more instances than one, Eliza had reason to judge favourabl}^ of her discriminating powers: and, without speaking, she now eagerly nodded her head for her strange counsellor to proceed. " Here it is, Miss Eliza. That terrible man, Rattlin' Bill, has the power to know that your love '11 be erassed, an' that you '11 never be a wife where the mind is settled for marryin' ; an', for the same rason, he goes wid himsef to Square Talbot, an' he tells him that he 's the boy to put a bar betuxt you and Sir William, an' so he gets money on the head iv id." Eliza, although real cause for alarm still remained in the alliance between Harry Talbot and the dice-thrower, could not avoid smiling at Nanny's final demonstration of the fate to which the old gossip's pathetic speech had just THE CROPPY. 219 doomed her. A weight of apprcliension was indeed raised off her heart. And, as in silence she followed up the tendency of Nanny's cre- dulous communication, it seemed that even serious fears might be dissipated by it. After a reverie of some length, during which her companion studiously and compassionately watched her — " Nanny," said Ehza briskly, " your sim- ple commentary shows me at once this knave's drift; he is only exercising his ingenuity on Harry Talbot, whose mind, weakened and off its guard, by the indulgence of strong passions, catches at any absurd prospect held out to it, and so fits him to become a dupe. " But they talked iv plans, my honey pet ?'" " Yes, I forgot that," said Ehza, again alarmed. " An' them plans," continued Nanny, awe- fully, " is dalins wid I 'm afeard to spake the word — bud chrosh-o'-C/uustha keep us from his power ! It 's the Divii, I mane." " I credit no such fables, Nanny ; and if such indeed be the man's pretended agency in his plans, I can again smile at him and them. And now, I farther recollect, that, according L 2 220 THE CROPPY. to the discourse you have repeated, this jugj^ler has not disclosed to Harry his proposed method of winning for him an unwilling bride ; of course they are not connected iti a plau, whatever it may be ; and, while in poor Talbot's view it can only extend to the harmless endeavour of witchcraft or magic, he is not even allowed to learn the form of incantation." " Some o' your words, Miss Eliza, I know the manin iv, an"" some I don''t ; bud no matther for that : I '11 tell you the histhory o' Bill Nale, or Rattlin' Bill, as they call him, becase he 's a blustherin man, an', morebe- token, foUys the thrade o' rattlin' o' dice at fairs and pottheens." " Well, Nanny, go on." And Nanny pursued the narrative in her usual digressive style. But we will now ven- ture to report her in our own language. Molly Beehan was her authority for the ac- count. Thirty years before the time of our tale, Molly held herself to be still young, and, as she asserted, *' well to look at." In those days, she took a journey into the south of the county of Wexford, to visit a maternal relative ; and during her sojourn there, Rattling Bill came under her notice. THE CROPPY. 221 He was the only son of a decrepit widow, a native of the North, as her account told, who had come to settle in a lone cottage by the road- side. At her appearance amongst the more primitive Southerns, Bill was a lad of about eighteen. His mother and himself had little vi- sible means of subsistence ; yet they never either begged or wanted. The old woman seldom ventured out of her cottage ; and Bill became known as a handsome fellow, with an exuberant flow of spirits, and a careless, blustering hu- mour. He would sometimes work in the har- vest, the potatoe-digging, or the hay-making seasons; but was generally idle, and had money in his pocket notwithstanding. With the fair sex, young Bill became a favourite, and so, for some time, continued ; but tales to the disad- vantage of his mother and himself afterwards gained ground ; and then he was avoided by all, excepting some careless persons of his own stamp. In fact, it began to be whispered that people were losing their butter ; and several other mishaps, which could not well be accounted for, were, after some consideration, attributed to the machinations of ould Granny Nale. A passionate man, in the neighbourhood. THE CROrPY. quarrelled with his family, deserted them, and went away, no one could tell whither. Those he forsook remained miserably anxious to learn his fate. In their distress, it was hinted to them by a neighbour, to seek information at the hands of " Granny Nale," and accordingly they visited her dwelling. A dingy pack of cards supplied her with the means of forming her incantation : and, con- sulting these in her bed, whence for the last year she had not been able to stir, the hag in- formed the disconsolate family, that the absent man was at that moment in the County of Kerry, sojourning with a relation whose person and condition she described, and whom, from her picture, they at once recognized. The eldest son of the deserted family undertook a journey to this person^s house ; found his father living in it ; induced him to return home : and now, the terrible fame of the old woman spread far and wide, and while many stolen visits were paid to her cabin by those who, in various cases of difficulty, threw themselves upon her advice, she became generally feared and detested as a person who held a diabolical connexion. THE CROPPY. She died, or rather, when upon a certain oc- casion a certain person repaired to her dwelling for supernatural assistance in a pressing emer- gency. Granny Nale had disappeared, and was never again heard of. The neighbours vainly looked to see her buried in some sort or other ; and, after the lapse of a week, knowingly and mysteriously observed to each other that they might as well *' be lookin' for a dead ass, or a tinker's funeral ;" — events proverbially held to be impossible among the Irish peasantry. But, however she had been conveyed away, or wherever she had gone, there was, soon after her disappearance, a visible increase, with many housewives, in the quantity of butter, upon a churning-day. Bin had now the cabin to himself; and it transpired that he inherited a portion of his mother's secrets, and, in some peculiar respects, even outstripped her divining skill. His pas- sion for card-playing was excessive ; he sought to indulge it, amongst his simple neighbours, on all possible occasions ; and whenever he played, another instance of his preternatural endowments became apparent — he always won. With cards too, as had been his mother's habit, S24 THE CROPPY. he undertook to tell fortunes and develope the darkest secrets: and it was well known, so it was — At this part of the narration, Nanny paused, looked frightened, and, after some attempts to master herself, proceeded : " Iv a thruth, Miss Ehza, I 'm sore afeard to tell the way he got lave to do every thing wid them unloocky things — them cards : — the praises be given ! one o' the sort was never widin my hands, barrin a time that I found some iv 'em on Jimmy Sheehan's dhresser, when I helped to bile the praties wid 'em, an' nobody the wiser — an' I can as good as be on my oath that I seen 'em goin' up the chimbly in a blaze o' fire. — But I'm afeard, as I tould you, my lioney ! to let out the way Bill Nale got his power over the cards" — lowering her voice to its least whisper. She drew out her beads, passed over her forehead the cross attached to them, and then holding it before her — " Evil things,*' continued Nanny, " don't come near that sign, an', by coorse, can't come near them that houlds it — an', so, while it 's foment me, I '11 tell out, at last, the way Bill Nale got the power." And slowly and hesitatingly did Nanny re- THE CROPPY. 225 veal the dread process. We forbear to repeat her words, although they have been faithfully transmitted to us, and although we have the best authority for asserting that in more cases than that of Bill Nale, attempts have, even recently, been made to obtain, by his method, the mastery over chance and fortune he was supposed to possess. It will be sufficient to mention, that the form according to which, by Nanny's account, the mountebank called on the aid of the Prince of Darkness, w^as gone through under the roof of the chapel he some- times visited, and during the occurrence of a certain part of the usual service: — we may add, that if the slightest religious feeling had ever stirred in the wretch's bosom, the moment of his blaspheming apostasy, however really futile its mummery, ought to have been felt by him to an appalhng intensity. Soon after his mother's death, Bill Nale found himself avoided by his neighbours — a marked and lonely man, openly dreaded and secretly hated, with whom none of his kind would hold intercourse. Suddenly, his cabin- door appeared closed, and he was not to be seen in the district. As suddenly it appeared open, and Bill re-installed in it — and with him a L 5 J^26* THE CROPPV. wife, or companion, whom he had just brought home. '^ And this wife, or companion, proved to be a more mysterious personage than even Bill or his mother ever had been. Twice only was she seen by any one living near them ; once by a young peasant, who, during his momentary absence, went into BilPs dwelling to consult him upon some difficult question ; and a single glance at her, and her words and manner to this person that had "intruded on her," be- spoke a lady of high condition ; but haughty and dark to an excess that almost made the youthful stranger tremble. Upon the second occasion of her being openly seen by another neighbour, she was on her way, accompanied by Bill, out of the district, to which they never again returned, — and her appearance and bearing fully confirmed the former impression. All this happened, according to Molly Beehan, some thirty years ago; yet, at Bill's re-appearance to her eyes, after that lapse of time, and so far from the scene of his youthful notoriety, she immediately recognized him. But, with regard to his wonderful wife, many stories prevailed of the manner in which she became united to him ; but one in parti- THE CROPPY. ^27 cular, whispered by a close intimate of Bill, gained superior repute, and in Molly Beehan's estimation, in Nanny's, and in our's, seems, therefore, entitled to historical notice. Bill was universally known to be a fellow of daring, bravado humour, which feared neither man, devil, nor angel. And he was going along, of a starry night, still more humorously and bravely inclined by the aid of whiskey, and singing and shouting as loudly as he could, when suddenly he heard strange voices about him. He stopped and listened. *' A horse for me !" said a voice. He turned briskly to the quarter whence it came, but could see no one. " A horse for me !" said another voice ; and, " A horse for me !'"* — " A horse for me !" was repeated, in quick succession, at every point around him. " And a horse for me, too !" cried Bill, giving a shout and a jump. The words were scarcely uttered, when he found himself on the back of a steed, that capered and curveted " in great style ;" — he heard a "huzza !" from a hundred tiny throats; away galloped his courser, like the north wind over a hill-side in winter ; and as he swept 228 THK CROPPY. along, he could not be ignorant that, before him, and behind him, and at each side of him, other horses were racing just as fiercely. Away, away, over hedge, ditch, and brook, through thick and thin. Bill and his comrades galloped, until of a sudden, and of its own accord, his spirited steed stopped before a large house, situated — heaven knows where ! And all the attendant horsemen stopped too ; and Bill, looking round him, now saw the riders; and from amongst them, one melancholy-looking wiffht came to his side, and addressed him. " Bill Nale," said he, speaking in a brogue of tiny cadence, " stand upon the back of your horse, and climb in through yonder window." '' For what rason .?'' asked Bill. " Upon a sofa, in the chamber into which it leads, you '11 find a beautiful young lady sleep- ing ; take her softly in your arms, and bear her down to us : we cannot assist you, because there is a certain spaniel dog, also asleep, at her feet, — so, in with you." " Never say it again, ma-bouchal," answered Bill ; " an' glad am I o' the offier ;" and he climbed in at the window as desired, found the lady just as had been foretold to him, took THE CROPPY. 229 her in his arms without ever awaking her, descended with her from the window, placed her before him on his horse ; and — " Well done, Bill Nale !"" was the general cry, and the whole cavalcade set off, over the ground they haii come, at even a wilder pace than before, until they reached the spot where Bill first mounted his steed; and now there was a second halt, and they all surrounded Bill and the lady, shouting " Down ! down ! down!" But Bill Nale did not shout " Down !" but remained quietly seated on his charger with the fair prize still asleep in his arms. '^ Come down. Bill Nale,"' added the person- age who had before addressed him — '' you must come down, at least ;"' — and Bill found himself standing on the road ; but still he held the lady close. " Give her to me, nov*,'" continued the same individual. " Give her to you, is id .^"' asked Bill. " Yes ; she is my sweetheart." " To the seventeen duouls wid you !" said Bill ; " I have a likin' for her myself, and never as much as a finger will you lay on her."" " Give her up. Bill Nale, or rue it !" ex- claimed his enraged rival. i^SO THE CROPPY. " Give her up, give her up, or we ""II cripple you !"" shouted his friends. " Bodier !'' shouted Bill, in return ; " D' ye think, ye sheeogs * o' the Divil, that it 's a bosthoon ye have to talk to ? I know how to match ye ! an' let ye only daare to come widin arum's length, an"* see if I don't pelt ye, by dozens, over Donard Hill, into the sey ! Aha ! I 'm the boy for ye! Give her up, i/iagh? Och, ay ; give ye what *s my own arnin ?" " We '11 make you out a store of riches, Bill Nale, if you yield possession of my sweetheart," said the most interested personage of the throng, " That ""s more o' the yarn," answered Bill. " Arragh, go spake to them that doesn't know ye ! Riches ? Ay ; ye 'd fill me a bag full o' slates, lookin' like goold guineas, bud they 'd be nothin' bud slates in the mornin'. Make off, I tell ye ! I have a charm here, in my pocket; an' if ye don't, I '11 shake id at ye — hah !" — a cock crew — " d' ye hear that ? run for your lives now, or the cock 'ill ate ye !" Whether in despair of succeeding against him, or that the cock-crow was indeed a thing * Fairies. THE CROPPY. 231 they could not withstand, the discomfited rout, with a low, wild wailing, that gradually died along the midnight blast, disappeared in a trice. And the lady thus won was, the neighbours said, the same he brought home to his cabin, and with whom he shortly after left the country, that is, the south of the County of Wexford, never again to appear in it. But, ere the con- clusion of our story, we shall endeavour, for the reader's satisfaction, to collect more correct in- formation of her identitv. 232 THE CROPPY CHAPTER XX. Sufficient good sense will be accorded to Eliza, and sufficient mastery over her artificial prepossession for the supernatural, to enable her to reject Nanny's views of the terrible in Rat- tling Bill's character. At the same time, it will be observed that, from a portion of the gossip's whole communication, our heroine was warrant- ed in drawing new and real fear of the man, and dislike of his practices. Having dismissed her cunning and credulous, but very honest old counsellor, with an injunc- tion to keep her w^atchfulness alive, EHza pro- ceeded, at a pace more sedate and measured than we recollect to have before seen her adopt, to take her seat in the drawing-room, where Miss Alicia was closely engaged over her in- exhaustible embroidery. So different, indeed, from her usual happy step, was the gait with which her aunt heard her approach and enter THE CROPPr. 233 the room, that the good old lady raised her head, to note who the supposed stranger might be. " Dear child," she said, ** is it you ? How pensive and languid I — what is the matter ?'' " I can scarcely inform you, aunt ; at least, not clearly and distinctly. I am in bad spirits, that 's all." The confused state of Eliza's ap- prehension of what had just been detailed to her, left her, indeed, unable, if she w^ere willing, to communicate the cause of her dejection. " I trust, my love, you experience nothing like a presentiment of evil," continued Miss Alicia, ever tender and romantic. " I do not know, dear aunt ; and yet it is, perhaps, under such a depression I labour." " Heaven grant you may misconceive the nature of your sensations, Eliza .' for. oh ! — " (Miss Alicia's usual sigh, deprived of all spirit by constant exercise, sounded, though loudly given, rather as an accompaniment than as a signification of woe.) " I remember but too well, that for a month previous to the dreadful account of my never-to-be-forgotten loss, I was visited by deep forebodings of unhappy tidings ; and, my dear niece, although my mind is strong enough to reject the notion of supernatural 234 THE CROPPY. prognostic, and although even the fact 1 allude to did not induce a general credulity, permit me farther to inform you, that his death was foretold to the wretched sur- vivor." " Dear aunt, is it possible ?" questioned Eli- za, sitting down, and looking anxiously at the old lady. " It is an unquestionable truth, child ; I will relate the circumstances. — Upon an October evening, the twilight setting in, I was walking down the avenue, more careless than I now am of the sharp breeze that rudely discomposed my youthful locks, and blew hardily against my forehead. The leaves were falling, and I mournfully watched their twirling on the wind, the last time they were to feel its upward cur- rent. Between two of the venerable trunks that lined my path, an aged and meanly attired female suddenly appeared. She craved charity in the uncouth accent of the Northerns — " " A northern woman, you sa}^, aunt.?" " Yes, my love ; the accent, so very different from our southern one, is easily recognized." " And how long is this ago .'^'" " Alas ! the never- to-be-effaced date can by THE CROPPY. SS5 me be readily and faithfully supplied : I speak of an evening over which Time has rolled the shadows of more than thirty years." Eliza looked more sombre still. Her good old aunt continued. "' She craved a charity from me. The sud- denness of her appearance had somewhat startled me, and I did not immediately reply. She renewed her petition in an impatient manner : I felt for my purse — found that I had left it behind me ; and was consequently obliged to give a refusal. She spoke again : her voice was, in its lowest key, an unpleasant one ; now it sounded like a continued scream. " ' You have a hard heart !' she said. " ' Indeed, good woman,' I answered, * I would anxiously relieve your wants, were the means at present to my hand.' " ' Tell me no such story V she screamed again : * but, for your want of charity, listen to me : you will have sorrow of your own to think of ! You will never again look on him whose image is, this moment, uppermost in your mind : a strange land will hide his bones.' Miss Alicia's voice here sank low, and a tear trembled in her " lack-lustre eye j" and was 236 THE CROPPY. responded to by another pearly drop in that of her niece. " In a month after," she added, " I learned his death !" ^' Did the shocking woman go away as soon as she had said these words, aunt.'''' *' No, dear child : I stood for a moment astonished and terrorstricken. She confronted me. I then thought I saw another figure, the figure of a man, moving slowly and. stealthily from behind another trunk — *" ^' Dreadful !" whispered Eliza. " Dreadful !" cried a voice of thunder in EIiza"*s ear. Both ladies screamed in unison ; and with a sudden jerk of her head, which had been brought closely in contact with Miss Alicia's, our heroine displaced, and somewhat shattered, her aunt's spectacles. A loud laugh succeeded, and Sir William Judkin, after soothing the agitation he had caused, took an opportunity to ask, with particular meaning, " Do you give any credit to prognostics of the nature of that with which, I apprehend, the wild woman fa- voured you, dear madam ?" " No ! my good young friend : although in the particular instance referred to, the pro- THE CROPPY. 237 phecy proved, alas I but too accurate." Miss Alice's cold loner-drawn siorh followed. " Well ; we need not become utterly credu- lous, even while we refuse, in a particular case, to remain obstinate to our own experience : and I rejoice to divine from your wisdom, dear Miss Alice, reasons why I should not quite despise a prediction which has been spoken to myself this morning."*' The ladies looked interested. "In good earnest, yes. You remember a knavish fellow w^ho attracted our notice in the review-field ?" "The dice- thrower.?" questioned Eliza ear- nestly. " Yes ; he who consulted his dice as we are told astrologers read the stars ; and whispered disclosures into ears that, if one might judge by the faces of the listeners, were not prepared to receive, in such a manner, such intelligence." '' I noticed all this," said Eliza gravely, and with increasing interest. " Well. The fellow's blustering cleverness much attracted me — perhaps there is something in a superior mind, even when exercising its mastery for knavish purposes, which we cannot avoid to admire. On my way hither to-day, ^38 THE CKOPPY. I. encountered this conjuror ; and lie it was who spoke this augury to me."'' " And that augury gave you such good spirits r"" asked Eliza. " It did, indeed." " Then it was a happy one ?'' she continued, recollecting how contrary had been the import of Rattling BilPs prophecy to herself, and anxious to learn whether or not his promises to Sir William were in connexion with a certain subject. " Listen, dearest EHza, and judge. I had seen the man standing at the road-side, long before I rode up to him. As soon as we met, he pulled off his hat, and made me a salute of friendly recognition. I returned his civility, reined up within speaking distance, and requested to know whither he was bound."*' " 'I was waitin' to meet your honour; and well did I guess the road you 'd be spurrin' over,' he answered, smiling cunningly. " There is an approach to careless, saucy famiharity in the varlet's manner, that almost sues for chastisement : and yet a jocularity and a peculiar acknowledgment of addressing a su- perior to qualify his boldness, and save him from salutary discipline. THE CROPPY. r^39 " * Waiting for me, Sir ?' I asked ; ' and upon what account, pray ?"* " ' I have a matther in my knowledge that concarns your honour,' he replied." It is to be remarked, that the Baronet suc- cessfully imitated the manner and the brogue of the person he was pourtraying. " ' Let me hear it, then,' I said. " ' I 'm tould your honour has an open hand; — an* so every one to his thrade, as the mouse- thrap-raaker said to the lord bishop. Did your honour ever hear the story ?' " * Never ; but, I presume, I am now to hear it.' ** ' There was a mouse-thrap-maker, an' he lived by his thrade; an' he'd make a rat-thrap just as handy. An' — (no help for id, I hear !) — his lordship's reverance was very round, an' smooth, an' comfortable to look at. ' Have you your prayers, my good man ?' says he to the rat-thrap-maker. — ' A neighbour's share,' says the other. ' Repate 'em for me.' The mouse- thrap-maker done his best ; but he went asthray, an' made bud a middlin' offer enough ; an' morebetoken, he put in a curse in the middle, becase his work went wrong wid him, from minding two things at the same time. — ' I 'm 240 THE CIlOrPY. ashamed o* my life o*you, for one ould sinner,' says the bishop, *to come to this time o' hfe, an' not to have your prayers/ — ' Will you answer me a foolish sort iv a question ?' says the mouse- thrap-maker. — ' By coorse,' says the bishop, making answer. — ' Well, asthore : what 's the length o' this wire, that 'ill go to make a mouse- thrap ?' — * I 'm sartin I can't tell,' says the bishop again. — ' Well, then, every man to his thrade,' says the other : ' an' so, do you mind yours, an' I '11 mind mine, and there '11 be no jostlin' on the road betwuxt us." " He told this anecdote humorously," con- tinued Sir William. " And truly," said Miss Alice, " I think your imitation must be equally good ; I have seen, on the stage, worse specimens than you give us of the drollery of the Irish character !'' *' That is flattering, dear Madam, but I be- lieve I have a talent for catching the rich pe- culiarities of our humble countrymen. As to the stage, mention it not ; — one seldom sees any thing represented there, but a broad, unnatural caricature of the Irishman, which depends for effect exclusively upon a novel and extravagant mode of speaking, set off by buffoonery and grimace, and studiously put in contrast with THE CROPPY. 241 the propriety of tone and manner about it. And while even the genuine brogue is thus un- known or disregarded, — a brogue, by the way, not half as barbarous as many to be found throughout England, — the strong intellect of the Irish of the lower classes, displayed in their most humorous sallies, and redeeming them from absurdity, even while they are amusing, is, generally speaking, almost lost sight of." " This may be very true ; but you are stray- ing from the subject," said Eliza. With apologies to his " lovely remembrancer," and other speeches. Sir William proceeded. " The application to himself of the anecdote made by my acquaintance, was, that the an- nouncement of future events formed part of his professional practice ; and so, " every man to his thrade :" and before he would tell me what was to happen to me, he expected his fee. To such an arrangement, notwithstanding the flattering report my soothsayer had heard of my openhandedness, I demurred, however ; but finally it was agreed, that I should measure my recompence by the value of the information to be conveyed, strictly bargaining to pay the moment he should have ended his prognostic; and, after all, I suspect this bargain amounted VOL. I. M 242 THE CROPTY. pretty nearly to payment in advance : so that I believe I was outwitted. " All preliminaries having been settled — 'Now/ quoth my prophet of prophets, ' I come here to tell your honour to go on bravely, an' like a man, at the big house — for — ' and ' he grinned intelligence,' as Sterne has it, ' from ear to ear/ " Sir William made a full stop. He perceiv- ed, notwithstanding Miss Alice's praises of his imitative powers, that his talent had at last been too faithfully exercised. His mistress's cheeks flamed at the common allusion to their relative situations and mutual feelings, and with a severe brow her eyes glanced downward. He turned to Miss Alice. She had ceased her embroidering, folded her arms perpendicularly, sat up in her chair, and was curving her long and stately neck at him. *' How the deuce," he muttered, " am I to get out the rest? If a mere allusion covers the one with angry blushes, and sets the other erecting her maiden crest in this absurd fa- shion, what is to happen Avhen they hear all that they must hear ? Let me see ; — the words in which the rascal conveyed his promise of happiness to me, may be translated." THE CEOPpy. 243 A minute's pause ensued. He was not de- sired by either lady to go on. '' Yet neither am I forbidden," he continued, in soHloquy ; " and women are not women, if some little yearnings of curiosity do not, this moment, lurk under all that grandeur of brow, in my Eliza's heart. As to the old maiden, a fico for her and her affectation." Thus rallying, he resumed aloud—'' But I believe, fair ladies, I had best retain, for the joyousness of my individual bosom, an account of the future fortune prophesied to me ; less interested persons might, I allow, consider it a very terrible threat." " Make an end of the matter, Sir WilKam," said Ehza, " but, pray, use your own style of language — the language of a gentleman : there is a reason why I should learn the tendency of that rude person's words to you." " No doubt, beautiful daughter of Eve ! — and I see I can still read a woman's heart through her brow," thought Sir William ; and he went on aloud, with a grave and, as it were, timorous expression of features, although his speech and the tones of his voice had a different character * " Dearest and fairest Ehza, in obeying your command, I trust nothing will occur to startle M 2 944 THE cROPry. you ; but, in truth, the gifted man merely as- sured me, on the authority of I do not know what powers, thatif I conducted myself properly, I — should — be — married : that is the whole matter. And if the Fates so decree, surely I must fulfil my destiny, no matter how dark it may prove to be ; in the present instance, I am not however quite disposed to quarrel with the Immortals — for by themselves I swear, that the doom thus woven for me is one, warp and weft, of such dazzling bliss, I cannot steadily fix my weak though grateful eyes upon it." During this speech, Eliza's cheek often changed from red to pale, and from pale to red. Her thoughts and feelings were of a mixed nature. The half-credulous mood in which Sir William found her upon entering the room, disposed our heroine to listen attentively to his account of Bill's prophecy. And since it now appeared that the juggler promised hap- piness to her love, all lurking terror of his former augury to herself vanished for ever. Then came the more important reflection, that, notwithstanding poor Nanny's gossip, there could exist no plan, in this man's mind, against a succession of events, which, with such light- hearted foolery and good humour he was him- THE CROPPY. 245 self so anxious to foretell. Nanny must have misapprehended the conversation that, in her sore personal terror, she had imperfectly overheard. Harry Talbot became freed, at the same time, from suspicions degrading to him. All this was great relief to Eliza, as well as to the dis- mal humour in which, after parting with Nanny, she had approached her aunt in the drawing- room. She raised her head and eyes, in a full return of her usual vivacity ; and, only in remuneration for the last brilliant sentence he had spoken, honoured her lover with a glance that made him an enraptured man. " But I am not asked the name of the angel who, it is prophesied, is to be guardian over my happiness?" he continued. " In a matter so very delicate, name-telling would be odious," said EHza. " Quite improper, indeed," echoed Miss Alice seriously. " Then I will only describe — " resumed the gay and happy Baronet ; " and if it is not ad- mitted by mankind at large, that she is superior to all celestials who are at present vouchsafed to earth, the demurring person or persons I will bid to mortal combat, and by weapons and valour, and Heaven to guide the issue, prove 246 THE CROPPY. them false knights, incapable of estimating her excellence and charms." " Tfe will not listen to her praises," said Eliza ; " envy is, indeed, beneath the feelings of gentle dames and damsels ; still, no lady brooks to be humiliated by hearkening to the over- strained eulogy of another." ''Well; but there was an addition to the augury," continued Sir William. " Was there .?" — questioned Eliza, success- fully beguiled into a new interest ; and then, noticing the triumphant sparkle of the tempter's eye, she blushed, though she smiled too, and turned away her head to gaze at her aunt. " Truly was there ; and I may now be trusted to continue in the very words of the oracle. 'Your honour 'ill think it's piper's news I 'm goin' to tell you — news that you had in your own head aforehand ; — bud did'n't the father o' the lady bid you wait a year.? — I know he did — so, you needn't make answer ; — now let your honour give ear to me, howsom- dever: — four moons won't shine out till my words come to pass — an' now, Sir William, is them tidings worth a purse o' gold, or a purse o' silver.?' THE CROPPY. 247 " ' Whether true or false, my honest fellow/ I answered, ' here is your fee.' " I spurred my horse, and galloped towards Hartley Court. A shout from behind reached me, and, turning round in my saddle, I saw the dice-thrower waving his curious hat, and huz- zaing loudly and lustily, as if to my future happiness ; and even when we had lost sight of each other, his clamour sounded in my ears." Eliza, more and more assured that the drift of Rattling Bill's whole manoeuvring was to replenish his purse at the hands of every one who would listen to his prophecies, even though he were reduced to the necessity of making, upon the same subject, different promises to different individuals, allowed her good-humour still to increase. But Miss Alice was immovably grave, not- withstanding that her secret displeasure towards Sir William had evidently subsided ; and at length she spoke in a manner that surprised both her companions. " Ehza, my love ! I will thank you to seek out for me, in my dressing-room, a parcel of embroidering silk ; here are the keys of my drawers. I cannot exactly instruct you in which 248 THE CROPPy. drawer it is to be found ; but you will not spare a little trouble to oblige me; and, you know, there are particular reasons why I cannot entrust my keys into the hands of a servant." *' Do not doubt my willingness to oblige you, dear aunt !" said Eliza endearingly, and yet, as the cause for her aunt's precaution occurred, with a subdued smile. To Eliza's knowledge, a carefully-enveloped bundle of Miss Alice's youthful epistolary correspondence lay under guardianship of the keys given to her ; and she had often heard them read, and on the face of them detected affectation and nonsense, such as proved that " the ever-to-be-remembered" lover was as great a fool as the object of his devotion. So soon as, with the trip of a fairy and the air of a sylph, her niece had left the drawing- room, the old lady took oft' her spectacles, hinged them up, deposited them in their case beautifully covered with ornamented silk, put the case in her pocket, and, pushing lier working-frame to a little distance, raised her head, and finally addressed the Baronet: — " Sir William, I am anxious to know what you think of the words spoken to you to day by that rather extraordinary person." THE CROl'PY. 249 " Dearest Madam ! I can answer you only by saying, that there is nothing I would not encounter — no trial, no privation that I would not joyfully submit to — if 1 felt assured, or even hoped, the augury might be fulfilled. Twelve long months is a dreary term to see placed be- tween me and happiness — oh ! could I but ex- perience the delight of calling Eliza mine, after the lapse of a third of that eternity I" Miss Alice emitted her systematic long-drawn sigh. The Baronet's rhapsody brought to her mind the last pleadings of her own romantic lover, upon the eve previous to the fated day when he embarked for a foreign land, after vainly urging an abridgement of the probation to which she had doomed him ; and the recol- lection of the unfortunate result of her virtuous and dignified obstinacy brought tears of min- gled grief and remorse into her eyes, as in a softened voice she answered the Baronet. " I am an advocate. Sir William, for orderly deliberation in matters of this nature. I re- gard impatience, on the part of a suitor, as for- getfulness of what is fully due to the dignity of the female character. The naturally more timid and retreating party cannot be contemplated in such a light ; but, if ever she can, I blush over M 5 250 THE cnoppy. her, and shrink from her as from something in- conceivably disagreeable. Between acquaint- ance and attachment, a gradual progress ought to take place. The term allowable for the com- pletion of such a progress is not, perhaps, de- finable ; depending, in a great degree, as it does upon natural dispositions, circumstances, and, I believe, opportunity : nor is it quite necessary that we should establish its precise limits. But again, from attachment to union, a second term of time is properly prescribed ; during the lapse of which, mutual tastes and feehngs, tempers and propensities, are to be studied, and first im- pulses weighed, in order that general resem- blance may not be confounded with perfect sym- pathy of character, nor mere inclination with the pure, noble sentiment of true love. And this second term we know how more particularly to lay down : in some cases it should extend to three years ; in most cases, to two years ; and, ac- cording to the usual course of attendant events, in no case can it be less than one." — " Confound your doctrine and yourself," muttered the lover ; it need not be added, below his breath. — '*' All ladies who feel what is due from them- THE CROPPY. S51 selves to themselves, will readily, indeed natu- rally, insist upon a probation, on the part of an admirer, of one or other of these spaces of time ; their self-estimation being manifested, in my judgment, according to the number of years for which they stipulate. And no highminded gentleman can surely refuse to embrace the tender servitude imposed upon him — none, cer- tainly, who has a proper view of feminine deli- cacy and worth, or who is aware of the soften- ing influence, over his manners and disposition, of feminine superiority, so long as it is acknow- ledged to be such. It is indeed remarkable, that some of the noblest spirits amongst your sex have, in times antecedent to the present, dis- tinguished themselves, by gracefully submitting to prove the duration of their love by a display of its patient durabihty." " But, dear Madam, during the period of such a probation, w^ll not the fair arbitress of one's fate, make allowance for the tortures suf- fered by the lover ? The fears, and doubts, and terrors of a thousand things ; of the chances of a fit of jealousy, or, perhaps, weariness ; of events, accidents, — say, sickness, — life itself? and, in subjecting an humble and trembling 252 THE CROPPY. slave to this ordeal, where is the tenderness, the mercy, the dovehke softness which, we know, ought to characterize the female bosom ?" " If the lover complains. Sir William," an- swered Miss Alice, " he ceases to be the humble and trembHng admirer you at first very pro- perly supposed him to be ; if one single hour of his stipulated term be marked by selfish im- patience, and accusation of his dignified mis- tress, he at once shows himself unworthy of her, and of the happiness she has conditionally engaged to bestow upon him ; and thus, in the detection of his character, and in the exposure of his pretended passion, occurs a real good, — the opportunity for breaking up a connexion that could never lead to felicity, honourable union, and deathless attachment/' — " I pray to have thee put up in * thrice- ribbed ice,' old lady, worlds away from this genial planet, rather than that my beloved Eliza may imbibe any portion of your nonsense!" continued Sir WilHam, in soliloquy : — but the next words uttered by Miss Alice, put him into a more charitable humour. — " And yet, there are circumstances, out of the general course of things, that may render indispensable, now and then, a slight interrup- THE CROPPY. tion of the decorum, and of the gradual ad- vance towards a definitive end, of love-proceed- ings." " There are, dear Madam !" agreed the Baro- net, eagerly about to state a case which he hoped would come under Miss Ahce's indulgent views; "and, I think, I can demonstrate that, with regard to me, the dispensing attribute ought to be exercised." " Favour me with your reasons. Sir William," said Miss Alice tranquilly. " Look at the aspect of the present times," he continued, at a venture. " Now, indeed, you have spoken to the pur- pose, my dear Baronet." " Yes !" Sir William went on, triumphing in his success, and — for the purpose of shaking to its utmost the chord of terror he saw was touched, using the most alarming language he could put together — *' yes ! Madam, a dreadful convulsion is at hand : a bloody extirpation of all Protestants is meditated by the Papists of the country ; property, rank, distinction, society — every thing m;iy be swept away : oh ! in that coming day of anarchy, amid that hurricane of vulgar and fierce passions, Heaven help the weak and unprotected ! and, above all that are 254 THE CROPPY. doomed to stand exposed to its fury, without competent protectors — Heaven, in its mercies, take compassion on the high-born and attractive of the gentle sex !" " Amen ! dear Sir WiUlam ; and, believe me, I have lately been occupied, in reference to the tender topic before us, with a full consi- deration of such terrible probabilities. Sir Wil- liam, I am credibly informed by a lady of my acquaintance, Mrs. Whaley, the v.'ife of Captain Whaley, of the Ballybreehoone cavalry, an active man, particularly skilled in fathoming the treacherous intentions of the disaffected, that we stand indeed upon the eve of fearful doings. By most singular sagacity and singu- lar means, the Captain has ascertained the atrocious magnitude of one part, at least, of the appalhng plot.'' " Extraordinary sagacity, my dear Madam, is not required to come to even more extensive conclusions : the frightful combination of the whole peasantry is too manifest to escape ob- servation, and they scarce take the trouble to disguise their ferocious intents towards any house of distinction — particularly such as are graced by female beauty and virtue, in different stages of attraction." THE CROPPY. Q55 '' That the wild wishes and wilder inclina- tions of the misguided people may take such a scope," said Miss Alicia, growing really alarm- ed, for she grew pale, *' I am, alas ! prepared to understand, Sir William. Let me entreat your attention to another of their contemplated outrages. " It was lately observed ]jy Captain Whaley, that, through every shop in Wexford town, all the red tape had been bought up by the pea- santry, in complements of a yard and a half in length. This, naturally and properly, created a vague suspicion of its being about to be used for bad purposes. The captain personally, and by humble agents sent through the country, made the necessary inquiries. He was in- formed that a priest had dreamt the people were soon to be visited by a plague amongst their children ; and that this plague was only to be checked by tying round the neck of every child a piece of red tape, previously blessed, as they term it, and sprinkled with holy water. But now mark, Sir William ! Captain Whaley applied to the priest of whom the peasantry told this story ; — the gentleman solemnly denied having authorized it, or indeed having before heard of it ; and at length comes out the dread- 9156 THE CROPPY. ful conclusion — namely, that the red tape is tied round the necks of such children as are to be distinguished and saved in the hour of the intended general slaughter of every sex and age of our persuasion. Oh ! Sir William — as a young gentleman, a preacher of the gospel, though not in orders in the church, remarked to Mrs. Whaley, at her tea-table, while she told him the story — it seems like ' as the blood of the paschal lamb was to the Israelites, when the angel of the Lord slew the first-born of the Egyptians.' '' " Certainly, Madam," said Sir William, with a good affectation of horror in his countenance, " this amounts to a positive proof of the diaboli- cal intents of these blood-thirsty people ; and therefore I say"^^'' " Your pardon. Sir William ; permit me to go on:" — Miss Alice was not perhaps willing to be anticipated in sagacity and foresight : — " since such terrible convulsions are to ensue, and such perils incurred by the weaker of the community in particular, I have been thinking it would be well if Miss Hartley were pre- viously protected as effectually as is possible — " " Dearest aunt, a thousand thanks ! how good — how kind!" THE CROPPY. 257 " Thank me not, Sir William ; nor — much as I esteem you — call me good or kind, on your own account. " On mine, dear Madam ! Could I expect it ? But will you not allow me to admire the consideration — the wisdom — " " Say necessity. Sir William, and you say all ; on no other grounds but those of the most pressing necessity could my niece, Miss Hart- ley, or her friends for her, contemplate ac- cepting your protection within the term first prescribed." " Put it as you wish, dear aunt ! Heaven has guided your thoughts, — and, for the pur- pose of leading them to this conclusion, given you the sagacity of superior years, the amiabi- lity of an angel, and the affecting tenderness of a careful and anxious parent — you know, Madam, Eliza is in heart and soul your child." " I will argue with my brother on this sub- ject," said Miss A.lice, in a dignified manner, that saw no necessity for pausing to acknowledge well-merited comphments; " besides Sir Tho- mas's desire to have his child become a wife at the same age, to a day, which upon a similar occasion her mother had attained, it was 258 THE CROPPY. chiefly through my influence he allotted, for your very short probation, the original term of one year, Sir William." "I know it well, absurd old lady!" mut- tered the tantalized lover ; while, outwardly, he acknowledged the truth of the remark, by bending his head amid a profusion of smiles. " And, I trust, I can therefore sway my brother to our altered views," continued Miss Alice ; " as to Miss Hartley, I scarcely know — if one is to judge by your manner of addressing a middle-aged lady like me — a fitter advocate than yourself. Adieu ! Sir William, for the present : — you will excuse me while I attend to the penning of a letter to a dear friend, which should be ready for this day's post." " May you enjoy a long and honoured life, dearest aunt!"-- -he arose, and tenderly saluted Miss Alice's hand—" and may its every moment be marked by the rapture I now feel !" " Alas ! Sir William," plaintively answered the good old lady, " rapture can never be mine; long since has it been a stranger to my bosom : for nothing do I now look or wish, save a continuance of the peaceful resignation that has so miraculously succeeded to excessive suffering. Yet am I able to sympathize in the THE CROPPY. 259 happiness of the more fortunate of my species ; and upon your happiness, and that of my dear child Ehza, it is with a glowing heart I pro- nounce my blessing." Miss Alice paused in her advance to the door ; and, during her last words, reverently laid her hand on the head of her son-in-law elect : then, half-affectedly struggling to keep down some half-natural tears, patted with sober dignity out of the room. The Baronet, re-erecting his head from the filial position in which he had stooped it to receive the blessing, burst into a smothered laugh, and walked in ecstasy about the apart- ment. " After all her nonsense," he said, *' the old lady knows her duty in a love-case ; fine-drawn as are her notions of female decorum, and all that, she perceives an occasional necessity for leaving people together ; and, by the Mother of Love ! I hear the approach of my divinit}" : oh ! I would know her fairy-step, were I blind in a desert ! " " Nay, dear aunt," said Eliza, entering at the moment, " you seem to have exercised your utmost ingenuity in hiding that rare bundle of silk. I have searched every shelf, pulled out 260 THE CIlOrPY. every drawer, explored but, bless me. Sir William, where is my aunt ?" The lover''s answer we cannot authenticate ; nor has the subsequent discourse, which on this occasion passed between him and his mistress, reached us in a form sufficiently original to warrant our making ourselves accountable for it to the reader. We are only prepared to state generally, that their conversation, of what- ever nature it might be, lasted, without a wit- ness, full three-quarters of an hour; about the expiration of which time, they were observed by a third person, who, from what he saw, believed they had been " saying and doing any thing but quarrellin' among themsefs/' In fact, the drawing-room door had been left open, (an improvident neglect,) and Tim Reily, wandering idly about the house, and hearing no voices inside, softly entered a step or two, at their backs, cast his eyes around, stopped short, escaped still more softly than he had intruded, unseen, to the lobby, — his lips screwed up into the form of the letter O, as it is printed in italics, and one of his eyes winking, all the while that he moved backward, and when he had gained a safe distance from the drawing-room, Tim, commencing with the eja- THE ciioppy. 261 culation for which he had kept his mouth pre- pared, thus soliloquized : — " Oh — h ! oh, ho ! sure it 's I had the loock iv' a thousand ! Widin the black o' my nail o' playin' the Divil, out-an'-out ! His arum round about her, as close as her sash, an', murther ! I 'd get the thruth iv a heavy curse from the both, an' I 'd disarve id, an' I 'd be contented wid the same. There isn't a boy undher the sun, this moment, 'ud like to be baulked worse than myself Tim Reily ; an' may I never say hec-um-pogue, a-chorra-ma-chree !* to a purty crature durin' my days agin — (an' I 'd rather fast upon one male a-day than do without id) — nor she make answer ' Go along out o' that, you rogue,' (that, as all the world knows, stands for ' By all manes, a-bouchal !') may every bit o' this evil befal me, if any one ever ketches me spilin their own sport. Is id I ? Tim Reily ? Ah, no ; not himsef, by his conscience! — I'll jest give ""em nat'ral time to finish what they 're whisperin' about, in the way mysef 'ud finish id, when I M ketch a hould o' Kitty Gow, supposin'; it wouldn't be three snaps iv a finger till the quarrel 'ud be over, an' Kitty sayin' 'It's * Give me a kisSj darling of my heart. 262 THE CROPPY. a shame for you, Tim !' an' I smackin"* my lips. But I never had the loock iv thryin wid one o' them ladies ; I b'iieve there must be more coaxin' an' takin' iv oaths that a body 'ud mane no sich thing ; Ah ! fie, sure you wouldn't sus- pect I 'd be so bould ? Nothin' was farther from my thoughts, your darlin' ladyship! I gi' you my oath down, plump an' plain, I wouldn't do the like for the King iv England's crown." Tim spread out his arms and assumed his most coaxing manner; while he repeated slowly and softly these last words, made a sudden stop, affected to engage in a tender contest, drew back his head, and smiled at his own sly cleverness ; " an', afther all," he continued, *' little Kitty Gow has as nice a taste on her lips as any o' ye, I believe ; only I wish there was honest manes o' thryin, jest out o' cu- rosity." Tim was interrupted by receiving, from the hands of an unknown and strange courier, a letter for Sir William Judkin. Now he really had business into the drawing-room, yet he would not ungenerously hasten thither. He waited until, in his judgment, and even allow- THE CHOPPY. 263 ing time for the additional pleading to be used when a lady was in question, Sir William had brought matters to a conclusion. As soon as his reason and conscience became assured on those points, Tim Reily ascended the stairs, and walked to the drawing-room door with a slow and heavy step, took the lock-handle abruptly in his grasp, and made as much noise with it as was possible ; and accord- ingly, upon his second entrance into the apart- ment, had the sly satisfaction of observing that his young lady and her lover sat a reasonable distance asunder, while, from the expression of their countenances, all seemed to have ended just as it should have done. " A bit iv a letther for your honour ; an' ' There 's no answer,' says the gowk that gave id." " From whom did the messenger say it comes r" questioned Sir William. " * How duv I know ?"" says he when I axed him ; ' Well,' says I, ' if that 's all you know about id, don't tell any body, a-bouchal ;' an' so he walked off, your honour." " Very well," resumed the young Baronet, in a low voice, as with particular scrutiny he 264 THE CROPPY. examined the superscription of the letter. It caught Eliza'^s eye ; she thought she recollected the handwriting, and her heart misgave her. Asking and obtaining permission, he hastily tore open the letter. After running over its first lines, his eye widened and flashed, his brows gathered, his cheek flamed and suddenly grew very pale, and his teeth set between his widely parted lips. With increased alarm, and some terror of a peculiar kind, Eliza beheld the face that but a moment before had charmed her by its united expression of beauty and hap- piness, change into deformity and agitation. From the character about her lover's wrinkled brows she shrank in particular alarm ; it was terrible, and, as she afterwards said, fiendish. While she continued to watch him. Sir Wil- liam's features relaxed into a kind of stupor, and his manner indicated that for a moment he forgot her presence ; moisture beaded his fore- head ; his looks fixed on the floor ; his head sank towards his chest ; he seemed slightly to shudder. The letter lay open on his knee ; and Eliza saw the signature she' had anticipated, — that of her old lover, Harry Talbot. A minute elapsed ere the Baronet showed symptoms of returning presence of mind. THE CROPPY. 9.65 « Dear Sir William !" said Eliza softly, '* this letter seems to disturb you." " No, my angel !" he replied, hastily folding it up, and trying to reassume his former bril- liant smiles and display of happiness — " 1 was only accidentally ill — ill of sudden bliss, I sup- pose; it contains nothing of much consequence." " Not only of consequence. Sir William, but also of a disagreeable nature; — i^ay, allow my privilege of contradicting you, and hear me out. I watched your features, and their first work- ings, at least, were not caused by sudden illness ; and I will tell you why I watched them. The handwriting and signature of the letter met my eye, and I knew them to be those of your enemy. I am therefore led to fear the most unhappy consequences : and truly loving me, as you do, you will not leave me in doubt. I must be made acquainted with the whole con- tents of the vile scrawl." " You say you noticed the signature, Eliza ?" ^' Yes; the signature of Henry Talbot." " Then am I compelled to do that which, under other circumstances, honour and man- hood would hinder me from doing, even at your urging. Your peace of mind, adored Eliza, is at stake, and I must be candid ; though VOL. I. N 266 THE CROPPY. after all, the matter is absurd enough. My chivalrous rival — " Sir William smiled con- temptuously as he spoke the ensuing words : — " threatens me with his high displea- sure, if I do not forego the rapture of calling the lovely Eliza Hartley my bride. I know- not whence the young man has drawn his stock of ideas, but they must certainly have a knack of representing him to himself as a very vast and overpowering personage. We shall see. By the ! — excuse me, dearest love, I forget your presence ; but can I look on those hea- venly features, and quite keep patience with the empty swaggerer .^^ For such a prize as I see before me, must not my spirit start up in arms ? Nay, had I no such incentive, — were I even not blessed above all men, as I am by the preference of Eliza Hartley ! — his silly threat alone would prompt me to hurl this pretender to the distance his presumption warrants. The fool ! the mad fool !" continued Sir William, as if muttering to himself, " does he think I fear him .?" " Sir WiUiam !" said Eliza, starting up, and laying her hand on that of her lover, — " for my sake, act nobly ; take no notice of him, or of his absurd letter — absurd, your own words THE cRorpy. 267 have acknowledged it to be; avoid him, and my gratitude will reward you." " Eliza, I must, in this one instance, dis- obey you ; the subject grows distressing — al- most unseemly, between us ; but, to give your mind certainty, I was forced into it ! Since it has gone so far, however, hear me say, that I am not to be braved — bearded, with impu- nity ! Nay, could you, — even you, Eliza, rest safely upon my protection, if I forbore to chastise this insolent outrage upon us both ?" " I win tell you, Sir WiUiam, if you aban- don those fearful feelings — no, I do not say abandon ; but if you now control them, at my earnest and afflicted request, you will con- vince me I have some little influence over you, and, if it is possible, I will love you the better for it." Her voice trembled like the vibratingf- string of a harp, and tears, those all-conquering opponents of man's sternest resolve, filled the large and heaven-blue eyes of Eliza. " Spare me !" replied the lover, averting his head — " spare me an appeal, beloved Eliza ! which, in any other case, were irresistible : do not pledge me to my own dishonour." " Grant my request, Sir William, and at a future day you will bless me for it. Beloved N 2 268 THE CROPPY. Sir William — " her head rested on his shoul- der, and she ended in a burst of weeping: " doom me not to days and nights of utter wretchedness !'' The Baronet's answer did not show that Tim Reily was absolutely correct in his conclusions, as to the perfect understanding at which the lovers had arrived. " Eliza, difficult as is the sacrifice — upon one condition, I will obey you." '• Oh ! name it !" " Be more explicit in your generally express- ed consent to waive the long years of probation between me and happiness ; consent to be mine at the very shortest day for which I can obtain Sir Thomas's approval. It is the only w^ay of putting an end to contention between my rival and myself : when he sees all hope shut out, he will cease to provoke my vengeance." '' I will in every thing submit to my dear father's wishes." *' Then,*" exclaimed the enraptured lover, folding her to his bosom. " I promise you to avoid — even should he continue to annoy me— all encounter with the presumptuous and foolish Henry Talbot : nay, with this ridiculous trans- cript of his intemperance," — throwing the letter THE CROPPY. 269 into the fire, — " let all thought of my resentment vanish for ever." " Thank God !" said Eliza ; and, in the pas- si veness of her gratitude, she did not at once summon up sufficient presence of mind to cause her lover to qualify the ardour of his caresses. 270 THE CROPPY. CHAPTER XL A MONTH following the termination of the time of the last chapter, Sir Thomas Hartley was seated in his dining-parlour, ttte-a-tete with a strange guest. The venerable apartment was solidly wainscoted with shillelagh oak, against which (as is said of the wood-work of the roof of Westminster Abbey, also reputed Irish) the venomous spider of England durst not affix his web. But, however true this assertion may be, the less hurtful, though not a whit more or- namental, Irish insect of the same species may, without danger to his life or health, excepting at the hands of the housemaid, (and sometimes he need not fear her either,) append his curi- ous workmanship to any convenient beam or plank of his country''s timber. Yet, let it not be inferred that, in the present instance, the venerable wainscot was disfigured by any of those filmy textures which characterise the THE CROPPY. 271 slattern's dwelling. The domestic concerns of Sir Thomas Hartley were too diligently over- looked by Miss Alice, to allow of such a case. One glance around of her keen eye would have detected, in the most remote corner or subtle chink, the mesh of the unsightly spider, or her susceptible ear have distinguished, above all other sounds, the death-buzz of the tortured fly, expiring in the monster's claws. The cloth had been removed after dinner, and the polished table was cheered and graced by a variety of excellent wines, for which the cellars of the host, in common with those of many Irish gentlemen of the time, were deserv- edly celebrated ; — in truth, we do not know a country, however it has happened, more likely than our own to submit, now and then, to the smack of the connoisseur, a glass of good old claret. The strange guest, who sat opposite to Sir Thomas Hartley, we will not pause to describe, because, though an important and memorable actor on our boards, he was but a passing one, — making a single entrance and exit, and, in con- formity with the peculiar system of secrecy of those whose agent he proved himself to be, not even leaving a name behind. 272 THE CKOPPY. Neither is it our purpose to report the whole of a long conversation which, for hours after the despatch of dinner, took place between him and Sir Thomas ; or rather, which, in reply to the urging of the stranger upon a certain point, was almost monopolized by the Baronet. It will be sufficient to take up their discourse towards its close, when, after a long and elo- quent harangue from his high-minded and warm-hearted host, explanatory of his refusal to engage in the matter, on account of which he had been specially solicited, we hear the stranger remark as follows : " Then, Sir Thomas, it is really your inten- tion to forsake, in their present efforts, your old pohtical brethren." " Certainly, Sir," rephed the Baronet ; " part- ly for the reasons I have given, partly for others which I can give. Yet, my secession does not occur without regret, — I may add, sorrow, heart-felt sorrow, for the wretched necessity that compels it. Never can I cease to wish ardently, and, I hope, purely, for the indepen- dence and happiness of my country ; and that my judgment and conscience now refuse an exertion in her behalf, is a bitter pang. As a Volunteer officer, in the first epoch of Ireland's THE CEOPPY. 273 glory, I was an enthusiast. Fifteen years have since sobered down my mind, and yet I see no reason to criticise my more youthful views and feelings. It was the only period, during a lapse of six centuries, that Ireland's sons,paus- ing in their dissensions, united for her good, and therefore seemed capable of serving her. Sir, recollection of that time fills me again with its spirit. The passion of the land was the happiness of the land ; and, in the pursuit of an object so virtuous, it formed the happi- ness of the people. Have we for ever outlived those days of sunshine .'^'*' " I think we have not, Sir Thomas,'' an- swered the stranger : " the coming struggle will be but the storm that breaks and disperses the clouds, to make way for a returning burst of purest sunshine." " I despair of it. Sir," continued the Ba-. ronet. '* And yet, Sir Thomas, you say, that even at the suppression of the last of the Volunteers, your opinions and views went the full length of theirs ; that, in fact, you were, in 1794, a true United Irishman .^" " I have admitted so much, Sir." " May I then beg to be favoured, in addi- N 5 274 THE CROPPY. tion to the arguments 3'ou have already adduc- ed, with the final reasons for now regarding as hopeless, an effort you must, at that time, have thought promising ?" " Readily, Sir. At the moment when our proceedings for our country''s good changed from open, public remonstrance, into more secret and disguised plans, I freely admit, I had not sufficiently reflected on ultimate results. Spirit and indignation were too much roused to allow of due forecast. Time has since been afforded me for calmer thought, and, I must own, I shrink from the cruel devastations of a civil war, even supposing it engaged in by a union amongst the majority of my countrymen, such as that exhibited by the Volunteers of 1782. I have looked at the proceedings in France, and — let stronger or baser hearts sneer at me, if they will — I shudder at the idea of stalk- 'ing, even to the shrine of Freedom, through national carnage, ruin, and demoralization. But where is the perfect union supposed ? Where the spirit of 1782 ? Has not our previous dis- course shown, that from a variety of causes — some of them the planned workings of bad men, — sect is now urged against sect, through- out our miserable land ? That the struggle. THE CROPPY. S75 stripped of all its saving character, cannot therefore be one between Ireland and England, but one between Irishmen and Irishmen — nay, between Christians and Christians, adoring the same God, though hating each other in His Name ! Sir, this is a sickening, an unnerving prospect ! I could not be a party in such a strife. Hand in hand with my countrymen, of every re- ligious denomination, it is my pride and glory to have once cried out for liberty ; but the generous fire of patriotism no longer warms the bosoms of Irishmen : in the present instance, their hearts flame against one another with an impure fire, kindled by a brand that has been snatched from hell." Sir Thomas, while speaking these words, gave a proof of the strength of his feelings — tears started from his eyes. " I trust," said his guest, '' you anticipate too gloomily. Sir Thomas ; — that blood must flow, is inevitable ; but that the efforts of the conductors of this good cause will succeed in counteracting the sectarian rancour you dread, I almost as certainly reckon on." " I see. Sir," answered the Baronet, " you have not examined with perhaps the closeness which the case demands, the materials either of 276 THE CllOPPV- your opponents or adherents. That men of improved intellect may refrain from shedding each other's blood, on the mere score of reli- gion, I hope and pray ; but that the lower orders, on both sides, will — recollecting their long-cherished hatred, and mutual hopes of extermination or revenge — hesitate in the most atrocious as well as superfluous outrages ; that Orangeman will spare Catholic, or Catholic, Orangeman, I cannot, alas ! contemplate as possible. And the frightful picture of their common barbarities is ever before my eyes, scaring me from all participation in your cause. — Sir, I shrink from the vortex !" " To our deep regret, Sir Thomas. But we expect at least, that, if not ranked at our side, you will stand neuter." *' Such must be my course. Sir. JVly single efforts could not now arrest the progress of the coming devastation : by the utmost I could do, a few wretches only might be brought to punishment, — even supposing me engaged with those whose policy in my native land I can no more admire than I can consent to join you, or rather your supporters, in whom my religion would perhaps arouse a thirst for my death. THE CROPPy. 277 Alone, therefore, I must abide the storm as I may." *' Have you ever heard, Sir Thomas, that the Cabinet of this country have, long ago, become acquainted with the secret of our con- federation ag-ainst them ?" demanded the stran- ger, in visible asperity. " I have heard as much, Sir/' " And that they since permit it to go on," continued the guest, in increasing bitterness, " while they organize and impel the very secta- rian hatred you so much deprecate, — halloo- ing different portions of the people against each other, as one of the best means of saving themselves ? And has your mind's eye. Sir Thomas, never caught a glimpse, in his closet, of the even-pulsed minister, contemplating the gradual workings of this volcano of base pas- sions, and quietly calculating upon its explo- sion ? — or has your fancy's ear never caught the unagitated accents of his voice, as throwing his cold eyes over the sea of blood in which our land is to be deluged, he may have said — ' Let it be ; for across this very tide will I sail triumphant to the harbour of my am- bition .?" 278 THE CROPPY. " I have not sought so deep, Sir." " Well ; time will show, if I wrong him. But it grows late in the evening, Sir Thomas, and I claim your promise to accompany me to the house whither my instructions farther point.'' " I attend you. Sir." And upon a dark evening, in the end of February, Sir Thomas Hartley and his guest issued forth together. The unsuspecting Ba- ronet had better have remained at home. THE CROPPY. 279 CHAPTER XII. It was for the residence of a person often mentioned before in the progress of this story, that Sir Thomas Hartley and his guest set out, on foot ; — we mean, the smith of the district, John Delouchery, or, as he was familiarly termed, Shawn-a-Gow — that is. Jack the Smith. In a country district, in Ireland, the smith is a person of no little importance. He has the credit of being an artisan, whose surprising in- genuity and well-directed blows form, into vari- ous articles necessary for agriculture, the un- shapely bar of iron. He is the hamlet farrier too : he bleeds and prescribes for horses ; — nay, by a very simple transmission of confidence, founded, unconsciously it may be, upon a com- parison of animal economy, there appears no reason why he should not cure his neighbours as well as their beasts ; and hence he may be allowed, amongst his humble friends, a rank 280 THE CROPPY. parallel to that enjoyed, in a more exalted so- ciety, by surgeons of regular degree. His forge enjoys almost as much considera- tion as himself ; being a kind of temple of fame, where the youths of the neighbourhood may, with profit to their characters, give publicity to their names. It is customary — indeed a mat- ter insisted on, that the farmer who sends a piece of iron to be fabricated at the smithy, shall send with it a boy or lad, his son, or his most able-bodied young labourer, to wield the heavy sledge, while " the gow," with his less pon- derous hammer, gives the judicious fashioning blow ; and, according to his opinion of his as- sistant's strength of sinew, the presiding artist has it in his power to stamp, creditably or otherwise, the rising pretensions of the youth. For, however attractive to city taste may ap- pear the mincing pace, straitened waist, and nerveless arm of the dandy, a solid tread, strong and broad muscles, and ability to work at any one thing from sunrise to sunset, and dance till sunrise again, if the opportunity turn up, are qualities regarded by less enlightened eyes, as indicative of praiseworthy manhood. Many advantages are attached to the smith's establishment. Upon setting out in the world, THE CROPPY. ^1 when he requires a little help, his wife and children have the privilege of preceding all gleaners in the new-reaped field. At a con- venient season of the year, he can call upon the farmers to supply their horses and cars to draught home fuel for his furnace. He is a friend of all good fellows, or, more properly, all good fellows are friends of his : how can he help being very often thirsty ? and so, neigh- bours most commioniy " treat him/' and the dram, or draught of beer, that whizzes down his hot throat, seems a matter of right to which he inherits a claim. His laboratory is scarce ever destitute, par- ticularly upon winter's nights, of chatty folk, who assemble round his ever-roaring fire, partly to stretch their hands and chins over its grate- ful blaze, partly to indulge the gregarious and talkative instinct of their nature. Politicians, too, very often constitute such circles, by whom grievances are discussed, remedies suggested, and associations formed, that tend to break up the quiet of a whole district, and bring their wretched and ignorant promoters to the gibbet. But never, it will be presumed, at any period before or since, were the smithies of Ireland so often put in requisition as during the eventful 282 THE CROPl'Y. time of our story. Under cover of the anvil's sound, which rung with the fabrication of weapons doomed to work out their desperate projects, revengeful conspirators assembled every evening, or, rather every night, to hold whispering and husky talk on the coming strug- gle, and shape it to their own sanguine and short-sighted policy. Along with the consciousness of superiority conferred upon Shawn-a-Gow by his calling and rank in life, he was, by nature, one who held a high opinion of himself. His words were few ; but, if they came only by intervals, Shawn thought, and others thought too, that their pith made up for their scarcity. His stature approached the gigantic. He had a black beard, and, by virtue of his trade, a black face. His arms, when bared for work- ing, were coils of muscle and sinew, not un- worthy of the Farnese Hercules, with ap- pended to them — for tJiey seemed too weighty even for such arms to wield — a pair of great, broad, bony, black fists, of which it was said, that one good blow would bring to his knees the stoutest ox that ever bellowed. And the innate pride of his physical ponderosity might THE CROPPY. 283 have assisted Shawn in standing well in his own opinion. He was a man of substance too, and dignity of bearing became him. From his youthful days, Shawn had been no idler, and he possessed a wife whose steady and thrifty habits turned his earnings to a good account. Between them they were proprietors of an establishment, by the agency of which, his customers could treat him to his own ale or whiskey, and pay the reckoning to Mrs. Gow : and theirs was the sign of " The shoeing horse ;" one very ap- propriate to both branches of Shawn's business. The artist, to whom we are indebted for this effort of the pencil, had studied Shawn himself as the original of the shape, which was in the act of shoeing the horse ; and, while he chuckled over his work, declared it " the living image of the Gow ;" none others, his wife excepted, could, however, trace the likeness : after re- maining a long time silent, Shawn admitted, " it was as like him as the other thing was lik^ a horse ; an' that was saying as much as could be said for it ;" and we are compelled to add, that the arms and legs seemed to originate from points a little out of natural conformation, and THE CROPPY. displayed, moreover, nothing of the herculean solidity of the real subject. As to the face, we profess no surprise at the limner's failure, in this particular, for, with equal hope of catching the features of his original, he might set about pourtraying the "visage of a man in a mask, as attempt the delineation of Shawn's countenance, disguised as he was beneath the black crust superinduced by the smoke and vapour of his furnace. Shawn-a-Gow had a son and daughter, and he loved both with a steady, taciturn regard, that was perhaps more sterling than if it had sounded wordily. He had been but a few days out of his apprenticeship — some thirty years ago — when on a fine Sunday, lying on his back in a meadow, and playing, as the Irish termed it, " BuUiigh lea greehan^'" that is, " the breast to the sun,"" he began, — now that he was an established artisan, escaped from seven years' fiery ordeal, to reflect upon the steps necessary to be taken for getting on in the world. He resolved upon matrimony, as soon as it could be attained, and, in consideration of his being a tradesman, he should get a fortune with his wife. Within twelve months at farthest, from his wedding-day, he would be the father THE CHOPPY. 285 of a son. Thirteen years afterwards, that son would be able to work in the forge, and add to his profits the produce of the labour of an ad- ditional hand. And there would be another son, and another at least ; and by the time he became fifty years old, he could subsist on their united efforts, and consecrate to luxurious ease the rest of his life. Accordingly, Shawn did marry, quite to his expectations and tastes, if not beyond them: the pretty, smiling, quiet daughter of the widow Runehan, whose public- house was of old standing, became his wife. He had speculated on a spouse that would not say no, if it happened to be his pleasure to say that *' the moon was made of green cheese;" and so far Bridget Runehan fully gratified his views and wishes. About the time he had at first reckoned on, (fortune still seeming resolved that Shawn should have his way,) his partner became a mother. He calmly awaited the result, for his mind was made up to it. A daughter was pre- sented to him. Those who watched him, and knew Sha'.vn's humour, deemed that he was sorely vexed ; but, in consideration of its being a first offtnce, he said nothing. A second accouchement appeared very pro- 286 THE CROPPY. bable. He sought a moment of serious conver- sation with his wife, and warned her, on pain of his displeasure, to supply him with a son. She engaged to the utmost of her power to obey her husband, but failed notwithstanding; and, as soon as she was able to bear the reason- able chastisement warranted by the law of Eng- land, it is true that Shawn reminded her of his threat. The next time, he felt little uneasiness. Full precautions had, he argued, been taken to bring his spouse to a sense of her duty. But a daughter still appeared ; and the terrified mo- ther, in order to gain time, at least, from his indignation, counselled her nurse to misrepre- sent the fact. He was in great glee, called his wife " a good girl at last," and laid out extravagantly for the christening. But when the priest came, and that the child's name was pronounced, not even the expedient of hiding it in Latin could deceive Shawn's ear. He grew furious. The mother had spoken confidentially to the clergyman, and engaged him on her side, and the good man exerted his eloquence to convince Shawn of the sinfulness of combatting the will of God. All the neigh- THE cROPpy. 287 hours, and particularly all the neighbours' wives, joined in the exhortation, and he was worried into an unwiUing promise that, for this time, the poor woman should go unpunished. But Shawn swore an oath, in reference to future contingencies — and when they occurred, so far as he was allowed, he kept it. In fact, upon the announcement of a fourth daughter, half a dozen friends, who saw him rush into the forge for his hammer, saved him by intercept- ing the obstinate madman at the threshold of his wife's chamber, from the commission of some wild and perhaps dreadful act. As if his presumption had now been suffi- ciently punished, Providence, upon the next oc- casion, really vouchsafed him an heir, who was estimated and beloved by his father in propor- tion to his former anxiety and disappointments. And now his unlucky and untimely daughters died one by one, and Shawn, though not show- ing as much grief at their burial as he had done at their birth, still, to the surprise of his friends, seemed sorry for them. Mrs. Gow's last confinement produced, how- ever, a daughter still, and he took advantage of the opportunity to evince his appeased return 288 THE CHOPPY. to natural feelings, and returned the little smiling innocent with a father's answering smile. As the boy grew up, Shawn, having acquired wealth in the world, thought it a pity to make a slavish smith of him, particularly as he gave indications of talent beyond that required to shape a horse-shoe out of a bar of iron ; and, in fact, his darling was educated for the priest- hood. As to his only surviving daughter, the same Kitty Gow to whom allusions have here- tofore been made in these chapters, he loved her with a selfish love ; was very loath to part with her; and once declared, after a fit of lengthened taciturnity, by his forge-fire, that the man destined to win and wear Kitty Gow, and her mother's purse, should be worth some- thing, and a likely fellow into the bargain. The reader will please to remember the name of a certain Davy Moore, " the waver, son to Molly Beehan, who was the daughter iv ould Davy Beehan, the great reed-maker," as, in her last conference with our heroine, Nanny the Knitter described him. It will farther be borne in mind that, also according to Nanny's report, he was about to becom.e enlisted, at his mother's instance, in the train of the suitors of pretty THE CROPPY. S89 Kitty Gow. And accordingly, upon the even- ing when Sir Thomas Hartley held with his strange guest the conversation mentioned in the last chapter, Davy Moore appeared seated in the kitchen of Shawn-a-Gow, and he had come a- wooing. Although but approximating to forty years of age, Davy looked older. He was a large unwieldy man, possessed of great latent strength, but unconscious of the fact. Neither his glance nor his bearing betrayed any self-knowledge that he was an individual whom many might fear: on the contrary, he shambled along as if afraid of every body and every thing he encountered. This arose from the continual apprehension he was in, of evil to be sustained from supernatural enemies. If his colourless face, that showed pretty nearly the dingy yel- low and the unequal surface of a honeycomb, expressed any thing, and if his large, round, protruding grey eyes, ever denoted any par- ticular state of mind, the one was nervous inanity, and the other, a mistified state of brain. His intellects, cloudy by nature, were even still more confused by vague dreams of preternatural agency. He thought — (if ever he thought) — nay, he lived rather amid the ter- VOL. I. o 290 THE CROPPY. rible bustle of imagined beings, than among the fellow-creatures around him. Upon all subjects, excepting this one, he had not an idea. His mother, and the public too, deemed him however, a good workman; and certainly he wrought a piece of hnen well ; — but his success was as purely mechanical as that of the appa- ratus, of which he might be considered as form- ing a part. When both were once in motion, they unconsciously got through their compound duty ; but the more intellectual operation of — as it is called—" fixing his tackle in the loom," always fell to his mother; to that point of ingenuity he never reached. And such was the wooer whom a parent's credulous partiality deemed entitled to a fa- vourable reception from the blooming, the smart, and the wealthy Kitty Gow, or Kitty Delouchery : — wealth, as well as every thing else, is comparative, and Kitty was affluent for her sphere in life. Davy, of course, came dressed in his best clothes; and, according to his mother'^s arrange- ment, Nanny the Knitter met him, as a neces- sary auxiliary, upon the field of enterprise : though, as may be recollected from a former admission of the old match-maker, a conscien- THE CROPPY. 291 tious discharge of duty, proportioned to her professional fee, rather than any hope or even desire of a happy result, formed, on the present occasion, Nanny's motive of action. Side by side, she and Davy sat on the ample kitchen ** hob." A third person, not an inmate of the family, occupied a chair in the middle of the apartment. He had just driven up to the door a small cart of linen and woollen goods, and appeared to be a kind of itinerant travel- ling merchant, or pedlar on a grand scale. If his dress, phrase, and manner might be trusted, he was a Quaker ; and one of his eyes seemed to have met with an accident, for he wore a black patch over it. The unobtrusive and subdued-looking wife of Shawn-a-Gow, who had been so unlucky in thwarting her husband with a succession of daughters, sat behind a counter, at one side, seriously engaged in repairing her despot'^s hose; and Kitty, the sly, laughing Kitty, was brewing whiskey punch, from one jug to an- other, close to her mother's elbow, and merrily glancing, now and then, at the curious wooer Nanny had brought to seek her favour, and of whose comincr the old woman had forewarned her. 292 THE CROPPY. The double-charactered apartment occupied by all, gave a good idea of what a comfortable man Shawn-a-Gow was. As is usual in genteel Irish kitchens, a store of bacon hung in the large chimney at one end, which had, at either side, spacious hobs or stone benches, very plea- sant seats upon such nights as the present. To screen this nook of comfort from the breeze of the door, which would otherwise have swept on to warm itself, a wall, about the height of a tall man, ran, at some paces from the threshold, beyond the hobs. Opposite to the fireplace was the entrance into a room, well whitewashed and supplied with substantial long tables and forms, that had often borne, upon a Sunday, or holiday, the persons and the liquor of the vil- lage topers. Near to the door of this apart- ment, about a dozen steps of stairs ascended to the " loft" — which (a very unusual thing in Irish cabins) absolutely overspread the whole kitchen : and, at one side appeared another door, giving admittance into a passage that led the way to the cellar, and then to a retired room, a considerable distance from the more public parts of the house, where guests of some distinction could be accommodated, and where THE CROPPY. " the bed by night and chest of drawers by day," could be decorated for him in no un- comfortable taste. The counter ran from the window that light- ed the half-shop half-kitchen ; and this window was well protected on the outside with iron bars and holdfasts of Shawn-a-Gow's best manufac- ture ; from close observation of which, people argued there was something in the house to be guarded, exclusive of the two tills, one for copper, and one for silver, that slid in and out under the counter. Against the wall, within full view of the generally gaping door, hung a " dresser," * holding every utensil requisite for domestic comforts, as well as for the dispatch of business ; amongst other articles, flat tin pans with long handles, for preparing mulled porter ; tumblers of a twisted manufacture, that, by the refraction of the rays of light, seemingly cause to sparkle the liquor they contain ; a few dram- glasses ; pewter quarts and pints ; jugs, great and small ; long black bottles, cased in wicker-work to save from accident, by a fall, themselves and the precious fluid they held ; and we must not forget a certain wooden instrument, with a slen- der handle, and a knob at the end, used in the * Kitchen shelves. 294 THE ciiorpY. making of punch, for speedily bruising the su- gar into a state for quick sohition. And in this apartment, for lack of a better, a tired man, such as, in the hard service of our gentle readers, we occasionally have had the honour to be, might get a good, warm, homely meal, quaff a glass of good native beverage, and enjoy a cheerful blaze, and if he cared, or knew how, to chime in with his company, a cheerful hour of gossip too. The wooer, it has been said, sat side by side with Nanny the Knitter, upon one of the " hobs," in the sheltered chimney nook. A quarter of an hour had elapsed since his entrance under the roof of the Gows, yet, excepting his " God save all here," as he crossed the threshold, no word had since escaped him. Now he would glare at the fire ; now straight into Nanny's face ; then at the Quaker merchant, who occu- pied a chair in front of the blaze ; and, occa- sionally, more in observance of her proceedings than of herself — at Kitty Gow. " Sorrow 's in him," muttered Nanny — " what a mighty purty offer he makes at the coortin: that I maytn't sin, if ever I seen afore such a cratur, wid the makins iv a man about him ! He doesn't seem to be taken wid THE CROPPY. 29e5 that nate little honey, forenent his eyes there, no more than if she was a stick or a stone. Here's this ould blind Quaker here, worth a dozen iv him ; merry asther to me but he is !'' The Quaker, in his own peculiar fashion, had paid some passing compliments to the " comely handmaiden,*" as he called her, and, so far as one eye could befriend him, seemed willing to conciliate Kitty's smiles. " Why don't you call for some liquor for yoursef ?" at length said Nanny to her protegee ; her patience being quite worn out. " What's that your for sayin', Nanny?" he asked, in a voice so croaking and gurgling, that one might think it made way through numerous little cavities, like to those of the honeycomb, which his cheeks have been said to resemble. " Call for some dhrink !'^ said Nanny, in a more dictatorial tone ; " and make the house the betther o' you, since you won't do any thing else." " I b'lievethat 'ud bedoin' right," concurred Davy ; ^^ an' by the gonnies ! my mother tould me to do the same. An' wait — sure, she put a hog* in my pocket:" searching for it; "so * A shilling, English. ^96 THE CROPPY. she did, by my deed. Mrs. Delouchery, come here, I want you !" " Wouldn't I do, Davy, a-chorra ! an' never mind my mother this time?'' asked Kitty, tripping over, and stooping close to him : and Davy could not avoid relaxing his features into some clumsy sympathy with the laughing face that accosted him. *' Faix, I b'lieve, honest girl, you'll do mighty well entirely ; Give us the worth o* this white thirteen o' dhrink ; an' sure, that won't be bad for a body." '' Why, the worth o' this will make you tipsy, Davy, my boy." " Who cares, by gonnies ; an' there 's an- other to back it, that my mother doesn't know about, your sowl." '' An' what drink will you have, Davy .?" " Give us some ale at the first settin' out, for I 'm dhry." " Verily, friend I" observed the Quaker ; " the words of thy mouth bespeak the parched state of thy inner man." " Oh ! I am as dhry as a fish, by gonnies !" said the weaver, in heavy ecstasy at the antici- pation of a treat he had not for a long time. THE cuoppy. 297 nor very frequently, at any time, indulged in. Kitty brought him a foaming measure, which, at a breath, he gulped down ; while she stood observinoj him, and av/aitincp his farther ad- dress. " An"* won't you sit down wid us, Kitty, my honey pet ?^^ asked Nanny the Knitter, con- scientiously, though reluctantly, commencing her professional duties. " If Davy Moore was to ax a body, maybe I might, Nanny." Davy, his out-bulged eyes staring at vacuity, was breathing after his draught, and enjoying the interior progress of the good ale. " Why don't 3'ou have manners, Davy ?'^ queried the Knitter captiously, " an' ax the purty pet to plank hersef near you ?''"' " Comely maiden," said the Quaker, " per- haps thee would'st choose a seat within enjoy- ment of the full bounty of the fire." " Next to theeself is id, Sir ?" " Yea ! where thee shalt be comforted." " By word o' mouth, that 'ud make a body understand thee.^" slily looking her meaning. " V^erily, by the persuasion of lips will I in- struct tliee!" and the man's lips seemed to o 5 S98 THE CROPPY. quiver, and his unpatched eye to glitter in an- ticipation. "An** thee 'd give me a ribbon, I'll go bail?" " Even the choicest of my assortment." " Sure, I know that, Sir; an' a hankerchief of raal Barcelony ?" " The best of the bale, likewise." Kitty laughed jeeringly, and replied, " For all your thee's and thou's, friend. I b'*lieve you're a big rogue among the poor girls: 'smooth wather runs deep;' — you know the rest yoursef But here's honest Davy Moore doesn't fear that ould sayin'." Davy had just capsized his vessel ; and, in order to drain the last drop, was presenting its nadir point to the zenith. — " Give us another o' the full o' this, a-lanna !" Kitty speedily served him ; and, as she turned to withdraw, " Come here, honest girl !" he continued ; " mysef wants to be spakin' to you." " An' here I am for you, Davy," she an- swered, sitting down in great glee, " an' now, say id to my face, whatever it is." " *Cugger, cuggcr, a-lanna ; sure my mother * Whisper, my dear. THE CROPPY. 299 lets me come from the work, on the head o' coortin' you/' '' An' a brave hand you 're at the coortin', I'll go bail, Davy." " You're a clane pet iv a darlin'," observed Davy, with much of the air of an automaton that could speak : and Kitty smiled as she re- cognized the phrase of Nanny the Knitter, who, no doubt, adept as she was in soft words, had schooled Davy for the present occasion. " It 's the liquor you're flattherin now, Davy ; that 's as plain as the fire afore us." " No, bud it's your own purty sef he manes," put in Nanny the Knitter, in order to give her pupil time to recover from his second draught. *' An' wouldn't he be a goose, an' a gandher, that's worse, to talk that a-way to muddy bar- ley-wather, wid the comely, nice Kitty Gow, by the side iv him, that 'ud make a toothless gran- daddy dance a double horn-pipe to plaise her." " Only it seemeth unto me," observed the Quaker, that the elder woman is the suitor, rather than my worrhy brother in warp and weft." Kitty laughed, and Nanny replied sharply, " Meddlin' people doesn't always come off wid thanks, Sir; an' let you go poke your fox's 300 THE CROPPY. snout where there 's geese that wonH know you, my honey." " Peace be between us, good mother," an- swered the Quaker meekly. '' Well ; keep givin'' your one eye to your own concarns. Sir, an' we '11 have no rubbins wid any o"* your sort :" and Nanny glanced a meaning over his quaintly attired person. " You 're my honey pet iv a darlin', I tell you, Kitty Delouchery," resumed Davy, when he had recovered his breath ; an' I want to be coaxin' you, the way you '11 be marred to my- sef, this Shroft." " Throth, Davy," answered Kitty, " an' sure you 're in haste, good boy : it isn't every one 'ud have me that way, without lookin' closer ; maybe you wouldn't like me as well by Asther- Sunday as you would on Shrofe-Tuesday ; an' then you couldn't get rid o' me so asy." " But, lo r said the Quaker, " I would yearn to befriend honest Davy : if thy way and his way lay separate, behold I would come up with thee upon thine, fair Kitty, and thou shouldst find in me a cherisher, even one to cleave unto thee." Kitty affected not to hear this speech, but Nanny was severe upon it. THE CROPPy. 301 " Bad manners to you, I say — an' that prayer was hard for you afore, bud — merry asther to me, if you war lookin' at the way your bad words agrees wid your ugly face, an' the simple dhress that's on your rogue's skin, you 'd hate a pretendher — becase he comes o' the worst o' people." " Not to the elder have my words been spoken," said the man : " wherefore, I say again, let not wrath come between us/' '• To me ?" queried Nanny, in a shrill tone ; " That for you !" and she dipped the top of her finger in a glass of ale Davy had given her, and held out a drop to the Quaker's view, — "that for you, an' for all o' your sort!" " An' tell me, Davy," interrupted Kitty, " who put you upon coortin me in such a hurry." " My mother it was that put me on it," an- swered the suitor ; *' she tould me to come over when the piece was worked ; an' she made me dhress myself in my grogram-grey an' all: an', by gonnies, coortin is plaisin enough," look- ing affectionately at the pewter pot — " an' my mother 'ill larn you to fix the tackle in the loom, Kitty, so she will." '' There's good arnin o' the money there," 302 THE CROPPY. observed Nanny, speaking in a low tone, to avoid the Quaker's observation — " good arnin o' the money, every day in the year ; an' there 's the good acres that goes wid the house— an' ould take ; and ready tilled, an' the crop lookin' well ; an' there 's the cow in calf." " An' my mother," added Davy, in obedience to a hint from Nanny's elbow, " has, I don't know how mooch, in a stockin', Kitty, an' she'll powr id into your Jap." " I'm tould, for a thruth, Davy, that the cow is bewitched ?" remarked Kitty, keeping a very serious face. "Oh-a! oh-a!" ejaculated Davy— *« An' I tied the red rag to her tail, the day she came to us, becase the other cow was overlooked to a sart'nty." " It's no sich thing, Kitty my honey," said the Knitter ; " I seen her wid my own eyes, an' she 's thrivin' to look at." " But you couldn't know by lookin' at her, Nanny ; an' them that tould me has the know- ledge. An', morebetoken, Davy, tell me one thing ; when were you in St ulloch-Gap .f^" " Oh-a ! I was a comin' through id last Sunday week, Kitty." " An' did you meet any thing on your way ?" THE CROPPY. SOS " Oh-a ! did I i^ an' sure I did ! There was throops o' them comin' over my path, an' they war knittin* the grass afore me, to throw me ; bud there was one o' them, a httle ould woman like, an' she was loosenin' the knots, to get me off, an' let me go."" " I knew all that afore, Davy." " Oh-a ! how ? — oh-a — " '* An' the same body that tould me o** your cow bein' bewitched, tould me into the bargain, that the little ould woman you met in Sculloch- Gap untwisted the grass for you, becase she loves an"* likes you, an"* has an eye on you for hersef; an' she'd rune any one that 'ud be goin' inside of her, wid you ! Bud, here 's the very body that tould me all, now crassin the thrashold, an' don't purtend I spoke to you about id, for your life, Davy." Nanny did not listen and look on without her usual discrimination. She perceived that Kitty Gow was indulging, at the expense of the credulous Davy Moore, in her usual pleasant bantering, and Nanny's former bad omen of the result of the matrimonial treaty became confirmed ; but, to protect her own interests, she did not fail to remind Davy, in a whisper, that he was bound to testify at home, how 304! THE CROPPY. faithfully and cleverly she had abetted his cause. The person who now entered has before been presented to the reader. It was no other than the redoubted Rattling Bill : dice-thrower, con- jurer, fortune-teller, surgeon, and so forth. With all the sauciness which distinguished his mien and features, he swaggered into the kitchen, and stood an instant in the middle of the floor. His position had scarcely been assumed, when from a hurdle of twisted osiers, in a corner between the door jamb and the screen wall, that formed a roost for some of the domestic fowl, a tiny imperfect crow was heard, like that of a juvenile cock just beginning to acquire his note of authority over his harem. Bill started a little, bent a severe eye upoh the hurdle, and growlingly addressed the dame of the house, who, yet seated behind her coun- ter, seemed devoting the whole powers of her mind to the repairs of her husband's hose ; and, perhaps, she had good reason for strict attention to the wants and comforts of the moody Shawn- a-Gow. '' I say, misthress, twist the head iv that hen that 's afther crowin', if you 'd have loock in the house; an"*, the duoul take her carcass. THE CROPPY. 305 when the head's off, that couldn't let me pass her civilly ! or, get you up, out o' that, ould Nanny, an' go help to do the job." " By all manes, my honey," said Nanny, with much alacrity ; " an' why not — if the sate was the best in the world, an' pour Nanny the owner." " So you 've come a coortin, Davy Moore," continued Bill, addressing the disconcerted wea- ver, who, from the moment the conjuror ap- peared, had looked frightened, but was quite petrified with the supernatural crowing of the hen ; " an' it 's to Kitty Gow you 're come ; an' you won't have him, Kitty ; dhar-a-loursa^* an' that 's well for you ! Davy is bespoke by ano- ther ; an' if you said *yes,' she'd turn your mouth up to your ear, in no time." Kitty looked truly surprised. At the ex- pense of her curious lover, she had invented the story of the old fairy's penchant for him ; her assertion that Rattling Bill told it to her, was a bounce ; yet, now the conjuror's allu- sions seemed to drift the same way, and his ensuing: words startled her still more. " Yes ; poor Davy Moore must marry wid * By the book 306 THE CROPPY. the fairies o' ScuUoch-Gap : there is one o' them called Moya Creetha, becase she has a hump on her back, that must have him ; an' that will never let him go till she withers the marrow in his bones : — what d' you say to that, Davy ?" " Oh-a! what '11 I do, what '11 I do !" " Make a friend o' one that 's able to save you. Is there any thing in this quart .f*" " Oh-a ! not a dhrop." " Pull out your money, an' fill it, then." " Oh-a ! I gave the one shillin' my mother put in my pocket to the honest girl there !" " Now — 'nations to you, you hosthoon ! Where 's the other shillin' you thieved out o' the blue cup in the cupboard ?" " Murther ! — yes — it 's a sart'n thruth I done it." " Well, out wid it !" — Davy, moaning in fright, put the shilling into BilPs hand. '^ Here. Kitty, give us the worth o' this, in smokin' punch, by the Piper ! Sarv'nt kindly, Sir," turning to the Quaker, who, with his sin- gle eye, had been very inquisitively studying Bill. " Now, you think I 'm a quare sort of a THE CROPPY. 307 fellow — an' so I am ; but you don't know what the duoul I 'm about." " Friend, it concerneth not me to know." " Well ; I have the advantage o' you, then ; an' seldom I haven't o' the neighbours, one with another, to tell the thruth :" he lowered his voice, and stooped to the Quaker : — " tip us your fist!" He took rather than received the man's hand, held it in his own left hand, closed the fingers and extended the thumb of his right, and then chucked it at the point where both form an angle, against the answering point in the hand of the stranger. " Isn't that the right touch ?" he continued, as still continuing the contact, he might be observed gently to scrape his httle finger against the other's palm : — "isn't id? But no matther, now— sure I know nothin' about it, if you like. Never fear me ! Vm thrue to the back-bone; may " (he uttered a tremendous imprecation,) — *' if I 'm not !" " Friend, I nothing understand thee," said the seemingly astonished Quaker. " Phoo ! phoo ! never mind, man ; there is a time for knowing an' a time for keepin' the winkers on." 308 THE CROPPY. *' Is that hen killed ?" he asked Nanny, who was whispering with Mrs. Delouchery. "It's past our skill, my dear sowl, to till which iv 'em crowed at you," said the dame. " Haven't you a bracket hen among 'em ?''' " Why, then, faix we have !" answered the dame, looking at Nanny, who, in reply, elevated the knobs of flesh that supplied the place of eyebrows, above her almost whitish eyes. '* Well, let me at her, an' I'll soon put her from crowin** again, the next time she sees me." " Jack Delouchery 'ill be bringin' me to the fore about it, when he misses the hen/' said the dame, in an alarmed accent ; while Nanny, mounting on a stool, pulled down the scream- ing offender. " Would he dare be fraptious about id ? Give her here, ould Nanny, an' lave the job to me." He seized the hen, made some motions in display of the deed he was about to commit, and instantly presented his victim without a head, while blood trickled from her neck. " Now she 's done for ! But when the head 's off, an' the bad blood spilt, that 's enough ; an' so, misthress, to keep quiet, as well as loock, in the house, — here — here 's your bracket hen, safe THE CROPPY. 309 an' sound again ;" and flinging the same bird on the floor, she appeared re-endowed with her head, and stalked and stared about, as if she had just returned from the other world. There was a general shudder amongst the spectators, the Quaker excepted, who still kept his good eye upon Bill's motions. Davy Moore groaned aloud, and with looks of stolid terror glared upon the hen, as she continued to mope about, stretching her neck, and peering at every thing, so much after the fashion of a stranger to the house, that it was firmly concluded, either that she had got a new head, to which the ob- jects around were naturally unknown, or was but a receptacle for something bad, thus hel- lishly introduced into the family. " Put her on the roost," cried Bill ; but no one ventured to obey him. On the contrary, whenever the animal approached them, Nanny, Mrs. Delouchery, and Kitty, edged off" to the opposite side of the apartment, — and Davy almost cringed into the fire from her. "Hah! hah!" laughed Bill, "you're a purty set oVcowards. Come here, you jade !'' The hen, acknowledging his acquaintanceship and control, strode towards him hke a fami- liar. He took her up, and, seemingly whisper- 310 THE CROPPY. ing a word or two at her ear, placed her on the roost, where for some time a great uproar en- sued, as if its other tenants felt averse to the intrusion of a strange visitant. " The ginger," and " the black curvickeen,"" pecked furiously at the bracket, but she as furiously returned their assaults, and was soon the victor, causing them to poke down their heads and keep silent. And then, elated with her conquest, she stood up on her perch, clapped her wings, and all expected another crow, v.hen — " Do, if you daare !*" cried Bill ; and, cackling gently, she settled herself for repose. " Divil a purtier hand, or a comelier colleen, havin' that same hand to her shoulder, ever said thage egh, wid a matther o' whiskey- punch !" — he went on, re-seating himself close by Davy, on the hob, as he took the smoking jug from Kitty, and placed a glass for his entertainer ; " an** I won 't be the w^orse friend o' yours, Davy Moore," Bill continued, " for havin"* this undher my belt ; sha-dhnrth, man ! the same to your neighbour,"*^ nodding to the Quaker; "Mistress Delouchery, here is your health ; Kitty you darlin", if it *s a thing you Ve set upon, havin' Davy Moore, 111 pull him from little Moga Cieetha for you ; " I care THE CROPPY. 311 no more for all the Sheeogs in ScuUoch-Gap than I do for a uran's sneeze — an' well they know- that !" — and he swallowed his glass of punch : but the action scarce interrupted his brawling volubility. "' Hould your glass, Davy." '' Dhrink it all, yoursef, an' a thousand welcomes." " Phoo, man ! hould, here, I tell you" — snatching the glass — ** that will do: — maybe your reverence wid the big hat 'ud try a gazclogue ?''* '' Friend, I thirst not, and therefore choose to say nay to thy bounty." " By the Piper ! you might choose worse, then ; sich a thing as a could lodgin' an' a hemp cravat, if Captin Whaley an' his yeomen had other people's knowledge : bud, to the duoul wid him an' them ; — an' it's not that I mane, Sir ; bud, in your country, they 're given to oaten-maal broth, afther the fashion o' the starved Scotch rawbones they come from. No offence. Sir — mind, I 'm not spakin to you at all, if you 'd rather o' the two I wouldn't." We did not at first mention that the Quaker had that peculiar harshness of accent * A guzzle. 312 THE CROPPY. which to Southern Irish ears denotes a native of Protestant Ulster. '* Here 's a toast for you — an' my heavy curse on whoever wouldn't send it down — here's Erin-go-bragh, every day she gets up ! — Davy, the liquor is making me love you more an' more ;" he continued, in a confidential under-tone to his terrified neighbour, clutching him by the knee, and leaning across him — " don't you think you see afore you the boy that \s able to stand up for you, if Poll Moore, the mother, 'ill show us the inside o' the stockin' .?" " Oh-a," answered Davy, " my life is in your hands.'' " Well ! never fear bud I '11 bring 3'ou over id; only be said by me." At this moment. Sir Thomas Hartley and the mysterious guest in whose company we have seen him issue forth from Hartley Court, entered Shawn-a-Gow's kitchen, attended by our humble acquaintance, Tim Reily. The Quaker arose as they appeared, and Rattling Bill caught a look of recognition between him and Sir Thomas's stranger guest ; after which, he stooped for a small portmanteau that had Iain on the floor, by his side, and passed out of THE CROPPY. 313 the apartment by the door we have mentioned as leading to a more remote and private room of the house. " This is the abode you seek," said the Ba- ronet, speaking low to his companion : " from the conversation which has passed between us, you fully know my sentiments, and must infer that I cannot consider myself free to share secrets, where I decline to be an adherent. My servant attends you, and I will not retire to rest till you return safely to Hartley Court."' " Sir Thomas," answered the stranger, " I feel not the smallest doubt of your honour, so far as I have given you our confidence ; I only regret that we cannot have the support of a gentleman so influential, and so deservedly revered. Yet, think more, and closer, on the part you will take. Characters such as your's are those we anxiously desire to name amongst us ; — men whose opinions must, even in a phy- sical sense, reach far, and who would also be able to wield and restrain the fury of a re- vengeful populace. But this is no place, and no time, to confer on such topics. Nor will I trespass on you to await my return at Hartley Court. Your servant's attendance will be quite sufficient; as, in truth, I shall only re- VOL. I. p 314 THE CROPPY. quire my horse, after this business, to push on, under cover of night, upon my prescribed route. Farewell, Sir Thomas Hartley ; here we separate, with acknowledgments, on my part, of high respect for your person, and gratitude for the kindly hospitality of your mansion." They shook hands, and separated accord- ingly ; the stranger thoughtfully walking across the floor, without glancing at either side, and then entering the passage through which the Quaker had disappeared. 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Qs. 6d. *' Among a multitude of otlier scenes and characters sketched in this novel with great brilliance and effect, will be found — A Presentation at Court VVestminster School — Country Gentlemen — ^[Methodist Ladies — Lancers- Hussars— Guardsmen — Oxford — Duels — Tiie Continent — The Opera and the Danseuses — Ahnack's — Aristocratic Summer Parties — Fas]iional)le Archery — Invitations — Drawing Rooms — Melton 3Iowbray — Dandies — Quadrilling — iuming-houses — The Exhibition — Flirtation — Long's — Foreign Fashionable* ,1— Watering places, &c. &c. Popular Novels Just published by Hejuy Colburn. VII. The POSTHUMOUS WORKS of Mrs. ANNE RADCLIFFE, Author of the ' Romance of the Forest,' ' JMysteries of Udolpho, ' ItaHans,' &c. comprising Gaston de Blondeville ; or the Court of Henry III. keeping Festival in Ardenne, a Romance ; and St. Alban's Abbey : a Metrical Tale, with numerous other Poetical Pieces. To which is prefixed a Memoir of the Author, with Extracts fi-om her Journals. Published from the Originals, in the possession of William Radcliffe, Esq. In 4 vols, post 8vo. 11. 18s. VIII. DE VAVASOUR : a Tale of the Fourteenth Century. 3 vols, post 8vo. 11. lis. 6d. ' We feel confident in stating that this tale is the production of Lord Bles- sington.' — Lit. Gaz.May 1826. IX. The GERMAN NOVELISTS : Tales selected from ancient and modern Authors in that language, from the earliest period to the close of the Eighteenth Century : with Critical and Biographical Notices. Bv THO- 31 AS ROSCOE, Esq. In 4 vds. post 8vo. 11. 18s. X. SANDOVAL; or the Freemason. A Tale of the SPANISH REVOLUTION. By the Author of ' Don Esteban.' In 3 vols, post 8vo. 11. 8s. 6d. This work is the production of a Spanish gentleman, who was personally concerned in the scenes he describes. The private history of the Court of Madrid — the Amours of its imbecile Monarch — the Lives and Luxuries of the Monks — the Atrocities of the Magistracy, and the horrible system of Espionage — are aU unmasked with great dramatic effect. XI. FALKLAND. A Tale. In 1 vol. post 8vo. 9s. 6d. * Is this her fault or mine ? The tempter or the tempted, who sins most ?' — Shakspeare. ' The difficult and delicate subject which forms the ground-work of the Novel of Falkland, has been unhes-itatingly taken by French, Gennan, and Italian Authors, but has not, till now, been approached by any English writer. Rousseau has invested the attachment of St. Preux for JMadame de Wolmar, with all the charms of the most seductive eloquence — ^Ijut even he has not ven- tured to excite our sympathies in favour of female frailty; nor has Goethe, in his bold imitation of the ' Apostle of Affliction,' dared to go farther than the Author of the Nouvelle 11 eloise. Ugo Foscolo, again, is eloquent, but not pas- sionate. It was reserved for an English tvriter to complete the series of these novels of love, and to throw beauty and enchantment over the sweet errors of woman ; and Falkland would be found to consummate the idea which the Au- thoi-s of La Nouvelle H eloise, Werter, and Jacopo Ortis, had only begun.' XII. A NEW SERIES of ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAIN- MENTS, selected from the Original Oriental MS., and now first translated into EngHsh, by the Rev. GEORGE LA3IB. 3 vols, small 8vo. 18s. ' The Arabian Tales possess other charms to recommend them, besides the abundance of the marvellous and supernatural which they contain, namely, the vivid picture they present of the customs, manners, prejudices, and every thing in the slightest degree referring to the nations among whom the wondrous in- cidents they relate are supposed to have occurred. Will it not, then, be a suf- ficient recommendation of these volumes to state that they fall by no means short of their greatly admired predecessors in this respect ? Indeed, several of these Tales are more than either works of fiction, or pictures of the customs, manners, &c. of the nations of which they treat. Some of them will be found to contain much excellent moral instruction and philosophical reflection. The imaginative and descriptive parts will be found equallv interesting and beau- o u o o o • S .t:: o c3 'So 4-i ^ ^_) ':^; ^ " 0/ Md ^ -^ *C O P S O Oh o Oh C/) n^ bjo a (—1 rj (—1 > •• 'So ^ ^ .2 r:3 ^3 a 4-> .2 i—i o u .^ r^ • »-H -«-) .;5 13 bX) 'o -4— » .2 J=! 03 s .. j2 o o -5 4-> ■«_>