I 
 
 i 
 
 ^LI E) RAR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVERSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS
 
 y
 
 FROTyTISFIEClK 
 
 IVu-r Comidl tarrying ihe iiiioxicaitd Fooiman 
 
 n-yw.,,..^. /■■■..,,.-,«
 
 TRAITS Am STORIE^ 
 
 THE IRISH PEASANTRY. 
 
 SECOND SERIES. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 DUBLIN: 
 WILLIAM FREDERICK WAKEMAN. 
 
 SOLJ) IN LONDON, 
 
 DV W. SIKPKIN AND 11. MARSHALL, AND BY U. GROOHBRIOaS, 
 6, PANYEli-ALLETf, PATERNOSTER-ROW., 
 
 1834.
 
 LONDON 
 
 Printed by William Clowes, 
 
 Duke-street, Lambeth.
 

 
 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 It is to be wished that Prefaces were abolished ; 
 there is something pecuHarly Irish in them. An 
 Author writes a book, and proceeds from story 
 to story, or from incident to incident, as the case 
 may be, and imagines, when he has concluded, 
 that the work is finished. He never was more 
 mistaken in his Ufe : for, at the moment he fan- 
 cies the labour over, comes the bookseller to 
 remind him of the Preface. He is accordingly 
 compelled to resume his pen, and end his book 
 at the beginning. 
 
 With respect to the contents of this Second 
 Series, the Author has only to observe, that the 
 volumes constituting the First Series had an 
 excellent sale, considering that they were of Irish 
 manufacture. They are now in a third edition, 
 and much of their success may probably be 
 ascribed to the fact of their never having been 
 puffed; for no man excites more notice than he 
 who runs counter to the fashion. 
 
 It was, therefore, the brisk sale of the First 
 Series, joined to a vacancy in the Author's purse, 
 which he felt rather anxious to have filled up, 
 that induced him to bring out the present work.
 
 Viii PREFACE. 
 
 He hopes it may succeed as well as the other ; 
 but that it may succeed better, is a wish due to 
 the worthy and liberal Publisher who brings it out. 
 The Author was pressed by many of his 
 friends to dedicate this book to some Great Man ; 
 but as he had only a month's notice to look 
 about him, he found himself rather at a loss for 
 time to discover any one worthy of that character 
 — except Bartahmeo, the Castle Porter, who 
 stands six feet six inches, German measure. The 
 Public is the only Great Man at present, whose 
 patronage is worth any thing to a writer. 
 
 To the Reviewers, Periodicals, and the press 
 in general, the Author begs to return his warmest 
 and most grateful acknowledgments for their 
 favourable notices of his first effort. It was 
 impossible to bestow greater praise on any book 
 of the kind than it received at their hands, yet 
 he hopes they will praise this still more highly. 
 
 God be with the present times ! They are 
 not like those in which an Author w^as almost 
 compelled to dedicate his book to some Lord, 
 whose name accompanied it as a kind of safe 
 conduct to oblivion. The world, however, is a 
 huge paradox. One would think, for instance, 
 that works of fiction should have flourished in 
 the dedicating age; yet such was not the fact. 
 Fiction was wasted on the patron to such excess 
 in the beginning of the book, that the Author 
 had httle left for the work itself. It is the avoid-
 
 PREFACE. ix 
 
 ing of this error that has raised imaginative 
 writing to such perfection in the present day. 
 
 This Preface, hke every other human work, 
 except the improvement of Ireland, must come 
 to a close. It was written on compulsion : it 
 was to have been serious — it was to have given a 
 touching dissertation upon Irish character — it 
 was to have been elaborate, philosophical, and 
 what not — all within the compass of four pages ! 
 
 In vain has the Author tried condensation — in 
 vain also has he attempted epigrammatic pathos, 
 in order to save space. The epigrams were sor- 
 rowful enough, he admits ; but as the pity they 
 were calculated to excite was more likely to be 
 bestowed on himself than on his country, he 
 thought it more patriotic to decline being felt 
 for in that light, so long as his country was a 
 greater object of compassion than himself. 
 
 The reader will be pleased to observe, that the 
 notes which ought to have appeared in the first 
 volume, are, in consequence of its bulk, to be 
 found in the last.* Let him not smile at this. 
 It is an Irish work, and so far like its country, 
 where scarcely any thing is to be found in its 
 proper place. The Author's advice was, to have 
 had them printed in a separate pamphlet, in 
 which shape they might have accompanied the 
 book like a poor Curate after a fat Vicar, always 
 ready to clear up what the dulness of his superior 
 leaves in obscurity. 
 
 • This has been altered in the present edition.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The Author ought perhaps to mention here, 
 that when this work was nearly ready for publi- 
 cation^ a calamitous fire reduced the printer's 
 establishment to ashes. The '' Traits and 
 Stories" unhappily shared the same fate : the 
 first edition went off brilliantly in the course of 
 one night. Had the book appeared as it was 
 then printed, it would have rivalled any thing 
 coming from the first houses of London. It was 
 again put through the press in a hurry, and un- 
 der circumstances highly disadvantageous; and 
 yet its typographical execution is certainly credit- 
 able to the country. 
 
 In adverting to this subject it may be prudent 
 to state, that the last scene between Denis 
 O'Shaughnessy and Susan is not now such as 
 it was originally. The first contained pathos 
 enough to deluge a whole boarding-school ; but, 
 alas ! the first pathos was burned in the confla- 
 gration, and unhappily the Author is not in the 
 habit of being twice pathetic on the same subject 
 
 Reader, farewell for a while. A long preface 
 is like a long grace : if the dinner be good, it is 
 doubly tedious ; and if it be bad, it adds to our 
 disappointment, by sharpening the appetite for 
 what is not to be had. Now fall to, and may 
 you relish what is before you. Kead millia 
 failthah !
 
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 There is little more to be expressed in this pre- 
 face than the simple fact that the Author has 
 nothing to say. To say this in a few words is a 
 task exceedingly difficult, as any man acquainted 
 with the frequent attempts to do it may testify. 
 Let not my readers suppose, however, that be- 
 cause this preface is short, it therefore contains 
 but little. This would be a mistake. It con- 
 tains my deeply felt gratitude to the public, and 
 to the periodical literature of the day, including 
 the daily and weekly press ; and the man who 
 says that this is little, had better carry his infor- 
 mation to any other person rather than myself. 
 I have only to add, that this edition is improved 
 and corrected, and that it is, moreover, enriched 
 by the exquisite and unrivalled illustrations of 
 my friend, Mr. Brooke, who, in the delineation
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 of Irish life stands unapproachable and unap- 
 proached. I have no hesitation in declaring that 
 Cruikshank is not greater in English drollery 
 than Brooke is in that of the Green Isle. His 
 incomparable humour and felicity of expression, 
 joined to his admirable conception of character, 
 have far surpassed my own creations, although 
 I considered myself not inferior to any man in 
 knowledge of Irish life and manners. This cer- 
 tainly is due to the man to whose genius I owe 
 so much. Having thus discharged my obliga- 
 tions to the press, the public, and my talented- 
 fellow-labourer in the Irish field, I beg, with 
 my most sincere and lively sense of their kind- 
 ness, to bid them farewell until we meet again.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS 1 
 
 THE DONAGH; OR, THE HORSESTEALERS 115 
 
 PHIL PURCELL, THE PIG-DRIVER 159 
 
 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH 203 
 
 AN ESSAY ON IRISH S^^^EARING 331
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS, 
 
 \0I.. 1.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Frank M'Kenna was a snug farmer, frugal and 
 industrious in his habits, and, what is rare amongst 
 most men of his class, addicted to neither drink nor 
 quarrelling. He lived at the skirt of a mountain, 
 which ran up in long successive undulations, until it 
 ended in a dark, abrupt peak, very perpendicular on 
 one side, and always, except on a bright day, caj)pcd 
 with clouds. Before his door lay a hard plain, 
 covered only with a kind of bent, and studded with 
 round grey rocks, protruding somewhat above its sur- 
 face. Through this plain, over a craggy channel, 
 ran a mountain torrent, that issued to the right of 
 M*Kenna's house, from a rocky and precipitous val- 
 ley which twisted itself round the base of the moun- 
 tain until it reached the perpendicular side, where 
 the peak actually overhung it. On looking either 
 from the bottom of the valley or the top of the peak, 
 the depth appeared immense; and, on a summer's 
 day, when the black-thorns and other hardy shrubs 
 that in some places clothed its rocky sides were green, 
 to view the river sparkling below you in the sun, as it 
 flung itself over two or three cataracts of great de])th 
 and boldness, filled the mind with those undefinable 
 sensations of pleasure inseparable from a contempla-
 
 4 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 tion of the sublimities of nature. Nov did it possess 
 less interest when beheld in the winter storm. Well 
 do we remember, though then ignorant of our own 
 motives, when we have, in the turmoil of the elements, 
 climbed its steep, shaggy sides, disappearing like a 
 speck, or something not of earth, among the dark 
 clouds that rolled over its summit, for no other pur- 
 pose than to stand upon its brow, and look down on 
 the red torrent, dashing with impetuosity from crag 
 to crag, whilst the winds roared, and the clouds flew 
 in dark columns around us, giving to the natural 
 wildness of the place an air of wilder desolation. — 
 Beyond this glen the mountains stretched av.ay for 
 eight or ten miles in swelling masses, between which 
 lay many extensive sweeps, well sheltered and abun- 
 dantly stocked with game, particularly with hares and 
 grouse. M'Kenna's house stood, as I said, at the 
 foot of this mountain, just where the yellow surface 
 of the plain began to darken into the deeper hues of 
 the heath ; to the left lay a considerable tract of stony 
 land in a state of cultivation ; and beyond the river, 
 exactly opposite the house, rose a long line of hills, 
 studded with houses, and in summer diversified with 
 fallow, pasture, and com fields, the beauty of which 
 was heightened by the columns of smoke that slanted 
 across the hills, as the br^^.ze carried them through 
 the lucid haze of the atmosphere. 
 
 M*Kenna's family consisted of himself, his wife, 
 two daughters, and two sons. One of these was a 
 young man addicted to drink, idle, ill-tempered, and 
 disobedient ; seldom taking a part in the labours of 
 the family, but altogether devoted to field sports, fairs,
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 markets, and dances. In many parts of Ireland it is 
 usual to play at cards for mutton, loaves, fowls, or 
 whiskey, and he was seldom absent from such gam- 
 bling parties, if held within a reasonable distance. 
 Often had the other members of the family remon- 
 strated with him on his idle and immoral courses ; 
 but their remonstrances only excited his bad passions, 
 and produced, on his part, angry and exasperating 
 language, or open determinations to abandon the 
 family altogether and enlist. For some years he went 
 on in this way, a hardened, ungodly profligate, spurn- 
 ing the voice of reproof and of conscience, and insen- 
 sible to the intreaties of domestic affection, or the 
 commands of parental authority. Such was his state 
 of mind and mode of life when our story opens. 
 
 At the time in which the incidents contained in 
 this sketch took place, the peasantry of Ireland, being 
 less encumbered with heavy rents, and more buoyant 
 in spirits than the decay of national prosperity has of 
 late permitted them to be, indulged more frequently, 
 and to a greater st.i-etch, in those rural sports and 
 festivities so suitable to their natural love of humour 
 and amusement. Dances, wakes, and weddings, were 
 then held according to the most extravagant forms of 
 ancient usage; the people M^ere easier in their cir- 
 cumstances, and consequently indulged in them with 
 lighter hearts, and a stronger relish fcj: enjoyment. 
 When any of the great festivals of their religion ap- 
 proached, the popular mind, unrepressed by poverty 
 and national dissention, gradually elevated itself to a 
 species of wild and reckless mirth, productive of in- 
 cidents irresistibly ludicrous, and rcmarkablv charac-
 
 b THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 teristic of Irish manners. It is not, however, to be 
 expected, that a people whose love of fighting is so 
 innate a principle in their disposition, should celebrate 
 these festive seasons without an occasional crime, 
 which threw its deep shadow over the mirthful cha- 
 racter of their customs. Many such occurred; but 
 they were looked upon then with a degree of horror 
 and detestation of which we can form but a very in- 
 adequate idea at present. 
 
 It was upon the advent of one of those festivals — 
 Christmas — that the family of M'Kenna, like every 
 other family in the neighbourhood, were making pre- 
 parations to celebrate it with the usual hilarity. They 
 cleared out their barn in order to have a dance on 
 Christmas eve, and for this purpose, the two sons 
 and the servant man wrought with that kind of indus- 
 try produced by the cheerful prospect of some happy 
 event. For a week or fortnight before the evening 
 on which the dance was appointed to be held, due 
 notice of it had been given to the neighbours, and, of 
 course, there was no doubt but that it would be nu- 
 merously attended. 
 
 Christmas eve, as the day preceding Christmas is 
 called, has been alw^ays a day of great preparation and 
 bustle. Indeed the whole week previous to it is also 
 remarkable, as exhibiting the importance attached by 
 the people to those occasions on which they can give 
 a loose to their love of fun and frolic. The farm- 
 house undergoes a thoFough cleansing. Father and 
 sons are, or rather used to be, all engaged in repair- 
 ing the out-houses, patching them with thatch where 
 it was wanted, mending mangers, paving stable floors.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 fixing cow-stakes, making boraghs, 
 sances, and cleaning streets. 
 
 On the other hand, the mother, daughters, and 
 maids, were also engaged in their several departments ; 
 the latter scouring the furniture with sand ; the mo- 
 ther making culinary preparations, baking bread, 
 killing fowls, or salting meat ; whilst the daughters 
 were unusually intent upon the decoration of their 
 own dress, and the making up of the family linen. 
 All, however, was performed with an air of gaiety and 
 pleasure; the ivy and holly were disposed about the 
 dressers and collar beams with great glee; the chim- 
 neys were swept amidst songs and laughter ; many 
 bad voices, and some good ones, were put in re- 
 quisition ; whilst several who had never been known 
 to chaunt a stave, alarmed the listeners by the gro- 
 tesque and incomprehensible nature of their melody. 
 Those who were inclined to devotion — and there is 
 no lack of it in Ireland — took to carols and hymns, 
 which they sang, for want of better airs, to tmies 
 highly comic. We have ourselves often heard the 
 Doxology sung in Irish verse, to the facetious air of 
 " Paudeen O'RafFerty;" and other hymns to the tune 
 ©f " Peas upon a Trencher," and " Cruskeen Lawn.'* 
 Sometimes, on the contrary, many of them, from the 
 very fulness of jollity, would become pathetic, and in- 
 dulge in those touching old airs of their country, 
 which may be truly called songs of sorrow, from the 
 exquisite and simple pathos with which they abound. 
 This, though it may seem anomalous, is but natural; 
 for there is nothing so apt to recall to the heart those 
 
 * The rope with which a cow is tied in the cow-house.
 
 8 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 friends, whether absent or dead, with whom it has 
 heeii connected, as a stated festival. Affection is then 
 awakened, and summons to the hearth where it pre- 
 sides those on whose faces it loves to look ; if they be 
 living, it places them in the circle of happiness which 
 surrounds it; and if they be removed for ever from 
 such scenes, their memor)^, which, amidst the din of 
 ordinary life, has almost passed away, is now restored, 
 and their loss felt as if it had been only just then 
 sustained. 
 
 For this reason, at such times, it is not at all un- 
 usual to see the elders of Irish families touched by 
 pathos as well as humour. The Irish are a people 
 whose aifections are as strong as their imaginations 
 are vivid; and, in illustration of this, we may add, 
 that many a time have we seen them raised to mirth 
 and melted into tears almost at the same time, by a 
 song of the most comic character. The mirth, how- 
 ever, was for the song, and the sorrow for the memory 
 of some beloved relation who had been remarkable 
 {'or singing it, or with whom it had been a favourite. 
 
 We do not affirm that in the family of the M'Kennas 
 there were, upon the occasion which we are describing, 
 any tears shed. The enjoyments of the season, and 
 the humours of the expected dance, both combined to 
 give them a more than usual degree of mirth and fro- 
 lic. At an early hour all that was necessary for the 
 due celebration of that night and the succeeding day, 
 had been arranged and completed. The whiskey had 
 been laid in, the Christmas candles bought, the barn 
 cleared out, the seats laid ; in short, every thing in 
 its place, and a place for every thing. About one
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. y 
 
 o'clock, however, the young members of the family 
 began to betray some symptoms of uneasiness ; nor 
 was M'Kenna himself, though the farilhec, or man 
 of the house, altogether so exempt from what they 
 felt, as might, if the cause of it were known to our 
 readers, be expected from a man of his years and ex- 
 perience. 
 
 From time to time one of the girls tripped out as 
 far as the stile before the door, where she stood look- 
 ing in a particular direction, until her sight was 
 fatigued. 
 
 " Och, och," her mother exclaimed during her 
 absence, '* but that colleen's sick about Barny ! — 
 musha, but it would be the beautiful joke, all out, if 
 he'd disappoint the whole of yees. Faix, it wouldn't 
 be unlike the same man, to go to ^^■herever he can 
 make most money ; and sure small blame to him for 
 that; what's one place to him more than another ?" 
 " Hut," M'Kenna replied, rising, however, to go 
 out himself, " the girsha's makin' a hauliore^ of 
 herself." 
 
 " An' where's yourself slippin' out to?" rejoined 
 his wife, with a wink of shrewd humour at the rest, 
 " I say, Frank, are you goin' to look for him too ? 
 Mavronc, but that's sinsible ! Why, thin, you snakin* 
 ould rogue, is that the way wid you ? Throth I have 
 often hard it said, that * one fool makes many;' but 
 sure enouijh, ' an ould fool's worse nor any.' Come 
 in liere this minute, I say — walk back — you to have 
 your horn up ! — Faix, indeed I" 
 
 ** Why, I am only goin' to get the small phaties 
 * A laughing-stock.
 
 10 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 boiled for the pigs, poor crathurs, for their Christmas 
 dinner. Sure we oughtn't to neglect thim no more 
 nor ourselves, the crathurs, that can't spake their 
 wants, except by gruntin'." 
 
 *' Saints above ! — the Lord forgive me for bringia' 
 down their names upon a Christmas eve ! — but its 
 beside himself the man is ! — an' him knows that the 
 phaties wor boiled an' made up in balls for them arly 
 this mornin' !" 
 
 In the mean time, the wife's good-natured attack 
 upon her husband produced considerable mirth in the 
 family. In consequence of what she said, he hesitated; 
 but ultimately was proceeding towards the door, when 
 the daughter returned, her brow flushed, and her eye 
 sparkling with mirth and delight. 
 
 '' Ha !" said the father, with a complacent smile, 
 " all's right, Peggy ; you seen him, a lamia. The 
 music's in your eye, a cushla; an' the feet of you 
 can't keep themselves off o' the ground ; an' all be- 
 kase you seen Barny Dhal pokin' acrass the fields, 
 wid his head up, an' his skirt stickin' out behind him 
 wid Granua Waile."* 
 
 The father had conjectured properly, for the joy 
 which animated the girl's countenance could not be 
 misunderstood. 
 
 " Barny's comin'," she exclaimed, clapping her 
 hands with great glee, " an' our Frank wid him; 
 they're at the river, and Frank has him on his back, 
 and Granua Waile undher his arm ! Come out, 
 come out ! You'll die for good, lookin' at them stag- 
 gerin' acrass. I knew he'd come I I knew it I God be 
 * His fiddle.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 11 
 
 good to thim that invinted Christmas ; it's a hrave 
 time, faix !" 
 
 In a moment the inmates were grouped before the 
 door, all anxious to catch a glimpse of Barny and 
 Granua Waile. 
 
 " Faix ay ! Sure enough. Sarra doubt of it I 
 Whethen, I'd never mistrust Barny I" might be heard 
 in distinct exclamations from each. 
 
 " Faith he's a Trojan," said the farithee, " an' 
 must get lashins of the best we have. Come in, 
 childher, an' red the hob for hira. 
 
 Och, Christmas comes but wanst a year ; 
 An' Christmas comes but wanst a year ; 
 
 An' the divil a mouth 
 
 Shall be friends wid drouth, 
 While I have whiskey, ale, or beer. 
 
 Och, Christmas comes but wanst a year, 
 An' Christmas comes but Avanst a year ; 
 
 Wid han' in han', 
 
 An' can to can, 
 Then Hi for the whiskey, ale, ah' beer. 
 
 Och, Christmas comes but wanst a year. 
 An' Christmas comes but wanst a year ; 
 
 Then the high an' the low 
 
 Shall shake their toe. 
 When prim'd wid whiskey, ale, an' beer. 
 
 For all that, the sorra fig I care for either ale or 
 beer, barrin' in regard of mere drouth ; give me the 
 whiskey. Eh, Alley — won't we have a jorum any 
 how ?" 
 
 " Why, thin," replied the wife, " the devil be from 
 me (the crass about us for namin' him) but you're
 
 12 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 a greater Brinoge than some of your childher ! I sup- 
 pose it's your capers Frank has in him. Will you be- 
 have yourself, you ould slingpoke ? Behave, I say, 
 an' let me go. Childher, will you help me to flake 
 this man o\it o' the place ? Look at him, here, caper- 
 in' an' crackin' his fingers afore me, an' pullin' me 
 out to dance!" 
 
 " Och, och, murdher alive," exclaimed the good 
 man, out of breath, " I seen the day, any way ! An', 
 maybe, could show a step or two yet, if I was well 
 vexed. You can't forget ould times. Alley? Eh, 
 you thief?" 
 
 " Musha, have sinse, man alive," replied the wife, 
 in a tone of placid gravity, which only betrayed the 
 pleasure she herself felt in his happiness. " Have 
 sinse, an' the strange man comin' in, an' don't let 
 him see you in sich figaries." 
 
 The observation of the good woman produced a loud 
 laugh among them. " Arrah what are yees laughin' 
 at?" she inquired. 
 
 " Why, mother," said one of her daughters, " how 
 could Barny Dhal^ a blind man, see any body ?" 
 
 Alley herself laughed at her blunder, but wittily 
 replied, " Faith, avourneen, maybe he can often see as 
 nately through his ear, as you can do wid your eyes 
 open; sure they say he can hear the grass growin'." 
 
 " For that matther," observed the/anY/iee, joining 
 in the joke, " he can see as far as any of us — while 
 we're asleep." 
 
 The conversation was thus proceeding, when Barny 
 Dhal and young Frank M'Kenna entered the kitchen. 
 
 In a moment all hands were extended to welcome
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 13 
 
 Barny : " Millia failte ghud Barny !" " Cead millia 
 failte ghud, Barny !" " Oh, Baniy, did you come 
 at last?" "You're welcome, Barny!" *' Barny, 
 my Trojan, how is every cart-load of you?" " How- 
 is Granua Waile, Barny ?" 
 
 " Why tliin, holy music, did you never see Barny 
 Dhal afore? Clear oif from about me, or, by the 
 sweets of rosin, I'll play the devil an' brake things. 
 * You're welcome, Barny !' — an' ' How are you, 
 Barny ?' Why thin, piper o' Moses, don't I know 
 I'm welcome, an' yit you must be tellin' me wliat 
 every body knows ! But sure I have great news for 
 you all I"" 
 
 "Whatis that, Barny?" 
 
 " W^ell, but can yees keep a sacret ? Can yees, 
 girls ?" 
 
 " Faix can we, Barny, achora." 
 
 " W^ell, so can I — ha, ha, ha ! Now arc yees sar- 
 ved? Come, let me to the hob." 
 
 " Here, Barny; I'll lead you, Barny." 
 
 " No, I have him ; come, Barny, /'// lead } ou : 
 here, achora, this is the spot — that's it. Why, 
 Barny," said the arch girl, as she placed him in tht 
 comer, " sorra one o' the hob but knows you : it never 
 stirs — ha, ha, ha I" 
 
 " Throth, a colleen, that tongue o' yours will de- 
 lude some one afore long, if it hasn't done so already." 
 
 " But how is Granua Waile, Barny?" 
 
 " Poor Granua is it? Faith, times is hard wid her 
 often. * Granua,' says I to her, ' what do you say, 
 acushla ? we're axed to go to two or three places to- 
 day — what do you say ? Do you lead, an' I'll follow :
 
 14 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 your will is my pleasure.' ' An' where are we axed 
 to?' says Granua, sinsible enough. * Why,' says I, 
 * to Paddy Lanigan's, to Mike Hartigan's, to Jack 
 Lynch's, an', at the heel o' the hunt, to Frank 
 M'Kenna's, of the Mountain Bar.' * By my song,' 
 says she, you may go where you plase ; for me, Pm 
 off to Frank M*Kenna's, one of the dacentest men in 
 Europe, an' his wife the same. Divil a toe I'll set a 
 waggin' in any other place this night,' says she, * for 
 'tis there we're both well thrated wid the hest the 
 house can afford. So,' says she, ' in the name Diall 
 that's musical, you're welcome to the poker an' tongs 
 any where else : for me, I'm off to Frank's.' An' 
 faith, sure enough, she took to her pumps; an' it was 
 only comin' over the hill there, that young Frank an' 
 I overtuck her : divil a lie in it." 
 
 In fact, Bamy, besides being a fiddler, was a shan- 
 ahus of the first water ; could tell a story, or trace a 
 genealogy as well as any man living, and draw the 
 long bow in either capacity much better than he could 
 in the practice of his more legitimate profession. 
 
 " Well, here she is, Bamy, to the fore," said the 
 aforesaid arch girl, " an' now give us a tune."' 
 
 ** What!" replied the farithee, "is it widout either 
 aitin' or dhrinkin' ? Why the girsha's beside herself! 
 Alley, aroon, get him the linin', an' a sup to tighten 
 his elbow." 
 
 The good woman instantly went to provide refresh- 
 ments for the musician. 
 
 " Come, girls," said Bamy, " will yees get me a 
 scythe or a handsaw." 
 
 " A scythe or a handsaw ! ethen what to do, Bamy?"
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 15 
 
 " Why, to pare my nails, to be sure," replied Bamy, 
 with a loud laugh ; " but stay — come back here — 
 I'll make shift to do wid a pair of scissors this bout. 
 
 The paarent finds his sons, ' 
 
 The tuthf rer whips them ; 
 The nailer makes his uails, 
 
 The fiddler clips them." 
 
 Wherever Barny came there was mirth, and a dis- 
 position to be pleased, so that his jokes always told. 
 
 " Musha, the sorra pare you, Barny," said one of 
 the girls, " but there's no bein' up to you, good or 
 bad." 
 
 " The sorra pair me, is it ? faix, Nancy, you'll soon 
 be paired yourself wid some one, avoumeen. Do you 
 know a sartin young man wid a nose on him runnin' 
 to a point like the pin of a sun-dial, his knees brakin' 
 the king's pace, strikin' one another ever since he was 
 able to walk, an' that was about four years afther he 
 could say his Father Nosther ; an' faith, whatever 
 you may think, there's no makin' them paceable ex- 
 cept by puttin' between them ! The wrong side of his 
 shin, too, is foremost ; an' though the one-half of his 
 two feet is all heels, he keeps the same heels for set 
 days an' bonfire nights, an' savinly walks on his an- 
 cles. His leg, too, Nancy, is stuck in the middle of 
 his foot, like a poker in a pickaxe; an', along wid 
 all, " 
 
 " Here, Barny, thry your hand at this," said the 
 good woman, who had not heard his ludicrous descrip- 
 tion of her fictitious son-in-law — " eeh arran agus bee 
 laudher, Barny, ate bread an' be strong. I'll warrant
 
 16 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 when you begin to play, they'll give you little time to 
 do any thing but scrape away ; — taste the dhrink first, 
 any way, in the name o' God,"— and she filled him a 
 glass. 
 
 *' Augh, augh ! faith you're the moral of a woman. 
 Are you there, M'Kenna ? — here's a sudden disliolu- 
 tion to your family ! May they be scattered wid all 
 speed — manin' the girls — to all corners o' the parish ! 
 — ha, ha, ha ! Well, that won't vex them, any how ; 
 an' next, here's a merry Chris'mas to us, an' many o' 
 them ! Whooh ! blur-an'-age I — whooh ! oh, by gor- 
 ra ! — that's — that's — Frank run afther my breath — 
 I've lost it — ^run, you tory : oh, by gor, that's stuff as 
 sthrong as Sampson, so it is. Arrah, what well do 
 you dhraw that from?, for, faith, 'twould be mighty 
 convanient to live near it in a hard frost." 
 
 Bamy was now silent for some time, which silence 
 was produced by the industry he displayed in assailing 
 the substantial refreshments before him. When he 
 had concluded his repast he once more tasted the 
 liquor, after which he got Granua W^aile, and con- 
 tinued playing their favourite tunes, and amusing 
 them with anecdotes, both true and false, until the 
 hour drew nigh when his services were expected by 
 the young men and maidens who had assembled to 
 dance in the barn. Occasionally, however, they took 
 a preliminary step, in which they were joined by a 
 few of their neighbours. Old Frank himself felt his 
 spirits elevated by contemplating the happiness of his 
 children and their young associates. 
 
 " Frank," said he, to the youngest of his sons, 
 " go down to Owen Reillaghan's, and tell him an'
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 17 
 
 his family to come up to the dance early in the evenin'. 
 Owen's a pleasant man," he added, " and a good 
 neighbour, but a small thought too strict in his duties. 
 Tell him to come up, Frank, arly I say ; he'll have 
 time enough to go to the Midnight Mass afther dan- 
 cin' the ' Rakes of Ballyshanny,' and ' the Baltihorum 
 jig-' an' maybe he can't do both in style." 
 
 " Ay," said Frank, in his jeering manner, " he 
 caiTies a handy heel at the dancin', and a soople 
 tongue at the prayin' ; but let him alone for bringin' 
 the bottom of his glass and his eyebrow acquainted. 
 But if he'd pray less " 
 
 " Go along, a veehonee,^ an' bring him up," replied 
 the father: you to talk about prayin'! Them that 
 'ud catch you at a prayer ought to be showed for the 
 world to wondher at : a man wid two heads an him 
 would be a fool to him. Go along, I say, and do what 
 you're bid." 
 
 " I'm goin'," said Frank, " I'm off: but what if he 
 doesn't come ? I'll then have my journey for nothin'." 
 
 " An' it's good payment for any journey ever you'll 
 make, barrin' it's to the gallows," replied the father, 
 nearly provoked at his reluctance in obeying him : 
 " won't you have dancin' enough in the coorse o' the 
 night, for youUl not go to the Midnight Mass, and 
 why don't you be oif wid you at wanst?" 
 
 Frank shrugged his shoulders two or three times, 
 being loth to leave the music and dancing ; but on 
 seeing his father about to address him in sharper 
 language, he went out with a frown on his brows, and 
 a half-smothered imprecation bursting from his lips. 
 
 * You profligate. 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 He had not proceeded more than a few yards from 
 the door, when he met Rody Teague, his father's ser- 
 vant, on his way to the kitchen. " Rody," said he, 
 " isn't this a purty business? My father wantin' to 
 send me down to Owen Reillaghan's; when, by the 
 vartue o' my oath, I'd as soon go half way into hell, 
 as to any place where his son, Mike Reillaghan, 'ud 
 be. How will I manage, Rody?" 
 
 " Why," replied Rody, " as to meetin' wid Mike, 
 take my advice and avoid him. And what is more, 
 I'd give up Peggy Gartland for good. Isn't it a mane 
 thing for you, Frank, to be hangin' afther a girl that's 
 fonder of another than she is of yourself. By this 
 and by that, I'd no more do it — awouh ! catch me at 
 it — I'd have spunk in me." 
 
 Frank's brow darkened as Rody spoke ; instead of 
 instantly replying, he was silent, and appeared to be 
 debating some point in his own mind, on which he 
 had not come to a determination. 
 
 " My father didn't hear of the fight between Mike 
 and me?" said he interrogatively — " do you think he 
 did, Rody?" 
 
 " Not to my knowledge," replied the servant ; " if 
 he did, lie wouldn't surely send you down ; but, talk- 
 ing of the fight, you are known to be a stout, well- 
 fought boy — no doubt of that — still, I say, you had 
 no right to provoke Mike as you did, who, it's well 
 known, could bate any two men in the parish ; and 
 so sign, you got yourself dacently trounced, about a 
 girl that doesn't love a bone in your skin." 
 
 *' He disgraced me, Rody," observed Frank — " I 
 can't rise my head; and you know I was thought by
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. '^TJIy 
 
 all the parish, as good a man as him. No, I wouldn't, 
 this blessed Christmas Eve above us, for all that ever 
 my name was worth, be disgraced by him as I am. 
 But — hould, man — have patience !" 
 
 '' Throth and, Frank, that's what you never had," 
 said Rody ; " and as to bein' disgraced, you disgraced 
 yourself. What right had you to challenge the boy to 
 fight, and to strike him into the bargain, bekase Peggy 
 Gartland danced wid him, and wouldn't go out wid 
 you ? Death alive, sure that wasn't his fault." 
 
 Every word of reproof which proceeded from Rody's 
 lips but strengthened Frank's rage, and added to his 
 sense of shame; he looked first in the direction of 
 Reillaghan's house, and immediately towards the little 
 village in which Peggy Gartland lived. 
 
 " Rody," said he, slapping him fiercely on the 
 shoulder, *' go in — I've — Pve made up my mind upon 
 what Pll do; go in, Rody, and get your dinner; but 
 don't be out of the way when I come back." 
 
 " And what have you made up your mind to?" 
 inquired Rody. 
 
 " Why, be the sacred Mother o' Heaven, Rody, to 
 — to — be friends wid Mike." 
 
 " Ay, there's sinse and rason in that," replied 
 Rody; " and if you'd take my advice, you'd giv€ up 
 Peggy Gartland too." 
 
 " Pll see you when I come back, Rody ; don't be 
 from about the place." 
 
 And as he spoke, a single spring brought him over 
 the stile at which they held the foregoing conversation. 
 
 On advancing, he found himself in one of his fa- 
 ther's fields, under the shelter of an elder hedge. 
 c2
 
 20 THE midinIght mass. 
 
 Here he paused, and seemed still somewhat uncertain 
 as to the direction in which he should proceed. At 
 length he decided ; the way towards Peggy Gartland's 
 was that which he took, and as he walked rapidly, he 
 soon found himself at the village in which she lived. 
 
 It was now a little after twilight ; the night was 
 clear, the moon being in her first quarter, and the 
 clouds through which she appeared to struggle, were 
 light and fleecy, but rather cold-looking; such, in 
 short, as would seem to promise a sudden fall of snow. 
 Frank had passed the two first cabins of the village, 
 and was in the act of parrying the attacks of some 
 yelping cur that assailed him, when he received a 
 slap on the back, accompanied by a qho manhi Dliea 
 fjJnid, a Franchas, co wul fhu guilh a nishy a rogora 
 dhuP 
 
 "Who's this?" exclaimed Frank: **eh! why, 
 Darby More, you suilin' thief o' the w^orld, is this 
 you?" 
 
 " Ay, indeed; an' you're goin' down to Peggy's?" 
 said the other, pointing significantly towards Peggy 
 Gartland's house. " Well, man, what's the harm ? 
 She may get worse, that is, hopin' still that you'H 
 mend your manners, a bouchal : but isn't your nose 
 out o' joint there, Frank darlin' ?" 
 
 " No sich thing at all. Darby," replied Frank, 
 gulping down his indignation, which rose afresh on 
 hearing that the terms on which he stood with Peggy 
 were so notorious. 
 
 " Throth but it is," said Darby; " an' to tell the 
 
 * God save you, Frank ! Where are you going now, you 
 black rogue?
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 21 
 
 blessed thmth, I'm not sarry that it's out o' joint; for 
 when I tould you to lave the case in wy hands, along 
 wid a small thrifle o' silver that didn't signify much 
 to you — whoo ! . not at all ; you'd rather play it at 
 cards, or dhrink it, or spind it wid no good. Out o' 
 joint ! musha, if ever a man's nose was to be pitied 
 and yours is : why, didn't Mike Reillaghan put it 
 out o' joint, twiist? first in regard to Peggy, and se- 
 condly by the batin' he gave you an it." 
 
 " It's well known. Darby," replied Frank, " that 
 'twas by a chance blow he did it; and, you know, 
 a chance blow might kill the divil." 
 
 " But there was no danger of Mike's gettin' the 
 chance blow," observed the sarcastic vagrant, for such 
 he was. 
 
 " Maybe it's afore him," replied his companion : 
 " we'll have another thrial for it, any how; but where 
 are you goin', Darby ? Is it to the dance?" 
 
 " Me ! Is it a man wid five holy ordhers an him ? 
 No, no ! I might go up, maybe, as far as your fa- 
 ther's, merely to see the family, only for the night 
 that's in it ; but I'm goin' to another frind's place to 
 spind my Chris'mas, an', over an' above, I must go to 
 the Midnight Mass. Frank, change your coorses, an' 
 mend your life, an' don't be the talk o' the parish. 
 Remimber me to the family, an' say I'll see them 
 soon." 
 
 " How long will you stop in the neighbourhood?" 
 inquired Frank. 
 
 '* Arrah why, acushla?" replied the mendicant, 
 softening his language. 
 
 " I might be wantin' to see you some o' these
 
 22 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 days," said the other : *' indeed, it's not unlikely^ 
 Darby; so don't go, any how, widont seein' me." 
 
 " Ah !" said Darby, " had you taken a fool's ad- 
 vice — but it can't be helped — the harm's done, I 
 doubt; how-an'-ever, for the matther o' that, maybe 
 I have as good as Peggy in my eye for you ; by the 
 same token, as the night's could, warm your tooth, 
 avick ; there's waker wather nor this in Lough Corr. 
 Sorra sup of it ever I keep for my own use at all, 
 barrin' when I take a touch o' configuration in my 
 bowels, or, maybe, when I'm too long at my prayers ; 
 for, God help me, sure I'm but sthrivin', wid the help 
 o' one thing an' another, to work out my salvation as 
 well as I can ! Your health, any how, an' a merry 
 Chris'mas to you ! — not forgettin' myself," he added, 
 putting to his lips a large cow's horn, which he kept 
 slung beneath his arm, like the bugle of a coach-guard, 
 only that this was generally concealed by an outside 
 coat, no two inches of which were of the same mate- 
 rials or colour. Having taken a tolerably large draught 
 from this, which, by the way, held near two quarts, 
 he handed it with a smack and a shrug to Frank, who 
 immediately gave it a wipe with the skirt of his coat, 
 and pledged his companion. 
 
 " I'll be wantin'," observed Frank, "to see you in 
 the holly days — faith, that stuff's to be christened yet, 
 Darby — so don't go till we have a dish o' discoorse 
 about somethin' I'll mintion to you. As for Peggy 
 Gartland, I'm done wid her; she may marry ould 
 Nick for me." 
 
 " Or you for ould Nick," said the cynic, " which 
 would be nearly the same thing : but go an, avick,
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. ^g 
 
 an' never heed me; sure I must have my spake — 
 doesn't every hody know Darby More ?" 
 
 " I've no thin' else to say now,'" added Frank, 
 " and you have my authority to spread it as far as 
 you plase. I'm done wid her : so good night, an' 
 good cuttin'* to your horn, Darby ! — You damn ould 
 villain !" he subjoined in a low voice, when Darby 
 had got out of his hearing ; '' surely it's not in your- 
 self, but in the blessed words and things you have 
 about you, that there is any good." 
 
 *' Musha, good night, Frank, alanna," replied the 
 other; " an' the divil sweep you, for a skamin' vaga- 
 bone, that's a curse to the country, and has kep me 
 out o' more weddins than any one I ever met wid, by 
 your roguery in puttin' evil between frinds an' neigh- 
 bours, jist whin they'd be ready for the priest to say 
 the words over them ! Good won't come of you, you 
 profligate." 
 
 The last words were scarcely uttered by the sturdy 
 mendicant, when he turned round to observe whether 
 or not Frank would stop at Larry Gartland's, the fa- 
 ther of the girl to whom he had hitherto unsuccess- 
 fully avowed his attachment. 
 
 ** I'd depind on him," said he, in a soliloquy, " as 
 soon as I'd depind upon ice of an hour's growth : an', 
 whether or not, sure as I'm an my way to Owen Reil- 
 laghan's, the father of the dacent boy that he's strivin' 
 to outdo, mayn't I as well watch his motions, any 
 way ?" 
 
 He accordingly proceeded along the shadowy side 
 of the street, in order to avoid Frank's eye, should lie 
 * Good cuttin' — May what's ia it never fail.
 
 24 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 chance to look back, and quietly dodged on until he 
 Jairly saw him enter the house. 
 
 Having satisfied himself that the object of Frank's 
 visit to the village was in some shape connected with 
 Peggy Gartland, the mendicant immediately retraced 
 his steps, and at a pace more rapid than usual, strided 
 on to Owen Reillaghan's, whither he arrived just in 
 time to secure an excellent Christmas-eve dinner. 
 
 In Ireland, that description of mendicants which 
 differs so strikingly from the common crowd of beg- 
 gars as to constitute a distinct species, comprehends 
 within itself as anomalous an admixture of fun and 
 devotion, external rigour and private licentiousness, 
 love of superstition and of good whiskey, as might 
 naturally be supposed, without any great stretch of 
 credulity, to belong to men thrown among a people in 
 whom so many extremes of character and morals meet. 
 The known beggar, who goes his own rounds, and has 
 his own walk, always adapts his character to that of 
 his benefactor, whose whims and peculiarities of 
 temper he studies with industry, and generally with 
 success. By this means, joined to a dexterity in 
 tracing out the private history of families and indivi- 
 duals, he is enabled to humour the caprices, to manage 
 the eccentricities, and to touch with a masterly hand 
 the prejudices and particular opinions of his patrons; 
 and this he contrives to do with great address and 
 tact. Such was the character of Darby More, whose 
 person, naturally large, was increased to an enormous 
 size by the number of coats, blankets, and bags, \^dth 
 which he was encumbered. A large belt^ buckled 
 round his body, contained within its girth much more
 
 THE I^iIDNIGHT MASS. 25 
 
 of money, meal, and whiskey, than ever met the eye ; 
 his hat was exceedingly low in the crown ; his legs 
 were cased in at least three pairs of stockings; and in 
 his hand he carried a long cant, spiked at the lower 
 end, with which he slung himself over small rivers 
 and dykes, and kept dogs at bay. He was a devotee, 
 too, notwithstanding the whiskey horn under his arm; 
 attended wakes, christenings, and weddings; rubbed 
 for the rose^^ and king's evil, (for the varlet insisted 
 that he w^as a seventh son;) cured tooth-aches, cholics^ 
 and head-aches, by charms; but made most money 
 by a knack which he possessed of tattooing into the 
 naked breast the representation of Christ upon the 
 cross. This was a secret of considerable value, for 
 many of the superstitious people believed that by 
 having this stained in upon them, they would escape 
 unnatural deaths, and be almost sure of heaven. 
 
 When Darby approached Reillaghan's house, he 
 was considering the propriety of disclosing to his son 
 the fact of his having left his rival with Peggy Gart- 
 land. He ultimately determined that it would be 
 proper to do so ; for he was shrewd enough to suspect 
 that the wish Frank had expressed of seeing him be- 
 fore he left the country, was but a ruse to purchase 
 his silence touching his appearance in the village. In 
 this, however, he was mistaken. 
 
 *' God save the house!" exclaimed Darby, on 
 entering — " God save the house, an' all that's in it ! 
 God save it to the North !" and he formed the sign 
 of the cross in every direction to which he turned ; 
 " God save it to the South ! 4- to the Aiste ! 4- and. 
 * A scrofulous swelling.
 
 26 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 tx) the Waiste 1 "x- Save it upwards ! ►f' and save it 
 downwards ! 4^ Save it backwards ! 4* ^.nd save it 
 forwards ! ►!- Save it right ! 4* and save it left ! ►f- 
 Save it hy night ' -J- save it by dav ! ►t- Save it 
 here I 4* save it there ' -h Save it this way ! 4- an' 
 save it that way ! 4- Save it atin' ' 4. 4- 4- an' save 
 it drinkin' !4-.4-4.4..4.4-i4-.4- Oxis Doxis Glo- 
 rioxis — Amin, An' now that I've blessed the place 
 in the name of the nine Patriarchs, how are yees all, 
 man, woman, an' child ? An' a merry Christmas to 
 yees, says Darby More !" 
 
 Darby, in the usual spirit of Irish hospitality, re- 
 ceived a sincere welcome, was placed up near the fire, 
 a plate filled with the best food on the table laid 
 before him, and requested to want notnmg for the 
 asking. 
 
 " Why, Darby," said Reillaghan, " w^e expected 
 you long ago : why didn't you come sooner?" 
 
 " The Lord's will be done ! for ev'ry man has his 
 throubles," replied Darby, stuffing himself in the 
 corner like an Epicure ; " an' why should a sinner 
 like me, or the likes 0' me, be vndout thim ? 'Twas 
 a dhrame I had last night that kep me. They say, 
 indeed, that dhrames go by contraries, but not always, 
 to my own knowledge." 
 
 " An' what was the dhrame about, Darby ?" in- 
 quired Reillaghan's wife. 
 
 " Why, Ma'am, about some that I see on this 
 hearth, well, an' in good health; may they long live 
 to be so ! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis — Amin !" 4* 4* 'h 
 
 " Blessed Virgin ! Darby, sure it would be nothin' 
 bad that's to happen ? Would it. Darby ?"
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 27 
 
 " Keep yourself asy on that head. I have widin 
 my own mind the power of makin' it come out for 
 good — I know the prayer for it. Oxis Doxis !" -^ ^ 
 
 " God be praised for that, Darby : sure it would 
 be a terrible business, all out, if any thing was to 
 happen. Here's Mike that was bom on Whissle 
 Monday, of all days in the year, an', you know, they 
 say that any child born on that day is to die an un- 
 natural death. We named Mike after St. Michael 
 that he might purtect him." 
 
 " Make yourself asy, I say ; don't I tell you I have 
 the prayer to keep it back — ^hach ! hach ! — why, 
 there's a bit stuck in my throath, some way ! Wurrah 
 dheelish, what's this ! Maybe, you could give me a 
 sup o' dhrink — wather, or any thing to moisten the 
 morsel I'm atin'? Wurrah^ Ma'am dear, make haste, 
 it's goin' agin the breath wid me !" 
 
 " Oh, the sorra taste o' wather. Darby," said Owen ; 
 '' sure this is Christmas eve, you know ; so you see. 
 Darby, for ould acquaintance sake, an' that you may 
 put up an odd prayer now an' thin for us, jist be 
 thryin' this." 
 
 Darby honoured the gift by immediate acceptance. 
 
 " Well, Owen Reillaghan," said he, " you make 
 me take more o' this stuff nor any man I know ; and 
 particularly by rason that bein' given, wid a blessin', 
 to the ranns, an' prayers, an' holy charms, I don't 
 think it so good ; barrin', indeed, as Father Dannel- 
 lan towld me, when the wind, by long fastin', gets 
 into my stomach, as was the case to-day, I'm often 
 throubled', Xjod help me, wid a configuration in the — 
 hugh ! ugh! — an' thin it's good for me — a little of it."
 
 28 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 " This would make a brave powdher-horn, Darby 
 More," observed one of Reillaghan's sons, " if it 
 wasn't so big. What do you keep in it, Darby ?" 
 
 " Why, a villish^ nothin' indeed but a sup o' Fa- 
 ther Donnellan's holy wather, that they say by all ac- 
 counts it costs him great troujDle to make, by rason 
 that he must fast a long time, and pray by the day, 
 afore he gets himself holy enough to consecrate it." 
 
 " It smells like whiskey. Darby," said the boy, 
 without any intention, however, of offending him: 
 " it smells very like poteen.'^ 
 
 " Hould yer tongue, Risthard," said the elder Reil- 
 laghan ; *' what 'ud make the honest man have whis- 
 key in it ? Didn't he tell you what's in it ?" 
 
 " The gorsoon's right enough," replied Darby : I 
 got the horn from Barny Dalton a couple o' days 
 asrone ; 'twas whiskev he had in it, an' it smells of it 
 sure enough, an' will, indeed, for some time longer. 
 Och ! och ! the heavens be praised, I've made a good 
 dinner ! May they never know want that gave it to 
 me! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis — Amin 1" ►!- 4* 4* 
 
 " Darby, thry this agin," said Reillaghan, offering 
 him another bumper. 
 
 " Throth an' I will, thin, for I find myself a great 
 dale the betther of the one I tuck. Well, here's 
 health an' happiness to us, an' may we all meet in 
 heaven ! Risthard, hand me that horn till I be goin' 
 out to the barn, in ordher to do somethin' for my 
 sowl. The holy wather's a good thing to have about 
 one," 
 
 " But the dhrame. Darby ?" inquired Mrs. Reil- 
 kghan. " Won't you tell it to us .?'*
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 29 
 
 ** Let Mike follow me to the barn," he replied, 
 *' an' I'll tell him as much of it as he ought to hear. 
 An' now let all of yees prepare for the Midnight Mass : 
 go there wid proper intintions, an' not to be coortin' 
 or dhrinkin' by the way. We're all sinners, any way, 
 an' oughtn't to neglect our sowls. Oxis Doxis Gla- 
 rioxis. Amin!" 
 
 He immediately strided with the horn under his 
 arm, towards the barn, where he knelt, and began 
 his orisons in a tone sufficiently loud to be heard in 
 the kitchen. 
 
 When he was gone, Mrs. Reillaghan, who, with 
 the curiosity natural to her sex, and the superstition 
 peculiar to her station in life, felt anxious to hear 
 Darby's dream, urged Mike to follow him forthwith, 
 that he might prevail on hmi to detail it at full 
 length. 
 
 Darby, who knew not exactly what the dream ought 
 to be, replied to Mike's inquiries vaguely. 
 
 " Mike," said he, " antil the proper time comes, 
 I can't tell it; but listen: take my advice, an' slip 
 down to Peggy Gartland's by and by. I have strong 
 suspicions, if my dhrame is ihrue, that Frank 
 M*Kenna has a design upon her. People may be 
 abroad this night widout bein' noticed, by rason o' 
 the Midnight Mass; Frank has friends in Kilnaheery, 
 up behind the mountains ; an' the divil might timpt 
 him to bring her there. Keep your eye an him, or 
 rather an Peggy. If my dbrame's true, he was there 
 this night." 
 
 " I thought I gave him enough on her account," 
 said Mike. *' The poor girl hasn't a day's pace in
 
 30 THE MIDNIGHT MASS 
 
 regard of him ; but, plase Goodness, I'll soon put an 
 end to it, for I'll marry her durin' the Holly days." 
 
 " Go, avick, an' let me finish my Pudheran Par- 
 iha: I have to get through it before the Midnight 
 Mass comes. Slip down, and find out what he was 
 doin' ; and when you come back, let me know." 
 
 Mike, perfectly aware of young M'Kenna's charac- 
 ter, immediately went towards Lisdrum, for so the 
 village where Peggy Gartland lived was called. He 
 felt the danger to be apprehended from the inter- 
 ference of his rival the more acutely, inasmuch as he 
 was not ignorant of the feuds and quarrels which the 
 former had frequently produced between friends and 
 neighbours, by the subtle poison of his falsehoods, 
 which were both wanton and malicious. He there- 
 fore advanced at an unusually brisk pace, and had 
 nearly reached the village, when he perceived in the 
 distance a person resembling Frank approaching him 
 at a pace nearly as rapid as his own. 
 
 " If it's Frank M'Kenna," thought he, " he must 
 pass me, for this is his straight line home." 
 
 It appeared, however, that he had been mistaken ; 
 for he whom he had supposed to be the object of his 
 enmity, crossed the field by a different path, and 
 seemed to be utterly ignorant of the person whom he 
 was about to meet, so far, at least, as a quick, free, 
 unembarrassed step could intimate his unacquaintance 
 with him. 
 
 The fact, how^ever, was, that Reillaghan, had the 
 person whom he met approached him more nearly, 
 would have found his first suspicions correct. Frank 
 was then on his return from Gartland's, and no
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 31 
 
 sooner perceived Reillaghan, whom he immediately 
 recognised by his great height, than he took another 
 path in order to avoid him. The enmity between 
 these rivals was deep and implacable ; aggravated on 
 the one hand by a sense of unmerited injury, and on 
 the other by personal defeat and the bitterest jealousy. 
 For this reason neither of them wished to meet, par- 
 ticularly Frank M'Kenna, who not only hated, but 
 feared his enemy. 
 
 Having succeeded in avoiding Reillaghan, the latter 
 soon reached home ; but here he found the door closed, 
 and the family, without a single exception, in the barn, 
 which was now nearly crowded with the youngsters of 
 both sexes from the surrounding villages. 
 
 Frank's arrival among them gave a fresh impulse 
 to their mirth and enjoyment. His manners were 
 highly agreeable, and his spirits buoyant almost to 
 levity. Notwithstanding the badness of his character 
 in the opinion of the sober, steady, and respectable 
 inhabitants of the parish, yet he was a favourite with 
 the dissolute and thoughtless, and with many who 
 had not an opportunity of seeing him except in his 
 most favourable aspect. Whether he entertained on 
 this occasion any latent design that might have in- 
 duced him to assume a frankness of manner, and an 
 appearance of good-humour, which he did not feel, it 
 is difficult to determine. Be this as it may, he made 
 himself generally agreeable, saw that every one was 
 comfortable, suggested an improvement in the ar- 
 rangement of the seats^ broke several jests on Barny 
 and Granua Waile — which, however, were returned 
 with interest — and, in fact, acquitted himself so ere-
 
 32 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 ditably, that his father whispered with a sigh to hia 
 mother — 
 
 " Alley, achora, wouldn't we be the happy family 
 if that misfortunate boy of ours was to be always the 
 thing he appears to be ? God help him I the gom- 
 mach, if he had sinse, and the fear o' God before him, 
 he'd not be sich a piece o' desate to sthrangers, and 
 sich a divil's limb wid ourselves : but he's young, an* 
 may see his evil coorses in time, wid the help o' God.** 
 
 *' Musha, may God grant it!" exclaimed his mo- 
 ther ; " a fine slip he is, if his heart 'ud only turn to 
 the right thoughts. One can't help feelin' pride out 
 o' him, when they see him actin' wid any kind o* 
 rason.'* 
 
 The Irish dance, like every other assembly com- 
 posed of Irishmen and Irishwomen, presents the spec- 
 tator with those traits which enter into our conception 
 of rollicking fun and broad humour. The very ar- 
 rangements are laughable; and when joined to the 
 eccentric strains of some blind fiddler like Barny 
 Dhaly to the grotesque and caricaturish faces of the 
 men, and the modest, but evidently arch and laughter- 
 loving countenances of the females, they cannot fail to 
 impress an observing mind with the obvious truth, 
 that a nation of people so thoughtless and easily 
 directed from the serious and useful pursuits of life to 
 such scenes, can seldom be industrious and wealthy, 
 nor, despite their mirth and humour, a happy people. 
 
 The barn in which they danced on this occasion 
 was a large one. Around the walls were placed as 
 many seats as could be spared from the neighbours* 
 houses; these were eked out by sacks of corn laid
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 33 
 
 kngth^^ise, logs of round timber, old creels, iron pots 
 with their bottoms turned up, and some of them in 
 their usual position. On these were the youngsters 
 seated^ many of the " boys" with their sweethearts 
 on their knees, the arms of the fair ones lovingly 
 around their necks ; and, on the contrary, many of 
 tlie young women with their bachelors on their laps, 
 their own necks also gallantly encircled by the arms 
 of their admirers. Up in a corner sat Barny, sur- 
 rounded by the seniors of the village, sawing the 
 fiddle with indefatigable vigour, and leading the con- 
 versation with equal spirit. Indeed, his laugh was 
 the loudest, and his joke the best, whilst, ever and 
 anon, his music became perfectly furious — that is to 
 say, M'hen he rasped the fiddle with a desperate effort 
 " to overtake the dancers," from whom, in the heat 
 of the conversation, he had unwittingly lagged behind. 
 
 Dancing in Ireland, like every thing else connected 
 with the amusement of the people, is frequently pro- 
 ductive of bloodshed. It is not unusual for crack 
 dancers from opposite parishes, or from distant parts 
 of the same parish, to meet and dance against each 
 other for vactorj'. But as the judges in those cases 
 consist of the respective friends or factions of the 
 champions, their mode of decision may readily be 
 conjectured. Many a battle is fought in consequence 
 of such challenges, the result usually being that not 
 he who has the lightest heel, but the hardest head, 
 generally comes ofl' the conqueror. 
 
 While the usual variety of Irisli dances — the reel, 
 jig, fling, three-part- reel, four-part-ree.l, rowly-powly, 
 country-dance, cotillion^ or cut-along, (as the peasantry 
 
 VOL. T. D
 
 34 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 call it) and minuet, vulgarly minion, and minionet 
 — were going forward in due rotation, our readers 
 may be assured that those who were seated around 
 the walls did not permit the time to pass without im- 
 proving it. Many an attachment is formed at such 
 amusements, and many a bitter jealousy is excited : the 
 prude and coquette, the fop and rustic Lothario, stand 
 out here as prominently to the eye of him who is ac- 
 quainted with human nature, as they do in similar, 
 assemblies among the great ; perhaps more so, as there 
 is less art, and a more limited knowledge of intrigue, 
 to conceal their natural character. 
 
 The dance in Ireland usually commences with those 
 who sit next the door, from whence it goes round with 
 the sun. In this manner it circulates two or three 
 times, after which the order is generally departed from, 
 and they dance according as they can. This neglect 
 of the established rule is also a fertile source of dis- 
 cord ; for when two persons rise at the same time, if 
 there be not room for both, the right of dancing first 
 is often decided by blows- 
 
 At the dance we are describing, however, there was 
 no dissension; every heart appeared to be not only 
 elated with mirth, but also free from resentment and 
 jealousy. The din produced by the thumping of 
 vigorous feet upon the floor, the noise of the fiddle^ 
 the chat between Bamy and the little sober knot about 
 him, together with the brisk murmur of the general 
 conversation, and the expression of delight which sat 
 pa every countenance, had something in them elevat- 
 ing to the spirits. 
 
 Bamy, who knew the voices, and even the mode of
 
 THE :MIDNIGHT MASS; 35 
 
 dancing peculiar to almost every one in the barn, had 
 some joke for each. When a young man brings out 
 his sweetheart — which he frequently does in a manner 
 irresistibly ludicrous, sometimes giving a spring from 
 the earth, his cauheen set with a knowing air on one 
 side of his head, advancing at a trot on tip-toe, catch- 
 ing her by the ear, leading her out to her position, 
 which is " to face the fiddler," then ending by a snap 
 of the fingers, and another spring, in which he brings 
 his heel backwards in contact with his ham ; — we say, 
 when a young man brings out his sweetheart, and 
 places her facing the fiddler, he asks her what she will 
 dance; to which, if she has no favourite tune, she 
 uniformly replies — " Your will is my pleasure." This 
 usually made Barny groan aloud. 
 
 " What ails you, Barny ?" 
 
 " Oh, thin, murdher alive, how little thruth's in 
 this world ! Your will's my pleasure ! Baithershin ! 
 but, sowl, if things goes an, it won't be long so !" 
 
 " Why, Barny," the young man would exclaim, 
 " is the ravin' fit comin' over you?" 
 
 " No, in throth, Jim ; hut iVs thinkiri* of home I 
 am. Howandiver, do you go an ; but, naboklish I 
 What'll you have?" 
 
 " ' Jig Pol the 11 ge,' Barny : but oil your wrist, a 
 bouchal, or Katty will lave us both out o' sight in no 
 time. Whoo ! success ! clear the coorse. Well done 
 Barny ! Thai's the go." 
 
 When the youngsters had danced for some time, 
 the fathers and mothers of the village were called upon 
 " to step out." This was generally the most amusing 
 Ecene in the dance. No excuse is ever taken on such 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 occasions, for when they refuse, about a dozen young 
 fellows place them, will they nil they, upright upon 
 the floor, from whence neither themselves nor their 
 wives are permitted to move until they dance. No 
 sooner do they commence, than they are mischievously 
 pitted against each other by two sham parties, one 
 encouraging the wife, the other cheering on the good 
 man; whilst the fiddler, falling in with the frolic, 
 plays in his most furious style. The simplicity of 
 character, and, perhaps, the lurking vanity of those 
 who are the butts of the mirth on this occasion, fre- 
 quently heighten the jest. 
 
 '' Why thin, Paddy, is it strivin' to outdo me you 
 are ? Faiks, avourneen, you never seen that day, any 
 way," the old woman would exclaim, exerting all her 
 vigour. 
 
 " Didn't I ? Sowl, I'll sober you before I lave the 
 flure, for all that," her husband would reply. 
 
 " An' do you forget," she would rejoin, " that the 
 McCarthy dhrop is in me ; ay, an' it's to the good 
 still." 
 
 And the old dame would accompany the boast with 
 a fresh attempt at agility ; to which Paddy would re- 
 spond by " cutting the buckle," and snapping his 
 fingers, whilst fifty voices, amidst roars of laughter, 
 were loud in encouraging each. 
 
 '' Handle your feet, Katty, darlin' — the mettle's 
 lavin'him!" 
 
 " Off wid the brogues, Paddy, or she'll do you. 
 That's it; kick off" the other, an' don't spare the flure." 
 
 " A thousand guineas an Katty I McCarthy agin 
 Gallagher for ever ! — whirroo !"
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 37 
 
 ** Blur alive the flure's not benefittin' by you, 
 Paddy. Lay an it, man! — That's it! — Bravo I — 
 Whish ! — our side agin Europe !" 
 
 " Success, Paddy ! Why you could dance the 
 Dusty Miller upon a flure paved \nd drawn razures, 
 you're so soople." 
 
 '^ Katty for ever! The blood's in you, Katty ; 
 you'll win the day, a ban choir /^ More power to 
 you!" 
 
 '* I'll hould a quart on Paddy. Heel an' toe, 
 Paddy, you sinner!" 
 
 " Right an' left, Katty; hould an, his breath's 
 goin'." 
 
 " Right an' wrong, Paddy, you spalpeen. The 
 whisky's an you, man alive : do it dacently, an' don't 
 let me lose the wager." 
 
 In this manner would they incite some old man, 
 and, perhaps, his older wife, to prolonged exertion, 
 and keep them bobbing and jigging about amidst 
 roars of laughter, until the worthy couple could dance 
 no longer. 
 
 During stated periods of the night, those who took 
 the most prominent part in the dance, got a plate and 
 hat, with which they went round the youngsters, to 
 make collections for the fiddler. Bamy reserved his 
 best and most sarcastic jokes for these occasions ; for 
 so correct was his ear, that he felt little difficulty in 
 detecting those whose contributions to him were such 
 as he did not relish. 
 
 The aptitude of the Irish for enjoying humorous 
 images was well displayed by one or two circumstances 
 * Decent woraaiv
 
 38 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 which occurred on this night. A few of both sexes, 
 who had come rather late, could get no other seats 
 than the iron pots to which we have alluded. The 
 young women were dressed in white, and their com- 
 panions, who were also their admirers, exhibited in 
 proud display, each a bran new suit, consisting of 
 broad-cloth coat, yellow-buff vests, and corduroy 
 small-clothes, with a bunch of broad silk ribbons 
 standing out at each knee. They were the sons and 
 daughters of respectable farmers, but as ail distinctions 
 here entirely ceased, they were fain to rest contented 
 with such seats as they could get, which on this occa- 
 sion consisted of the pots aforesaid. No sooner, how- 
 ever, had they risen to dance, than the house was 
 convulsed with laughter, heightened by the sturdy 
 vigour with which, unconscious of their appearance, 
 they continued to dance. That part of the white 
 female dresses which had come in contact with the 
 pots, exhibited a circle like the full moon, and was 
 black as pitch. Nor were their partners more lucky : 
 those who sat on the mouths of the pots had the back 
 part of their dresses streaked with dark circles, equally 
 ludicrous. The mad mirth with which they danced, 
 in spite of their grotesque appearance, was irresistible. 
 This, and other incidents quite as pleasant — such as 
 the case of a wag who purposely sank himself into one 
 of the pots, until it stuck to him through half the 
 dance — increased the laughter, and disposed them to 
 peace and cordiality. 
 
 No man took a more active part in these frolics 
 than young Frank M'Kenna. It is true^ a keen eye 
 might have noticed under his gaiety something of a
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 39 
 
 moody and dissatisfied air. As he moved about from 
 time to time, he whispered something to above a dozen 
 persons who were well-known in the country as his 
 intimate companions, young fellows whose disposition 
 and character were notoriously bad. When he com- 
 municated the whisper, a nod of assent was given by 
 his confidants, after which it might be remarked that 
 they moved round to the door with a caution that be- 
 trayed a fear of observation, and quietly slunk out of 
 the barn, though Frank himself did not immediately 
 follow them. In about a quarter of an hour afterwards, 
 Rody came in, gave him a signal, and sat down. 
 Frank then followed his companions, and after a few 
 minutes Rody also disappeared. This was about ten 
 o'clock, and the dance was proceeding with great 
 gaiety and animation. 
 
 Frank's dread of openly offending his parents pre- 
 vented him from assembling his associates in the 
 dwelling-house ; the only convenient place of rendez- 
 vous, therefore, of which they could avail themselves, 
 was the stable. Here they met, and Frank, after un- 
 corking a bottle of poteen, addressed them to the fol- 
 lowing effect : 
 
 " Boys, there's great excuse for me, in regard of 
 my fight wid Mike Reillaghan ; that you'll all allow. 
 Come, boys, your healths ! 1 can tell yees you'll find 
 this good, the divil a doubt of it ; be the same token, 
 that I stole it from my father's Christmas dhrink; but 
 no matther for that — I liope we'll never do worse. 
 So, as I was sayin' you mast bear me out as well as 
 you can, when I'm brouglit before the Dilegates to-
 
 40 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 morrow, for challengin' and strikin' a brother.* But, 
 I think, you'll stand by me, boys?" 
 
 " By the tam-o'-war, Frank, myself will fight to 
 the knees for you." 
 
 " Faith, you may depend on us, Frank, or we're 
 not to the fore." 
 
 *' I know it, boys : and now for a piece of fun for 
 this night. You see — come, Lanty, tare-an'-ounkers, 
 drink, man alive — you see wid regard to Peggy Gart- 
 land — eh ? what the hell ! is that a cough?" 
 
 " One o' tlie horses, man — go an." 
 
 " Rody, did Darby More go into the bam before 
 you came out of it ?" 
 
 " Darby More? not he. If he did, I'd a seen him 
 surely." 
 
 *' Why, thin, I'd kiss the book I seen him goin' 
 towards the bam, as I was comin' into the stable. 
 Sowl, he's a made boy, that; an' if I don't mistake, 
 he's in Mike Reillaghan's intherest. You knovv^ devil 
 a sacret can escape him." 
 
 " Hut ! the prayin' ould crathur was on his way to 
 the Midnight Mass; he thravels slow, and, of coorse, 
 has to set out early; besides, you know, he has Carols, 
 and Bades, and the likes, to sell at the chapel." 
 
 *•' Thrue for you, Rody : why, I thought he might 
 take it into his head to watch my motions, in regard 
 that, as I said, I think him in Mike's intherest " 
 
 * Those connected with illegal combinations are sworn to 
 have no private or personal quarrels, not to strike, nor provoke 
 each other to fight. He and Mike were members of such so- 
 cieties.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 41 
 
 " Nonsense, man, what the dickens 'ud bring hira 
 into the stable loft ? Why, you're beside your- 
 self?" 
 
 " Be Gor, I bleeve so, but no matther. Boys, I 
 want yees to stand to me to-night: I'm given to know 
 for a sartinty that ]Mike and Peggy wall be buckled to 
 durin' the Hollydays. Now I wish to get the girl 
 myself; for if I don't get her, may I be ground to 
 atoms if he will." 
 
 " Well, but how will you manage? for she's fond 
 of him." 
 
 " Why, I'll tell you that. I was over there this 
 evenin', and I understand that all the family is goin' 
 to the Midnight Mass, barrin' herself. You see, while 
 they're all gone to the ' mallet-office,'* we'll slip 
 down wid a thrifle o' soot on our mugs, and walk off 
 wid her to Kilnaheery, beyant the mountains, to an 
 uncle's o' mine; an' afther that, let any man marry 
 her who chooses to run the risk. Be the contints o* 
 the book, Atty, if you don't dhrink I'll knock your 
 head agin the wall, you gommoch !" 
 
 " Wh)^, thin, by all that's beautiful, it's a good 
 spree; an' we'll stick to you like pitch." 
 
 *' Be the vartue o' my oath, you don't desarve to 
 be in it, or you'd dhrink dacent. Why, here's ano- 
 ther bottle, an' maybe there's more where that was. 
 Well, let us finish what we have, or be the five crasses, 
 I'll give up the whole business." 
 
 " Why, thin, here's success to us, any way; an' 
 high hangin' to them that 'ud desart you in your 
 skame this blessed an' holy night that's in it !" 
 * Mass.
 
 42 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 This was re-echoed by his friends, who pledged 
 themselves by the most solemn oaths not to abandon 
 him in the perpetration of the outrage which they had 
 concerted. The other bottle was immediately opened, 
 and while it lasted, the details of the plan were ex- 
 plained at full length. This over, they entered the 
 barn one by one, except Frank and Rody, who as 
 they were determined to steal another bottle from the 
 father's stock, did not appear among the dancers until 
 this was accomplished. 
 
 The re-appearance of these rollicking and reckless 
 young fellows in the dance, was hailed by all present ; 
 for their outrageous mirth was in character with the 
 genius of the place. The dance went on with spirit ; 
 brag dancers were called upon to exhibit in horn- 
 pipes, and for this purpose a table was brought in 
 from Frank's kitchen, on which they performed in 
 succession, each dancer applauded by his respective 
 party as the best in the barn. 
 
 In the mean time the night had advanced ; the hour 
 might be about half-past ten o'clock ; all were in the 
 zenith of enjoyment, when old Frank M'Kenna ad- 
 dressed them as follows : 
 
 '. *' Neighbours, the dickens o' one o' me would like 
 to break up the sport — an', in throth, harmless and 
 dacent sport it is; but you all know that this is 
 Christmas night, and that it's our duty to attind the 
 Midnight Mass. Any body that likes to hear it may 
 go, for it's near time to be home an' prepare for it ; 
 but the sorra one o' me wants to take any of yees 
 from your sport, if you prefer it ; all I say is, that I 
 must lave yees ; so God be wid yees till we meet agin !"
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 43 
 
 This short speech produced a general bustle in the 
 bam ; many of the elderly neighbours left it, and 
 several of the young persons also. It was Christinas 
 Eve, and the Midnight Mass had from time immemo- 
 rial so strong a hold upon their prejudices and affec- 
 tions, that the temptation must indeed have been 
 great which would have prevented them from attend- 
 ing it. When old Frank went out, about one-third 
 of those who were present left the dance along: with 
 him, and as the hour for mass was approaching, they 
 lost no time in preparing for it. 
 
 The Midnight Mass is, no doubt, a phrase familiar 
 to our Irish readers ; but we doubt whether those in 
 the sister kingdoms who may honour our book with a 
 perusal, would, without a more particular description 
 clearly understand it. 
 
 This ceremony was performed as a commemoration 
 not only of the night, but of the hour in which Christ 
 was born. To connect it either with edification, or 
 the abuse of religion would be invidious; so we over- 
 look that, and describe it as it existed within our own 
 memory, remarking, by the way, that though now 
 generally discontinued, it is in some parts of Ireland 
 still observed, or has been till within a few years ago. 
 The parish in which the scene of this story is laid 
 was large, consequently the attendance of the people 
 was proportionably great. On Christmas day a Ro- 
 man Catholic priest has, or is said to have the privi- 
 lege of saying three masses, though on every other day 
 in the year he can celebrate but two. Each priest, 
 then, said one at midnight, and two on the following 
 iday.
 
 44 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Accordingly, about twenty or thirty years ago, the 
 performance of the Midnight Mass was looked upon 
 as an ordinance highly important and interesting. 
 The preparations for it were general and fervent ; so 
 much so, that not a Roman Catholic family slept till 
 they heard it. It is true it only occurred once a year; 
 hut had any person who saw it once been called upon 
 to describe it, he would say that religion could scarcely 
 present a scene so wild and striking. 
 
 The night in question was very dark, for the moon 
 had long disappeared, and as the inhabitants of the 
 whole parish were to meet in one spot, it may be sup- 
 posed that the difficulty was very great, of traversing, 
 in the darkness of midnight, the space between their 
 respective residences, and the place appointed by the 
 priest for the celebration of mass. This difficulty they 
 contrived to surmount. From about eleven at night 
 till twelve or one o'clock, the parish presented a scene 
 singularly picturesque, and, to a person unacquainted 
 with its causes, altogether mysterious. Over the sur- 
 face of the surrounding country were scattered myriads 
 of blazing torches, all converging to one point ; whilst 
 at a distance, in the central part of the parish, which 
 lay in a valley, might be seen a broad focus of red 
 light, quite stationary, with which one or more of the 
 torches that moved across the fields mingled every 
 moment. These torches were of bog-fir, dried and 
 split for the occasion ; all persons were accordingly 
 furnished with them, and by their blaze contrived to 
 make way across the country with comparative ease. 
 This Mass having been especially associated with 
 festivity and enjoyment, was always attended by suck
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 45 
 
 excessive numbers, that the ceremony was in most 
 parishes celebrated in the open air, if the weather 
 were at all favourable. Altogether, as we have said, 
 the appearance of the country at this dead hour of the 
 night, was wild and impressive. Being Christmas, 
 every heart was up, and every pocket replenished with 
 money, if it could at all be procured. This general 
 elevation of spirits was no where more remarkable 
 than in contemplating the thousands of both sexes, 
 old and young, each furnished, as before said, with a 
 blazing flambeau of bog-fir, all streaming down the 
 mountain sides, along the roads, or across the fields, 
 and settling at last into one broad sheet of fire. Many 
 a loud laugh might then be heard ringing the night 
 echo into reverberation ; mirthful was the gabble in 
 hard, guttural Irish ; and now and then a song from 
 some one whose potations had been rather copious, 
 would rise on the night-breeze, to which a chorus was 
 subjoined by a dozen voices from the neighbouring 
 groups. 
 
 On passing the shebeen and public houses, the- din 
 of mingled voices that issued from them was highly 
 amusing, made up, as it was, of songs, loud talk, riot- 
 ing and laughter, with an occasional sound of weeping 
 from some one who had become penitent in his drink. 
 In the larger public houses, for in Ireland there usually 
 are one or two of these in the immediate vicinity of 
 each chapel, family parties were assembled, who set 
 in to carouse both before and after mass. Those, 
 however, who had any love affair on hands generally 
 selected the Shebeen house, as being private, and lesa 
 calculated to expose them to general observation. A?
 
 46 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 a matter of coTirse, these jovial orgies frequently pro- 
 duced such disastrous consequences both to human 
 life, and female reputation, that the intrigues between 
 the sexes, the quarrels, and violent deaths resulting 
 from them, ultimately occasioned the discontinuance 
 of a ceremony which was only productive of evil. To 
 this day it is an opinion among the peasantry in many 
 parts of Ireland, that there is something unfortunate 
 connected with all drinking bouts held upon Christmas 
 Eve. Such a prejudice naturally arises from a recol- 
 lection of the calamities which so fre(i5H|ntly befell 
 many individuals while Midnight Masses were in the 
 habit of being celebrated. 
 
 None of Frank M'Kenna's family attended mass 
 but himself and his wife. His children having been 
 bound by all the rules of courtesy to do the honours 
 of the dance, could not absent themselves from it ; 
 nor indeed, were they disposed to do so. Frank, 
 however, and his " good woman," carried their 
 torches, and joined the crowds which flocked to this 
 scene of fun and devotion. 
 
 When they had arrived at the cross-roads beside 
 which the chapel was situated, the first object that 
 presented itself so prominently as to attract observa- 
 tion was Darby IVIore, dressed out in all his parapher- 
 nalia of blanket and horn, in addition to which he 
 held in his hand an immense torch, formed into the 
 figure of a cross. He was seated upon a stone, sur- 
 rounded by a ring of old men and women, to whom 
 he sang and sold a variety of Christm.as carols, many 
 of them rare curiosities in their way, inasmuch as they 
 were his own composition. A little beyond them stood
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS 4*J 
 
 Mike Reillaghan and Peggy Gartland, towards both 
 of whom he cast from time to time a glance of latent 
 humour and triumph. He did not simply con line 
 himself to singing his carols ; but, during the pauses 
 of the melody, addressed the wondering and attentive 
 crowd as follows : — 
 
 *' Good Christians — This is the day — howandiver, 
 it's night now, glory be to God — that the angel Lucifer 
 appeared to Shud'orth, Meeshach, an' To-bed-we-go, 
 in the village of Constantinople, near Jerooslem. The 
 heavens be ^j^ed for it, 'twas a blessed an' holy 
 night, an' remains so from that day to this — Oxis 
 doxis glorioxis, Amin ! Well ; the sarra one of him 
 but appeared to thim at the hour o' midnight, but 
 they were asleep at the time, you see, and didn't per- 
 save him. So wid that he pulled out a horn like 
 mine — an', by the same token, it's lucky to wear 
 horns about one from that day to this — an he put it 
 to his lips, an' tuck a good dacent — I mane, gave a 
 good dacent blast that soon roused them. * Are yees 
 asleep ?' says he, when they awoke : ' why then, 
 bud-an'-age !' says he, ' isn't it a bumin' shame for 
 able stout fellows like yees to be asleep at the hour o' 
 midnight of all hours o' the night. Tare-an-age!' 
 says he, * get up wid yees, you dirty spalpeens I 
 There's St. Pathrick in Jerooslem beyant ; the Pope's 
 signin' his mittimus to Ireland, to bless it in regard' 
 that neither corn, nor barley, nor phaties will grow an 
 the land in quensequ^nce of a set of varmint that ates 
 it up; an' there's not a glass o' whiskey to be had in 
 Ireland for love or money,' says Lucifer. ' Get up 
 wid yees,' says he, *an' go in an' get his blessin' ;
 
 48 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 sure there's not a Catholic in the counthry, barrin' 
 Swaddlers, but's in the town by this,' says he : * ay, 
 an' many of the Protestants themselves, and the black- 
 mouths, an' blue-bellies, are gone in to get a share of 
 it. And now, says he, * bekase you wor so heavy- 
 headed, I ordher it from this out, that the present 
 night is to be obsarved in the Catholic church all over 
 the world, an' must be kep holy ; an' no thrue Ca- 
 tholic ever will miss from this pariod an opportunity 
 of bein' awake at midnight,' says he, ' glory be to 
 God!' An' now, good Christians, yftli have an ac- 
 count o' the blessed carol I was singin' for yees. 
 They're but hapuns a-piece ; an' any body that has 
 the grace to keep one o' these about them, will never 
 meet wid sudden deaths or accidents, sich as hangin', 
 or drownin', or bein' taken suddenly wid a configura- 
 tion inwardly. I wanst knew a holy man that had a 
 
 dhrame — about a fi-iend of his, it was Will any of 
 
 yees take one? — Thank you, a colleen : my blessin', 
 the blessin' o' the pilgTim, be an you ! God bless 
 you, Mike Reillaghan; an' I'm proud that he put it 
 into your heart to buy one for the rasons you know. 
 An' now that Father Hoolaghan's comin', any of yees 
 that 'ill want them 'ill find me here agin when mass 
 is over — Oxis doxis glorioxis, Amin !" 
 
 The priest at this time made his appearance, and 
 those who had been assembled on the cross-roads 
 joined the crowd at the chapel. No sooner was it 
 bruited among them that their pastor had arrived, 
 than the noise, gabble, singing, and laughing were 
 immediately hushed ; the shebeen and public houses 
 were left untenanted ; and all flocked to the chapel- 
 
 1
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 49 
 
 green, where mass was to be said, as tlic crowd was 
 too large to be contained within the small chapel. 
 
 ^like Reillaghan and Peggy Gartland were among 
 the last who sought the " green ;'* as lovers, they 
 probably preferred walking apart to the inconvenience 
 of being jostled by the multitude. As they sauntered 
 on slowly after the rest, Mike felt himself touched on 
 the shoulder, and on turning round found Dar]3y More 
 beside him. 
 
 " It's painful to my feelins," observed the mendi- 
 cant, *' to have to say this blessed night that your fa- 
 ther's son should act so shabby an' ondacent.'* 
 
 " Saints above! how, Darby?" 
 
 ** Why, don't you know that only for me — for what 
 I heard, an' what I tould you — you'd not have the 
 purty girl here at your elbow? Wasn't it, as I said, 
 his intintion to come an' whip up the colleen to Kil- 
 naheery while the family 'ud be at mass ; sure only 
 for this, I say, you bosthoon, an' that / made you 
 bring her to mass, where 'ud the purty colleen be ? 
 why half way to Kilnaheery, an' the girl disgraced for 
 ever !" 
 
 " Thnie for you. Darby, I grant it : but what do 
 you want me to do?" 
 
 " Oh, for that matther, nothin' at all, IMike ; only 
 I suppose that when your tailor made the clothes an 
 you, he put no pockets to them ?" 
 
 '* Oh, I see where you are, Dar.by ! well here's a 
 crown for you; an' when Peggy ai>-' I's made man an' 
 wife you'll get another." 
 
 ** Mike, achora, I see you are your father's son still ; 
 now listen to me : first, you needn't fear sudden death 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 while you keep that blessed carol about you ; next, 
 get your friends together goin' home, for Frank might 
 jist take the liberty, wid about a score of his * boys,' 
 to lift her from you even thin. Do the thing I say — 
 don't thrust him; an', moreover, watch in her father's 
 house to-night wid your friends. Thirdly, make it up 
 wid Frank ; there's an oath upon you both, you per- 
 save? Make it up wid him, if he axes you: don't 
 have a broken oath upon you ; for if you refuse, he'll 
 get you put out o' connexion,* an' that 'ud plase him 
 to the back-bone." 
 
 Mike felt the truth and shrewdness of this advice, 
 and determined to follow it. Both young men had 
 been members of an illegal society, and in yielding 
 to their passions so far as to assault each other, had 
 been guilty of perjury. The following Christmas*day 
 had been appointed by their parish Delegates to take 
 the quarrel into consideration ; and the best means of 
 escaping censure was certainly to express regret for 
 what had occurred, and to terminate the hostility by 
 an amicable adjustment of their disputes. 
 
 They had now reached the chapel-green, where the 
 scene that presented itself was so striking and strange, 
 that we will give the reader an imperfect sketch of its 
 appearance. He who stood at midnight upon a little 
 mount which rose behind the chapel, might see be- 
 tween five and six thousand torches, all blazing toge- 
 ther, and forming a level mass of red dusky light, 
 burning against the dark horizon. These torches were 
 so close to each other that their light seemed to blend, 
 as if they had constituted one wide surface of flame ; 
 , * Secret party.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 51 
 
 and nothing could be more preternatural-looking than 
 the striking and devotional countenances of those who 
 were assembled at their midnight worship, when ob- 
 served beneath this canopy of fire. The Mass was 
 performed under the open sky, upon a table covered 
 with the sacrificial linen and other apparatus for the 
 ceremony. The priest stood, robed in white, with two 
 large torches on each side of his book, reciting the 
 prayers in a low, rapid voice, his hands raised, whilst 
 the congregation were hushed and bent forward in the 
 reverential silence of devotion, their faces touched by 
 the strong blaze of the torches into an expression of 
 deep solemnity. The scenery about the place was 
 wild and striking; and the stars, scattered thinly over 
 the heavens, twinkled with a faint religious light, tliat 
 blended well with the solemnity of this extraordinary 
 worship, and rendered the rugged nature of the abiupt 
 cliffs and precipices, together with the still outline of 
 the stern mountains, sufficiently visible to add to the 
 wildness and singularity of the ceremony. In fact, 
 there was an unearthly character about it; and the 
 spectre-like appearance of the white-robed priest as he 
 
 " Muttered his prayer to the midnight air,"' 
 would almost impress a man with the belief that it 
 was a meeting of the dead, and that the priest was re- 
 peating, like the Grey Friar, his 
 
 " Mass of the days that were gone." 
 On the ceremony being concluded, the scene, how- 
 ever, was instantly changed : the lights were waved 
 and scattered promiscuously among each other, giving 
 an idea of confusion and hurry that was strongly con- 
 trasted with the death-like stillness that prevailed a 
 E 2
 
 52 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 few minutes before. The gahble and laugh were again 
 heard loud and hearty, and the public and shebeen 
 Louses once more became crowded. Many of the 
 young people made, on these occasions, what is called 
 "a runaway;"* and other peccadilloes took place, 
 for which the delinquents were " cither read out from 
 the altar," or sent probably to St. Patrick's Purgatory 
 at Lough Derg, to do penance. Those who did not 
 choose to stop in the whiskey houses now hurried 
 home with all speed, to take some sleep before early 
 Mass, which was to be performed the next morning 
 about day-break. The same number of lights might 
 therefore be seen streaming in different ways over the 
 l^arish; the married men holding the torches, and 
 leading their wives ; bachelors escorting their sweet- 
 hearts, and not unfrequently extinguishing their flam- 
 beaus, that the dependence of the females upon their 
 care and protection might more lovingly call forth 
 their gallantry. 
 
 When Mike Reillaghan considered with due atten- 
 tion the hint which Darby More had given him, 
 touching the necessity of collecting his friends as an 
 escort for Peggy Gartland, he had strong reasons to 
 admit its justness and propriety. After Mass he spoke 
 to about two dozen young fellows who joined him, and 
 under their protection Pegg}^ now returned safely to 
 her father's house. 
 
 Frank M'Kenna and his wife reached home about 
 
 two o'clock ; the dance was comparatively thin, 
 
 though still kept up with considerable spirit. Having 
 
 solemnized himself by the grace of so sacred a rite, 
 
 * Rustic elopement.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 53 
 
 Frank thought proper to close the amusement, and 
 recommend those whom he found in the barn to re- 
 turn to their respective dwellings. 
 
 " You have had a merry night, childher," said he; 
 " but too much o' one thing's good for nothin'j so 
 don't make a toil of a pleasure, but go all home da- 
 cently an' soberly, in the name o' God." 
 
 This advice was accordingly followed. The young- 
 sters separated, and M'Kenna joined his family, " to 
 have a sup along wid them an' Barny, in honour of 
 what they had hard." It was upon this occasion he 
 missed his son Frank, whose absence from the dance 
 he had not noticed since his return until then. 
 
 " Musha, where's Frank?" he inquired: ''I'll 
 warrant him away wid his blackguards upon no good. 
 God look down upon him ! Many a black heart has 
 that boy left us ! If it's not the will o' heaven, I fear 
 he'll come to no good. Barny, is he long gone from 
 the dance?" 
 
 " Throth, Frank, wid the noise an' dancin', an' me 
 bein' darky'^ replied Barny, shrewdly, '' I can't take 
 an me to say. For all you spake agin him, the sorra 
 one of him but's a clane, dacent, spirited boy, as there 
 is widin a great ways of him. Here's all your healths! 
 Faix, girls, you'll all sleep sound to-night." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. M'Kenna, " the knowledge of 
 that Darby More is onknowable ! Here's a carol I 
 bought fi'om him, an' if you wor but to hear the ex- 
 planations he put to it! Why Father Hoolaghan 
 could hardly outdo him !" 
 
 " Divil a man in the five parishes can dance ' Jig 
 Polthogue' wid him, for all that," said Barny. Many
 
 54' THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 a time Granua an' I played it for him, an' you'd know 
 the tune upon his feet. He undherstands a power o* 
 ranns an' prayers, an' has charms an' holy herbs for 
 all kinds of ailments, no doubt." 
 
 *' These men, you see," observed Mrs. M'Kenna, 
 in the true spirit of credulity and superstition, " may 
 do many things that the likes of us oughtn't to do, 
 by rason of their great fastin' an' prayin'." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Alley," replied her husband; 
 
 * but come, let us have a sup more in comfort : the 
 sleep's gone a shraugran an us this night, any way, 
 so, Barny, give us a song, an' afther that we'll have 
 a taste o' prayers, to close the night." 
 
 " But you don't think of the long journey I've be- 
 fore me," replied Barny : " howandiver, if you pro- 
 mise to send some one home wid me, we'll have the 
 song. I wouldn't care, but the night bein' dark, you 
 see, I'll want somebody to guide me." 
 
 " Faith, an' it's but rasonable, Barny, an' you, 
 must get Rody home wid you. I suppose he's asleep 
 in his bed by this, but we'll rouse him !" 
 
 Barny replied by a loud triumphant laugh, for this 
 was one of his standing jests. 
 
 " Well, Frank," said he, " I never thought you 
 war so soft, an' me can pick my steps the same at 
 night as in daylight. Sure that's the way I done 
 them to-night, when one o' Granua's strings broke. 
 
 * Sweets o' rosin,' says I ; ' a candle — bring me a 
 candle immedSntly.' An' down came Rody in all 
 haste wid a candle. * Six eggs to you, Rody,' says 
 myself, ' an' hatf-a-dozen o' them ratten ! but you're 
 a bright boy, to bring a lit candle to a blind man!*
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 55 
 
 and then, lie stood a boiUoare to the whole house — 
 
 ha, ha, ha !'» 
 
 Bamy, who was not the man to rise first from the 
 whiskey, commenced the relation of his choicest anec- 
 dotes ; old Frank and the faniily, being now in a truly 
 genial mood, entered into the spirit of ids jests, so 
 that between chat, songs, and whiskey, the hour had 
 now advanced to four o'clock. The fiddler was com- 
 mencing another song, when the door opened, and 
 Frank presented himself, nearly, but not altogether 
 in a state of intoxication; his face was b^meared 
 ■ftith blood ; and his whole appearance that of a man 
 under the influence of strong passion, such as would 
 seem to be produced by disappointment and defeat. 
 
 '• What!" said the father; '* is it snowin', Frank? 
 Your clothes are covered wid snow I'* 
 
 " Lord, guard us 1" exclaimed the mother, " is that 
 blood upon your face, Frank?" 
 
 " It is snowin', and it is blood that's upon my 
 face," answered Frank, moodily — '* do you want to 
 know more news ?" 
 
 " Why, ay indeed," replied liis mother, •' we want 
 to hear how you came to be cut ?" ^ 
 
 " You won't hear it, thin," he repUed. 
 
 The mother was silent, for she knew the terrible 
 fits of passion to which he was subject. 
 
 The father groaned deeply, and exclaimed — 
 " Frank, Frank, God help you, an' show you the 
 sins you're committiu', an' the heart-scaldin' you're 
 gi\'in' both your mother an' me I What firesh skrim- 
 mage had you that you're in that state ?" 
 
 '* Spare yourself the throuble oi inqiiirin'," he
 
 56 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 replied : " all I can say,'' he continued, starting up 
 into sudden fury — " all I can say, an* I say it — I 
 swear it — where's the prayer-book?" and he ran 
 franticly to a shelf beside the dresser on which the 
 prayer-book lay, — " ay ! by him that made me I'll 
 sware it — by this sacred book, while I live, Mike 
 Reillaghan, the husband of Peggy Gartland you'll 
 never be, if I should swing for it ! Now you all seen 
 I kissed the book !" As he spoke, he tossed it back 
 upon the shelf. 
 
 The mirth that had prevailed in the family was 
 immediately hushed, and a dead silence ensued; 
 Frank sat down, but instantly rose again, and flung 
 the chair from him with such violence that it was 
 crashed to pieces; he muttered oaths and cursesj 
 ground his teeth, and betrayed all the symptoms of 
 jealousy, hatred, and disappointment. 
 
 " Frank, abouchal," said Barny, commencing to 
 address him in a conciliatory tone — " Frank, man 
 
 alive" 
 
 " Hould your tongue, I say, you blind vagabone, or 
 by the night above us, I'll break your fiddle over your 
 skull, if you dar to say another word. What I swore 
 I'll do, an' let no one crass me." 
 
 He was a powerful young man, and such was his 
 temper, and so weU was it understood, that not one of 
 the family durst venture a word of remonstrance. 
 
 The father rose, went to the door, and returned. 
 *' Barny," said he, " you must contint yourself where" 
 you are for this night. It's snowin' heavily, so you had 
 betther sleep wid Rody ; I see a Hght in the barn, I 
 suppose he's after bringin' in his bed an' makin' it."
 
 THE MIDNIGHT ilASS. 57 
 
 *' rn do any thing," replied the poor fiddler, now 
 apprehensive of violence from the outrageous temper 
 of young Frank. 
 
 " Well, thin," added the good man, " let us all go 
 to bed, in the name of God. Micaul, bring Barny to 
 the barn, and see that he's comfortable." 
 
 This was complied with, and the family quietly and 
 timidly retired to rest, leaving the violent young man 
 storming and digesting his passion, behind them. 
 
 Mass on Christmas morning was then, as now, 
 performed at day-break, and again the Roman Catho- 
 lic inhabitants of the parish were up betimes to attend 
 it. Frank M'Kenna's family were assembled, not- 
 withstanding their short sleep, at an early breakfast ; 
 but their meal, in consequence of the unpleasant sen- 
 sation produced by the outrage of their son, was less 
 cheerful than it would otherwise have been. Perhaps, 
 too, the gloom which hung over them, was increased 
 by the snow that had fallen the night before, and 
 by the wintry character of the day, which was such as 
 to mar much of their expected enjoyment. There was 
 no allusion made to their son's violence over night ; 
 neither did he himself appear to be in any degree 
 affected by it. When breakfayt was over, they pre- 
 pared to attend mass, and, what was unusual, young 
 Frank was the first to set out for the chapel. 
 
 " Maybe," said the father, after he was gone — 
 " maybe that fool of a boy is sarry for his behaviour. 
 It's many a day since I knew him to go to mass of 
 his own accord. It's a good sign, any way." 
 
 *' Musha," inquired his mother, " what could hap- 
 pen atween him an' that civil boy, Mike Reillaghan?"
 
 58 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 " The sorra one o' me knows," replied his father; 
 " an' now that I think of it, sure enough there was 
 none o' them at the dance last night, although I sent 
 himself down for them. Micaul," he added, address- 
 ing the other son, " will you put an your big coat, 
 slip down to Reillaghan's, an' bring me word what 
 came atween them at all; an' tell Owen himself the 
 thruth, that this boy's brakin' our hearts by his 
 coorses." 
 
 Micaul, who, although he knew the cause of the 
 enmity between these rivals, was ignorant of that 
 which occasioned his brother's rash oath, also felt 
 anxious to ascertain the circumstances of the last 
 quarrel. For this purpose, as well as in obedience to 
 his father's wishes, he proceeded to Reillaghan's, and 
 arrived just as Darby More and young Mike had set 
 out for mass. 
 
 " What," said the mendicant, " can be bringin* 
 Micaul down, 1 wondher ? somethin' about that slip 
 o' grace, his brother." 
 
 " I suppose so," said Mike; "an' I wish the same 
 slip was as dacent an' inoffensive as he is. I don't 
 know a boy livin' I'd go farther for nor the same 
 Micaul. H«'s a credit to the family as much as the 
 other's a stain upon them." 
 
 " Well, any how, you war Frank's match, an' 
 more, last night. How bitther he was bint on bringin' 
 Peggy aff, when he an' his set waited till they seen 
 the country clear, an' thought the family asleep ! 
 Had you man for man, Mike?" 
 
 " Ay, about that; an' we set so snug in Peggy's 
 that you'd hear a pin fallin'. A hard tug, too, there
 
 TffE MIDNIGHT MASS. 59 
 
 was in the beginnin' ; but whin they found that we 
 had a strong back, they made away, an' we gave them 
 purshute from about the house." 
 
 " You may thank me, any how, for havin' her to 
 the good; but I knew by my dhrame, wid the help o' 
 God, that there was somethin' to happen; by the 
 same a token, that your mother's an the high horse 
 about that dhrame. I'm to tell it to her, wid the sinse 
 of it, in the evenin', when the day's past, an' all of us 
 in comfort." 
 
 '^ What was it, Darby ? sure you may let me hear 
 it." 
 
 " Maybe I will in the evenin'. It was about you 
 an' Peggy, the darlin'. But how will you manage in 
 regard of brakin' the oath, an' sthrikin' a brother?" 
 
 " Why, that I couldn't get over it, whin he sthruck 
 me first: sure he's worse off. I'll lave it to the Dile- 
 gates, an' whatever judgment they give out, I'll take 
 wid it." 
 
 " Well," observed Darby, sarcastically, " it made 
 him do one good turn, any way." 
 
 " What was that, Darby ? for good turns are but 
 scarce w^id him." 
 
 " Why it made him hear mass to-day," replied* 
 the mendicant ; " an' that's what he hadn't the grace 
 to do this many a year. It's away in the mountains 
 wid his gun he'd be, thracin', an' a fine day it is for 
 it — only this business prevints him. Now, Mike," 
 observed Darby, " as we're comin' out upon the bo- 
 reen, I'll fall back, an' do you go an : I have part of 
 my padareens to say, before I get to the chapel, wid a 
 blessin'; an' we had as good not be seen together."
 
 60 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. . 
 
 The mendicant, as he spoke, pulled out a long pair 
 of beads, on which he commenced his prayers, occa- 
 sionally accosting an acquaintance with a gho mhany: 
 Deah ghud* and sometimes taking a part in the con- 
 versation for a minute or two, after which he resumed 
 the prayers as before. 
 
 The day was now brightening up, although tlie 
 earlier part of the morning had threatened severe 
 weather. Multitudes were flocking to the chapel ; the 
 men well secured in frieze great coats, in addition to 
 which, many of them had their legs bound with straw- 
 ropes, and others with leggings made of old hats cut 
 up for the purpose. The women were secured with 
 cloaks, the hoods of which were tied with kerchiefs of 
 some showy colour, over their bonnets or their caps, 
 which, together with their elbows projecting behind, 
 for the purpose of preventing their dress from being 
 dabbled in the snow, gave them a marked and most 
 picturesque appearance. 
 
 Reillaghan and M'Kenna both reached the chapel 
 a considerable time before the arrival of the priest; 
 and as a kind of Whiteboy committee was to sit for 
 the purpose of investigating their conduct in holding 
 out so dangerous an example as they did, by striking 
 each other, contrary to their oaths as brothers under 
 the same system, they accordingly were occupied each 
 in collecting his friends, and conciliating those whom 
 they supposed to be hostile to them on the opposite 
 party. • It had been previously arranged that this com- 
 mittee should hold a court of inquiry, and that, pro- 
 vided they could not agree, the matter was to be 
 * God save you!
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 61 
 
 referred to two hedge-schoolmasters, who should act 
 as umpires ; but if it happened that the latter could 
 not decide it, there was no other tribunal appointed to 
 which a final appeal could be made. 
 
 According to these regulations, a court was opened 
 in a shebeen-house that stood somewhat distant from 
 the road. Twelve young fellows seated themselves on 
 each side of a deal table, with one of the umpires at 
 each end of it, and a bottle of whiskey in the middle. 
 In a higher sphere of life it is usual to refer such 
 questionable conduct as occurs in duelling, to the ar- 
 bitration of those who are known to be qualified by 
 experience in the duello. On this occasion the prac- 
 tice was not departed from, those who had been thus 
 selected as the Committee, being the most notoriously 
 pugnacious " boys" in the whole parish. 
 
 " Now, boys," said one of the schoolmasters, *' let 
 us proceed to operations wid proper spirit," and he 
 filled a glass of whiskey as he spoke. " Here's all 
 your healths, and next, pace and unanimity to us ! 
 Call in the culprits." 
 
 Both were accordingly admitted, and the first 
 speaker resumed — " Now, in the second place, I'll 
 read yees that part o' the oath which binds us all un- 
 der the obligation of not strikin' oiie another — hem ! 
 hem ! — ' No brother is to strike another, knowing him 
 to be such; he's to strike him — hem! — neither in 
 fair nor market, at home nor abroad, neither in public 
 nor in private, neither on Sunday nor week-day, pre- 
 sent or absent, nor — ' 
 
 " I condimn that," observed the other master, — 
 *' I condimn it, as bein' too latitudinarian in principle,
 
 6B T-HE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 an' containing a paradogma ; besides it's bad gram- 
 mar." 
 
 " You're rather airly in the market wid your bad 
 grammar," replied the other; " I'll grant you the 
 paradogma, but I'll stand up for the grammar of U 
 while I'm able to stand up for any thing." 
 
 *' Faith, an' if you rise to stand up for that," ren 
 plied his friend, " and doesn't choose to sit down ti 
 you prove it to be good grammar, you'll be a standii 
 joke all your life." 
 
 " I bleeve it's purty conspicuous in the parish, ihi 
 I have often, in our disputations about grammar, lef 
 you widout a leg to stand upon at all," replied the 
 other. 
 
 This sally was well received, but his opponent was 
 determined to push home the argument at once. 
 
 *' I would be glad to know," he inquired, " by 
 what beautiful invintion a man could contrive to 
 strike another in his absence ? Have you good gram- 
 mar for that ?" 
 
 " And did you never hear of detraction?" replied 
 his opponent ; '* that is, a man who's in the habit of 
 spaking falsehoods of his friends whin their backs are 
 turned — that is to say, whin they are absent. Now, 
 sure, if a man's absent whin his back's turned, mayn't 
 any man whose back's turned, be said to be absent — 
 ergo, to strike a man behind his back is to strike him 
 whin he's absent. Does that confound you ? wherc's 
 your logic and grammar to meet proper ratiocination 
 like what I'm displaying^" 
 
 "Faith," replied the other, " you may have liad 
 ilogic and grammar, but I'll take my oath it was in
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 63 
 
 your yoanger years, for both have been absent ever 
 since I knew you : they turned their hacks upon you 
 man alive; for they dfdn't Uke, you see, to be keepin' 
 bad company — ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 *' Why, you poor cratur," said his antagonist, " if 
 I choose to let myself out, I'd make a hare of you in 
 no time entirely." 
 
 " And an ass of yourself," retorted the other : " but 
 you may save yourself the throuble in regard of the 
 last, for your frinds know you to be an ass ever since 
 they remimber you. You have them here, man alive, 
 the auricles," and he pointed to his ears. 
 
 " Hut ! get out wid you, you poor Jamaica-headed 
 castigator you ; sure you never had more nor a thim- 
 ble-full o' sinse on any subject." 
 
 " Faith, an' the thimble that measured yours w^as a 
 tailor's, one widout a bottom in it, an' good measure 
 you got, you miserable flagellator ! what are you but a 
 nux vomica 1 A fit o' the ague's a thrifle compared 
 to your asinity." 
 
 The " boys" were delighted at this encounter, and 
 utterly forgetful of the pacific occasion on which they 
 had assembled, began to pit them against each other 
 with great glee. 
 
 *' That's a liard hit, Misther Costigan ; but you 
 won't let it pass, any how." 
 
 " The ague an' you are ould acquaintances," re- 
 torted Costigan ; " whenever a skrimmage takes place, 
 you're sure to resave a visit from it." 
 • *' Why, I'm not such a haro as yourself," replied 
 liis rival, " nor such a great hand at batin' the abseni 
 —ha, ha, ha!"
 
 54 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 " Bravo, Misther Connell — that's a leveller; come, 
 Misther Costigan, bedad if you don't ans^v'er that 
 you're bate." 
 
 *' By this and by that, man alive, if you don'1 
 mend your manners, maybe I'd make it betther for 
 you to be absent also. You'll only put me to the 
 throuble of mendin' them for you." 
 
 " Mend my manners !" exclaimed his opponent, 
 with a bitter sneer, — " you to mend them ! out wid 
 your budget and your hammer, then ; you're the very 
 tinker of good manners — bekase for one dacency you'd 
 mend, you'd spoil twenty." 
 
 " I'm able to hammer you at all events, or, for that 
 matther, any one of your illiterate gineration. Sure 
 it's well known that you can't tache Voshther (Vos- 
 ter) widout the Kay." 
 
 " Hould there, if you plase," exclaimed one of his 
 opponent's relations; *' don't lug in his family ; thafs 
 known to be somewhat afore your own, I bleeve. 
 There's no Informers among them, Misther Costigan : 
 keep at home, m.asther, if you plase." 
 
 " At home ! that's more than some o' your own 
 deaveens* have been able to do," rejoined Costigan, 
 alluding to one of the young fellow's acquaintances 
 who had been transported. 
 
 "Do you mane to put an affiont upon me ?" said 
 the other. 
 
 " Since the harrhad \ fits you, wear it," rephed 
 Costigan. 
 
 " Very right, masther, make him a present of it,** 
 
 * Distant relations. f Cap.
 
 THE MIDiVIGHT MASS. 65 
 
 exclaimed one of Costigan's distant relations; "he 
 desarves that, an' more if he'd get it." 
 
 *' Do I ?" said the other; " an' what have you to 
 say on the head of it, Bartle?" 
 
 " Why, not much," answered Bartle, " only that 
 you ought to've left it betune them ; an' that /'// 
 back Misther Costigan agin any rascal that 'ud say 
 there was ever a dhrop of his blood in an Informer's 
 veins." 
 
 " / say it for one," replied the other. 
 
 " And I, for another," said Connell; " an' what's 
 worse, I'll hould a wager, that if he was searched this 
 minute, you'd find a Kay to Gough in his pocket, 
 although he throws Voshther in my teeth : the dunce 
 never goes widout one. Sure he's not able to set a 
 dacent copy, or headline, or to make a dacent hook, 
 nor a hanger, nor a down stroke, and was a poor 
 scholar, too !" 
 
 " I'll give you a down stroke in the mane time, 
 you ignoramus," said the pedagogue, throwing him- 
 self to the end of the table at which his enemy sat, 
 and laying him along the floor by a single blow. 
 
 He was instantly attacked by the friend of the 
 prostrate academician, who was in his turn attacked 
 by the friend of Costigan. The adherents of the re- 
 spective teachers were immediately rushing to a gene- 
 ral engagement, when the door opened, and Darby 
 More made his appearance. 
 
 " Asy ! — stop wid yees ! — hould back, ye disgrace- 
 ful villains !" exclaimed the mendicant, in a thunder- 
 ing voice; " be asy, I say. Saints in glory, is this 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 the way you're settlin' the dispute between the two 
 dacent young men, that's sorry, both o' them, I'll go 
 bail, for what they done. Sit down, every one o' yees, 
 or, by the blessed ordhers I wear about me, I'll re- 
 port yees to Father Hoolaghan, an' have yees read out 
 from the althar, or sint to Lough Derg ! Sit down, I 
 say I" 
 
 As he spoke, he extended his huge cant between 
 the hostile parties, and thrust them one by one to 
 their seats with such muscular energy, that he had 
 them sitting before another blow could be given. 
 
 " Saints in glory '." he exclaimed again, " isn't this 
 blessed doins an the sacred day that's in it ! that a 
 poor helpless ould man like me can't come to get 
 somethin' to take away this misfortunit touch o' con- 
 figuration that I'm afflicted wid in cowld weather — 
 that I can't take a little sup of the only thing that 
 cures me — widout your ructions and battles 1 You 
 came here to make pace between two dacent men's 
 childher, an' you're as bad, if not worse, yourselves ! 
 — Oh, wurrah dheelish, what's this ! I'm in down- 
 right agony! Oh, murdher sheeryl Has none o' 
 yees a hand to thry if there's e'er a dhrop of relief in 
 that bottle? or am I to die all out, in the face o' the 
 world, for want of a sup o' somethin' to warm me ?" 
 
 " Darby, thry the horn," said M'Kenna. 
 
 " Here, Darby," said one of them, " dhrink this 
 off, an' my life for yours, it'll warm you to the 
 marrow!" 
 
 '' Och, musha, but I wanted it badly," replied 
 Darby, swallowing it at once; " it's the only thing
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 67 
 
 dees me good when I'm this way. Deah Grasthias !'* 
 Oxis Doxis Glorioxis. Amin I" 
 
 *' 1 think," said M'Kenna, " that what's in the 
 horn's far afore it," 
 
 " Oh, thin, you thoughtless crathur, if you knew 
 somethin' I hard about you a while ago, you'd think 
 otherwise. But, indeed, it's thrue for you ; I'm sure 
 I'd be sarry to compare what's in zY, to any thing o' 
 the kind I tuck. Dealt Grasthias! Throth, Fm 
 asier now a great dale nor I was." 
 
 " Will you take another sup, Darby ?" inquired 
 the young fellow in whose hands the bottle was now 
 nearly empty ; " there's jist about another glass." 
 
 " Indeed an' I will, a villish ;t an' sure you'll 
 have my blessin' for it, an' barrin' the priest's o^\^l, 
 you couldn't have a more luclder one, blessed be God 
 for it — sure thaVs well known. In throth, they never 
 came to ill that had it, an' never did good that got 
 my curse I Houp'.do you hear how that rises the 
 wind off o' my stomach ? Houp ! — Deah Grasthias 
 for that I" 
 
 " How did you lam all the prayers an' charms you 
 have, Darby?" inquired the bottle-holder. 
 
 " It would take me too long to tell you that, a vil- 
 lish ! But, childher, now that you're all together, 
 make it up wid one another. Aren't you all frinds 
 an' brothers, sicorn brothers, an why would you be 
 nghtin' -among other ? Misther Costigan, give me your 
 hand ; sure I heard a thrifle o' what you \Yere sayiia^* 
 while I was suckin' my dudeen ^jrllie te/MdOtttT^^ 
 
 * God be praised. ^. ' V^ ^ .^^ ^< 
 
 f My sweet ! — an epithet ft endearment. *'-^'"^ 
 
 ulBRARY 
 
 My sweet ! — an epithet ft endearment. 
 
 CLv ^
 
 68 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Come here, Misther Connell. Now, before the saints 
 in glory, I lay my bitther curse an liim that refuses to 
 shake hands wid his inimy. There now — I'm proud 
 to see it Mike, avourneen, come here — Frank 
 M'Kenna, gutsho* walk over here; my bitther hearts 
 curse upon both of yees, if you don't make up all 
 quarrels this rninnit ! Are you willin', Mike Reil- 
 laghan?" 
 
 " I have no objection in life," replied Mike, *' if 
 he'll say that Peggy Gartland won't be put to any 
 more throuble through his manes." 
 
 " There's my hand, Mike," said Frank, " that I 
 forget an' forgive all that's past ; an' in regard o' 
 Peggy Gartland, why, as she's so dark agin me, I 
 lave her to you for good."t 
 
 " Well ! see what it is to have the good intintions ! 
 ■ — to be makin' pace an' frindship atween inimies ! 
 That's all I think about, an' nothin' gives me greater 
 
 pleas Saints o' glory ! — Vv^hat's this! — oh wurra ' 
 
 — that thief of a — wurrah dheelish ! — that touch o' 
 configuration 's comin' back agin ! — oh, thin, but it's 
 hard to get it undher! — oh !" — 
 
 " Pm sarry for it, Darby," replied he who held the 
 now empty bottle; " for the whiskey's out." 
 
 " Throth, an' Pm sarry myself, for nothin' else 
 does me good ; an' Father Hoolaghan says nothin' 
 can keep it down, barrin' the sup o' whiskey. It's 
 best burnt, wid a little bit o' butther an it; but I 
 can't get that always, it overtakes me so suddenly. 
 Glory be to God!" ' 
 
 *' Well," said M'Kenna, " as Mike an' myself was 
 * Come hither. f lu future — altogether.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 69 
 
 the manes of bringin' us together, why, if he joins me, 
 we'll have another bottle." 
 
 ". Throth, an' it's fair an* aacent, an' he must do 
 it; by the same a token, that I'll not lave the house 
 till it's dhrunk, for there's no thrustin' yees together, 
 you're so hot-headed an' ready to rise the hand," said 
 Darby. 
 
 M'Kenna and Mike, having been reconciled, ap- 
 peared in a short time warmer friends than ever. 
 While the last bottle went round, those who had be- 
 fore been on the point of engaging in personal conflict, 
 now laughed at their own foibles, and expressed the 
 kindness and good-will which they felt for each other 
 at heart. 
 
 " Now," said the mendicant, " go all of you to 
 mass, an' as soon as you can, to confission, for it's 
 not good to have the broken oath an' the sin of it over 
 one. Confiss it, an' have your consciences light: sure 
 it's a happiness that you can have the guilt taken off 
 o' yees, childher." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Darby," they replied ; " an' we'll 
 be thinkin' of your advice." 
 
 " Ay do, childher; an' there's Father Hoolaghan 
 comiii' down the road, so, in the name o' Goodness, 
 we haven't a minnit to lose.'** 
 
 They all left the shebeen-house as he spoke except 
 Frank and himself, who remained until they had gone 
 out of hearing. 
 
 *' Darby," said he, " I want you to come up to our 
 house in the mornin', an' bring along wid you the 
 things that you stamp the crass upon the skin wid : 
 I'm goin' to get the crucifix put upon me. But oa
 
 10 THE MIDNIGHT MASS, 
 
 the paril o' your life, don't brathe a word of it td 
 mortual." 
 
 *'^ God enable you, avick! it's a good intintion. I 
 will indeed be up wid you — airly, too, wid a blessin'. 
 It is that, indeed — a good intintion,. sure enough." 
 
 The parish chapel was about one hundred perches 
 from the shebeen-house in which the *' boys" had 
 assembled ; the latter were proceeding there in a body 
 when Frank overtook them. 
 
 '' Mike," said he aside to Reillaghan, " we'll have 
 time enough — walk back a bit; I'll tell you what I'm 
 thinkin', you never seen in your life a finer day for 
 thracin'; what 'ud you say if we give the boys the 
 slip, never heed mass, an' set off to the moun- 
 tains?" 
 
 " Won't we have time enough afther mass ?" said 
 Reillaghan. 
 
 ** Why, man, sure you did hear mass once to-day- 
 Weren't you at it last night ? No, indeed, we won't 
 be time enough afther it; for this bein' Chris'mas 
 day, we must be home at dinner time ; you know it's 
 not lucky to be from the family upon set days. Hang- 
 an-ounty, come ; we'll have fine sport ! I have cock- 
 sticks^ enough. The best part of the day '11 be gone 
 if we wait for mass. Come, an' let us start." 
 
 " Well, well," replied Reillaghan, *' the sarra hair 
 I care ; so let us go. I'd like myself to have a rap at 
 the hares in the Black Hills, sure enough ; but as it 
 'ud be remarkable for us to be seen lavin' mass, why 
 
 * A cock-stick was so called from being used on Cock-Mon- 
 day, to throw at a cock tied to a stake. It was about the length 
 of a common stick, but much heavier and thicker at one end.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 71 
 
 let US crass the field here, an' get out upon the road 
 above the bridge." 
 
 To this his companion assented, and they both 
 proceeded at a brisk pace, each apparently anxious for 
 the sport, and resolved to exhibit such a IVank cor- 
 diality of manner as might convince the other that all 
 their past enmity was forgotten and forgiven. 
 
 Their, direct path to the mountains lay by ^PKen- 
 iia's house, where it was necessary they should call, 
 in order to furnish themselves with cock-sticks, and 
 to bring dogs which young Frank kept for the pur- 
 pose. The inmates of the family were at mass, with 
 the exception of Frank's mother, and Rody, the ser- 
 vant man, whom they found sitting on his own bed in 
 the barn, engaged at cards, the right hand against the 
 left. 
 
 *' Well, Rody," said Frank, " who's winnin'?" 
 
 " The left entirely," replied his companion : *' the 
 divil a game at all the right's gettin', whatever's the 
 rason of it, an' I'm always turnin' up black. I 
 hope none . of my frinds or acquaintances will die 
 soon." 
 
 " Throw them aside — quit of them," said Frank, 
 " give them to me, I'll put them past; an' do you 
 bring us out the gun. I've the powdher an' shot 
 here ; we may as well bring her, an' have a slap at 
 
 them. One o' the officers in the barracks of 
 
 keeps me in powdher an' shot, besides givin' me an 
 odd crown, an' I keep him in game." 
 
 " Why, thin, boys," observed Rody, " what's the 
 manin' o' this? — two o' the biggest inimies in Europe
 
 *72 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 last night an' this mornin', an' now as great as two 
 thieves ! Hc«v does that come ?" 
 
 '* Very asy, Rody," replied Reillaghan; " we made 
 up the quarrel, shuck hands, an's good frinds as 
 ever.'* 
 
 " Bedad, that bates cock-fightin'," said Rody, as 
 he went to bring in the gun. 
 
 In the mean time, Frank, with the cards in his 
 hand, went to the eve of the barn, thrust them up 
 under the thatch, and took out of the same nook a 
 flask of whiskey. 
 
 " We'll want this," said he, putting it to his lips, 
 and gulping down a portion. " Come, Mike, be 
 tastin' ; an' aftherwards put this in your pocket." 
 
 Mike followed his example, and was corking the 
 flask when Rody returned with the gim. 
 
 " She's charged," said Frank; " but we'd betther 
 put in fresh primin', for fraid of her hangin' fire." 
 
 He then primed the gun, and handed it to Reil- 
 laghan : " Do you keep the gun, Mike," he added, 
 " an' I'll keep the cock-sticks. Rody, I'll bet you a 
 shillin' I kill more wid the cock-stick, nor he will wid 
 the gun. Will you take me up ?" 
 
 *' I know a safer thrick," replied Rody : " you're 
 a dead aim wid the cock-stick, sure enough, an' a 
 deader wid the gim, too : catch me at it." 
 
 " You show some sinse, for a wondher," observed 
 Frank, as he and his companion left the barn, and 
 turned towards the mountains, which rose frowning 
 behind the house. 
 
 Rody stood looking after them until they wound up
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 73 
 
 slowly out of sight among the hills ; he then shook 
 his head two or three times, and exclaimed, " By dad, 
 there's somethin' in this, if one could make out what 
 it is. I know Frank." 
 
 Christmas-day passed among the peasantry, as it 
 usually passes in Ireland. Friends met before dinner 
 in their own, in their neighbours', in shebeen, or in 
 public-houses, where they drank, sang, or fought, ac- 
 cording to their natural dispositions, or the quantity 
 of liquor they had taken. The festivity of the day 
 might be known by the unusual reek of smoke that 
 danced from each chimney, by the number of persons 
 who crowded the roads, by their bran-new dresses — 
 for if a young man or country girl can afford a dress 
 at all, they provide it for Christmas, — and by the 
 striking appearance of those who, having drunk a 
 little too much, were staggering home in the purest 
 happiness, singing, stopping their friends, shaking 
 hands with them, or kissing them, without any regard 
 to sex. Many a time might be seen two Irishmen, 
 who had got drunk together, leaving a fair or market, 
 their arms about each other's necks, from whence they 
 only removed them to kiss and hug one another the 
 more lovingly. Notwithstanding this, there is nothing 
 more probable than that these identical two will enjoy 
 the luxury of a mutual battle, by w ay of episode, and 
 again proceed on their way, kissing and hugging as if 
 nothing had happened to interrupt their friendship. 
 All the usual effects of jollity and violence, fun and 
 fighting, love and liquor, were, of course, to be seen, 
 felt, heard, and understood on this day, in a manner 
 much more remarkable than on common occasions;
 
 54 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 for it may be observed, that the national festivals of 
 the Irish bring out their strongest points of character 
 with peculiar distinctness. 
 
 The family of Frank M'Kenna were sitting down 
 to their Christmas dinner ; the good man had besought 
 a blessing upon the comfortable and abundant fare of 
 which they were about to partake, and nothing was 
 amiss, save the absence of their younger son. 
 
 " Musha, where on earth can this boy be stayin'?" 
 said the father : "I'm sure this, a])0ve all days in the 
 year, is one he oughtn't to be from home an." 
 
 The mother was about to inform him of the son's 
 having gone to the mountains, when the latter returned, 
 breathless, pale, and horror-struck. 
 
 Rody eyed him keenly, and laid down the bit he 
 was conveying to his mouth. 
 
 "Heavens above us!" exclaimed his mother, "what 
 ails you?" 
 
 He only replied by dashing his hat upon the ground, 
 and exclaiming, " Up wid yees ! — up wid yees ! — quit 
 your dinners! Oh, Rody! what'll be done? Go 
 down to Owen Reillaghan's — go 'way— go down — 
 an' tell thim — oh, vick-na-hoie! but this was the un- 
 fortunate day to us all ! Mike Reillaghan is shot wid 
 my gun; she went off in his hand goin' over a snow 
 WTcath, an' he's lyin' dead in the mountains !" 
 
 The screams and the wailing which immediately 
 rose in the family were dreadful. Mrs. M'Kenna 
 almost fainted ; and the fiither, after many struggles 
 to maintain his firmness, burst into the bitter tears of 
 disconsolation and affliction. Rody was calmer, but 
 turned his eyes from one to another with a look of
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 75 
 
 deep compassion, and again eyed Frank keenly and 
 suspiciously. 
 
 Frank's eye caught his, and the glance which had 
 surveyed hinri with such scrutiny did not escape his 
 observation. " Rody," said he, *' do you go an' brake 
 it to the Reillaghans : you're the best to do it ; for, 
 when we were settin' out, you saw that he carried the 
 gun, an' not ?np." 
 
 " Thnie for you," said Rody; " 1 saw that, Frank, 
 and can swear to it; but that's all I did see. I know 
 nothing of what happened in the mountains." 
 
 " Damnho slieery orth ! * What do you mane you 
 villain?" exclaimed Frank, seizing the tongs, and 
 attempting to strike him : " do you dar to suspect 
 that I had any hand in it I" 
 
 " Wtirrah dheelish,-\ Frank," screamed the sisters, 
 " are you goin' to murdher Rody ?" 
 
 " MurdlicTy'* he shouted, in a paroxysm of fury, 
 " why the curse o' God upon you all, what puts mur- 
 dher into your heads? Is it my own family that's 
 the first to charge me wid it?" 
 
 '* Why, there's no one chargin' you wid it," replied 
 Rody ; " not one, whatever makes you take it to 
 yourself." 
 
 *' An' what did you look at me for, thin, the way 
 you did? What did you look at me for, I say?" 
 
 " Is it any wondher," replied the servant, coolly, 
 " v.hen you had sich a dreadful story to tell?" 
 
 *' Go off," replied Frank, now hoarse with passion 
 — " go off, an' tell the Reillaghans what happened ; 
 but, by all the books that ever was opened or shut, if 
 • Eternal perdition on you I f Sweet Virgin!
 
 76 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 you breathe a word about m\irdh — about — if you do, 
 you villain, I'll be the death o' you!" ' 
 
 When Rody was gone on this melancholy errand, 
 old M'Kenna first put the tongs, and every thing he 
 feared might be used as a weapon by his frantic son, 
 out of his reach; he then took down the book on 
 which he had the night before sworn so rash and 
 mysterious an oath, and desired the son to look 
 upon it. 
 
 " Frank," said he, solemnly, *' you swore on that 
 blessed book last night, that Mike Reillaghan never 
 would be the husband of Peggy Gartland — He's a 
 corpse to day! Yes," he continued, *' the good, the 
 
 honest, the industhrious boy is" his sobs became 
 
 so loud and thick that he appeared almost suffocated. 
 ** Oh," said he, ** may God pity us ! As I hope to 
 meet my blessed Saviour, who was born on this day, 
 I would rather you wor the corpse, an' not Mike 
 Reillaghan I" 
 
 " I don't doubt that," said the son, fiercely; " you 
 never showed me much grahy^ sure enough." 
 
 "Did you ever desarve it?" replied the father. 
 " Heaven above me knows it was too much kindness 
 was showed you. When you ought to have been well 
 corrected, you got your will an' your way, an' now see 
 the upshot." 
 
 " Well," said the son, " it's the last day ever I'll 
 stay in the family ; thrate me as bad as you plase. 
 I'll take the king's bounty, an' list, if I live to see to- 
 morrow.'* 
 
 " Oh, thin, in the name o' Goodness do so," said 
 * Afiection.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 77 
 
 the father; " an' so far from previntin' you, we'll 
 bless you when you're gone, for goin'." 
 
 " Arrah, Frank, aroon," said Mrs. M'Kenna, who 
 was now recovered, " maybe, afther all, it was only 
 an accident: sure we often hard of sich things. Don't 
 you remimber Squire Elliott's son, that shot himself 
 by accident, out fowlin' ? Frank, can you clear your- 
 self afore us ?" 
 
 " Ah, Alley ! Alley !" exclaimed the father, wiping 
 away his tears, " don't you remimber his oath, last 
 night ?" 
 
 " What oath?" inquired the son, with an air of 
 surprise — " What oath, last night? I know I was 
 dhrunk last night, but I remimber nothing about an 
 oath." 
 
 " Do you deny it, you hardened boy?" 
 "I do deny it; an' I'm 7iot a hardened boy. What 
 do you all mane ? do yees want to dhrive me maa ? 
 I know nothin' about any oath last night;" replied 
 the son in a loud voice. 
 
 The grief of the mother and daughters was loud 
 during the pauses of the conversation. Micaul, the 
 eldest son, sat beside his father in tears. 
 
 " Frank," said he, " many an advice I gave you 
 between ourselves, and you know how you tuck them. 
 When you'd stale the oats, an* the meal, and the 
 phayties, an' hay, at nighc, to have money for your 
 cards an' dhrinkin', I kept it back, an' said nothin' 
 about it, I wish I hadn't done so, for it wasn't for 
 your good; but it was my desire to have as much pace 
 and quietness as possible." 
 
 ** Frank," said the father, eying iiim solemnly,
 
 13 THE MIDNIGHT :MASS, 
 
 " it's vossible Uiat you do forget the oath you made 
 last night, for you war in liquor : 1 would give the 
 wide world that it was thrue. Can you now, in the 
 presence of Gad, clear yourself of havin' act or part 
 in the death of Mike Reillaghan?' 
 
 " What 'ud ail me," said the son, " if I liked?" 
 
 " Will you do it now for our satisfaction, an' take 
 a load of misery off of our hearts ? It's the laste you 
 may do, if you can do it. In the presence of the 
 great God, will you clear yourself now?" 
 
 " I suppose," said the son, " I'll have to clear my- 
 self to-morrow ; an' there's no use in my doin' it more 
 than wanst. When the time comes, I'll do it." 
 
 The father put his hands on his eyes, and groaned 
 aloud : so deep w^as his affliction, that the tears trickled 
 through his fingers during this fresh burst of sorrow. 
 The son's refusal to satisfy them renewed the grief of 
 all, as well as of the father: it rose again, louder than 
 before, whilst young Frank sat opposite the door, 
 silent and sullen. 
 
 It was now dark, but the night was calm and agree- 
 able. M'Kenna's family felt the keen affliction which 
 we have endeavoured to describe; the dinner was put 
 hastily aside, and the festive spirit peculiar to this 
 night became changed into one of gloom and sorrow. 
 In this state they sat, when the voice of grief was 
 heard loud in the distance; the strong cry of men, 
 broken and abrupt, mingled with the shrieking wail 
 of female lamentation. 
 
 The M'Kennas started, and Frank's countenance 
 assumed an expression which it would be difficult to 
 describe. There was, joined to his extreme paleness,
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 79 
 
 a restless, apprehensive, and determined look; each 
 trait apparently struggling for the ascendency in his 
 character, and attempting to stamp his countenance 
 with its own expression. 
 
 " Do you hear that V said his father. " Oh, 
 musha, Father of heaven, look down an' support that 
 family this night ! Frank, if you take my advice, 
 you'll lave their sight ; for surely if they brained you 
 on the spot, who could blame them ?" 
 
 " Why ought I lave their sight?" replied Frank. 
 *' I tell you all that I had no hand in his death. The 
 gun went off by accident as he was crassin' a wreath 
 o' snow. I was afore him, and when I heard the re- 
 port, an' turned round, there he lay, shot an' bleedin'. 
 I thought it mightn't signify, but on lookin' at him 
 closely, I found him quite dead. I then ran home, 
 never touchin' the gun at all, till his family an' the 
 neighbours 'ud see him. Surely, it's no wondher I'd 
 be distracted in my mind; but that's no rason you 
 should all open upon me, as if / had murdhered the 
 boy!" 
 
 " Well," said the father, " I'm glad to hear you 
 say even that much. I hope it may be betther wid 
 you than we all think; an' oh I grant it, sweet Mother 
 o' Heaven, this day! Now carry yourself quietly 
 afore tlie people. If they abuse you, don't fly into 
 a passion, but make allowance for their grief and 
 miser)'." 
 
 In the mean time, the tumult was deepening as it 
 approached M*Kenna's house. The report had al- 
 most instantly spread through the village in which 
 Reillaghan lived ; and the loud cries of his ftither and
 
 80 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 
 brothers, who, in the wildness of their despair, con 
 tinually called upon his name, had been heard at the' 
 houses which lay scattered over the neighbourhood. 
 Their inmates, on listening to such unusual sounds, 
 sought the direction from which they proceeded, for it 
 was quite evident that some terrible calamity had be- 
 fallen the Reillaghans, in consequence of the son's 
 name being borne on the blasts of night with such 
 loud and overwhelming tones of grief and anguish. 
 The assembly, on reaching M'Kenna's, might, there- 
 fore, be numbered at thirty, including the females of 
 Reillaghan's immediate family, who had been strung 
 by the energy of despair to a capability of bearing any 
 fatigue, or rather to an utter insensibility of all bodily 
 suffering. 
 
 We must leave the scene which ensued to the 
 reader's imagination, merely observing, that as neither 
 the oath which young Frank had taken the preceding 
 night, nor indeed the peculiar bitterness of his enmity 
 towards the deceased, was known by the Reillaghans, 
 they did not, therefore, discredit the account of his 
 death which they had heard. 
 
 Their grief was exclamatory and full of horror: 
 consisting of prolonged shrieks on the part of the 
 women, and frantic bowlings on that of the men. 
 The only words they uttered were his name, with 
 epithets and ejaculations. Oh a Vichaul dheelish — 
 a Vichaul dheelish — a bouchal bane madiree — ivuil 
 thu marra — wuil thu niarra? "Oh, Michael, the 
 beloved — Michael, the beloved — fair boy of our heart 
 — are you dead? — are you dead?" 
 
 Prom M'Kenna's the crowd, at the head of which
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MAS-S. 81 
 
 was Darby More, proceeded towards the mountains, 
 many of them bearing torches, such as had been used 
 on their way to the Midnight Mass. The moon had 
 disappeared, the darkness was deepening, aud the sky 
 H'as overhung with black heavy clouds, that gave a 
 stormy character to scener}', in itself remarkably wild 
 and gloomy. 
 
 Young M'Kenna and the pilgrim led them to the 
 dreary waste in which the corpse lay. It was certainly 
 an awful spectacle to behold these unhappy people 
 toiling up the mountain solitude at such an hour, their 
 convulsed faces thrown into striking relief by the light 
 of the torches, and their cries rising in wild irregular 
 cadences upon the blast which swept over them Anth 
 a dismal howl, in perfect character with their affliction, 
 and the circumstances which produced it. 
 
 On arriving within \-iew of the corpse, there was a 
 slight pause; for, notwithstanding the dreadful pa- 
 roxysms of their grief, there was something still more 
 startling and terrible in contemplating the bodv thus 
 stretched out in the stillness of death, on the lonely 
 mountain. The impression it produced v,as peculiarly 
 solemn : the grief was hushed for a moment, but only 
 for a moment ; it rose again wilder than before, and 
 in a few minutes the friends of Reillaghan were about 
 to throw themselves upon the body under the strong 
 impulse of sorrow and affection. 
 
 The mendicant, however, stepped forward — '' Hould 
 back," said he; " it's hard to ax yces to do it, but 
 still you must. Let the neighbours about us here ex- 
 amine the body, in ordher to see whether it mightn't 
 be possible that the dacent boy came by his death 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE -MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 from somebody else's hand than his own. Hould 
 forrid the lights," said he, " till we see how he's lyin% 
 an' how the gun's lyin'." 
 
 " Darby," said young Frank, " I can't but be 
 cblaged to you for that. You're the last man livin' 
 ought to say what you said, afther you seein' us both 
 forget an' forgive this day. 1 call upon you now to 
 say whether you didn't see him an' me shakin' hands, 
 an' buryin' all bad feelin' between us?" 
 
 " I'll spake to you jist now," replied the mendicant. 
 *' See here, neighbours, obsarve this ; the boy was shot 
 in the breast, an' here's not a snow wreath, but a 
 weeshy dhrift that a child 'ud step acrass widout an 
 accident. I tell yees all, that I suspect foul play in 
 this," 
 
 " H 's fire !" exclaimed the brother of the de- 
 ceased, " what's that you say ? What ! Can it be — 
 can it — can it — that you murdhered him, you villain, 
 that's known to be nothin' but a villain ? But I'll 
 do for you !" He snatched at the gun as he spoke, 
 and would probably have taken ample and fearful 
 vengeance upon Frank, had not the mendicant and 
 others prevented him. 
 
 " Have sinse," said Darby; *' this is not the way 
 to behave, man : lave the gun lyin' where she is, till 
 we see more about us. Stand back there, an' let me 
 look at these marks : ay, about five yards — there's the 
 track of feet about five yards before him — here they 
 turn about, an' go back. Here, Saviour o' the world ! 
 see here ! the mark, clane an' clear, of the butt o' the 
 gun ! Now if that boy stretched afore us had the guil 
 in his hand the time she went off, could the mark oi
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 83 
 
 it be here ? Bring me down the gun — an' the curse 
 o' God upon her for an unkicky thief, vvhoever had 
 her I It's thrue ! — it's too thrue !" he continued — 
 " the man that had the gun stood on this spot.^* 
 
 *' It's a falsity," said Frank; "it's a damnable 
 falsity. Rody Teague, I call upon you to spake for 
 me. Didn't you see, when we went to the hills, that 
 it was Mike carried the gun, an' not me?" 
 
 " I did," repUed Rody; " I can swear to that." 
 
 " Ay," exclaimed Frank, with triumph, '^ an' you 
 yourself, Darby, saw us, as I said, makin' up what- 
 somever little differences there was betwixt us." 
 
 " I did," replied the mendicant, sternly ; " but I 
 heard you say, no longer ago than last night — say ! — 
 why you shivore it, man alive ! — that if you wouldn't 
 have Peggy Gartland, he never should. In your own 
 stable I heard it, an' I was the manes of disappointin* 
 you an' your gang, when you thought to take away 
 the girl by force. You're well known too often to 
 carry a fair face when the heart under it is black wid 
 you." 
 
 " All I can say is," observed young Reillaghan, 
 " that if it comes out agin you that you played him 
 foul, all the earth won't save your life ; I'll have your 
 heart's blood, if I should hang for it a thousand 
 times." 
 
 This dialogue was frequently interrupted by the 
 sobbings and clam^our of the women, and the detached 
 conversation of some of the men, who were commu- 
 nicating to each other their respective opinions upon 
 the melancholy event which had happened. 
 G 2
 
 84 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Darby More now brought Reillaghan's father aside, 
 and thus addressed him : — 
 
 " Gluntho r^—io tell God's thruth, Pve sthrong 
 suspicions that your son was murdhered. This sacred 
 thing that I put the crass upon people's breasts wid, 
 saves people from hangin' an' unnatural deaths. 
 Frank spoke to me last night, no longer ago, to come 
 lip an' mark it an him to-morrow. My opinion is, 
 that he intinded to murdher him at that time, an' 
 wanted to have a protection agin what might happen 
 to him in regard o' the black deed." 
 
 " Can we prove it agin him?" inquired the discon- 
 solate father : " I know it'll be hard, as there was no 
 one present but themselves ; an' if he did it, surely 
 he'll not confess it." 
 
 " We may make him do it, maybe," said the men- 
 dicant : " the villain's asily frightened, an' fond o' 
 charms, an' pishthrogues,-f an' sich holy things, for 
 all his wickedness. Don't say a word. We'll take 
 him by surprise ; I'll call upon him to touch the 
 CORPSE. Make them women — an' och, it's hard to 
 expect it — make them stop clappin' their hands, an' 
 cryin' ; an' let there be a dead silence, if you can." 
 
 During this and som-e other observations made by 
 Darby, Frank had got the gun in his possession; and, 
 whilst seeming to be engaged in looking at it, and 
 examining the lock, he actually contrived to reload it 
 without having been observed. 
 
 " Now, neighbours," said Darby, " hould your 
 tongues for a Aveeshy start, till I ax Frank M'Kenna 
 
 * Listen! f Superstitious spells and witcheries.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 85 
 
 a question or two. Frank M'Kenna, as you hope to 
 meet God at Judgment, did you take his life that's 
 lyin' a corpse before us ?" 
 
 " I did not,'' replied M^Kenna; " I could clear 
 myself on all the books in Europe, that he met his 
 death as I tould yees; an' more nor that," he added, 
 dropping upon his knees, and uncovering his head, 
 " may I die widout priest or prayer — widout help, 
 hope, or happiness, upon the spot where he's 
 NOW STHRETCHED, if I murdhered or shot him.''* 
 
 " I say amin to that," replied Darby: " Oxis doxis 
 glorioxis / — So far, that's right, if the blood of him's 
 not an you. But there's one thing more to be done : 
 will you walk over, undher the eye of God, an' touch 
 THE CORPSE ? Hould back, neighbours, an' let him 
 come over alone : I an' Owen Reillaghan will stand 
 here wid the lights, to see if the corpse bleeds." 
 
 " Give me, too, a light," said M'Kenna's father, 
 *' my son must get fair play, any way : / must be a 
 witness myself to it, an' will, too." 
 
 "It's but rasonable," said Owen Reillaghan; 
 "come over beside Darby an' myself: I'm willin' 
 that your son should stand or fall by what'll happen." 
 
 Frank's father, with a taper in his hand, imme- 
 diately went, with a pale face and trembling steps, to 
 the place appointed for him beside the corpse, where 
 he took his stand. 
 
 When young M'Kenna heard Darby's last question, 
 he seemed as if seized by an inward spasm : the start 
 which he gave, and his gaspings for breath, were 
 visible to all present. Had he seen the spirit of the 
 murdered man before him, his horror could not have
 
 S6 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 been greater ; for tliis ceremony had been considered 
 a most decisive test in cases of suspicion of murder — 
 an ordeal, indeed, to which few murderers wished to 
 submit themselves. In addition to this we may ob- 
 serve, that Darby's knowledge of the young man's 
 character was correct : with all his crimes he was 
 weak-minded and superstitious. 
 
 He stood silent for some time after the ordeal had 
 been proposed to him ; his hair became literally erect 
 with the dread of this formidable scrutiny, his cheeks 
 turned white, and the cold perspiration fell from him 
 in large drops. All his strength appeared to have de- 
 parted from him ; he stood, as if hesitating, and even 
 the energy necessary to stand seemed to be the result 
 of an effort. 
 
 " Remember," said Darby, pulling out the large 
 crucifix which was attached to his beads, *' that the 
 eye of God is upon you. If you've committed the 
 murdher, thrimble ; if not, Frank, you've little to fear 
 in touchin' the corpse.'" 
 
 Frank had not yet uttered a word ; but, leaijing 
 himself on the gun, he looked wildly around him, cast 
 his eyes up to the stormy sky, then turned them with 
 a dead glare upon the corpse and the crucifix. 
 
 " Do you confiss the murdher?" said Darby. 
 
 " Murdher !" rejoined Frank : '^ no ; I confess no 
 murdher : you villain, do you want to make me guilty ? 
 —do you want to make me guilty, you deep villain?" 
 
 It seemed as if the current of his thoughts and 
 feelings had taken a new direction, though it is proba- 
 ble that the excitement which appeared to be rising 
 within him was only the courage of fear.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 87 
 
 " You all wish to find mc guilty," he added; " but 
 I'll show yees that I'm not guilty." 
 
 He immediately walked towards the corpse, and 
 stooping down, touched the body with one hand, hold- 
 ing the gun in the other. The interest of that mo- 
 ment was intense, and all eyes were strained towards 
 the spot. Behind the coqise, at each shoidder — for 
 the body lay against a small snow wreath, in a recum- 
 bent position — stood the lather of tlie deceased and 
 the fathei- of the accused, each wound up by feelings 
 of a directly opposite character to a pitch of dreatlful 
 excitement. Over them, in his fantastic dress and 
 white beard, stood the tall mendicant, who held up 
 his crucifix to Frank, with an awful menace upon his 
 strongly marked countenance. At a little distance to 
 the left of the body stood the other men who were as- 
 sembled, having their torches held aloft hi their hands, 
 and their forms bent towards the corpse, their fiices 
 indicating expectation, dread, and horror. The female 
 relations of the deceased stood nearest his remains, 
 their torches extended in the same direction, their 
 \'isages exhibiting the passions of despair and grief in 
 their wildest characters, but as if arrested by some 
 supernatural object immediately before their eyes, that 
 produced a new and more awful feeling than grief. 
 When the body was touched, Frank stood as if himself 
 bound by a spell to the spot. At length he turned 
 his eyes to the mendicant, who stood silent and mo- 
 tionless, with the crucifix still extended in his hand. 
 
 " Are you satisfied now?"* said lie. 
 
 ^'That's wanst," said the pilgrim: "you're to 
 touch it three times,"
 
 88 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Frank hesitated a moment, but immediately stooped 
 again, and touched it twice in succession ; but it re- 
 mained still and unchanged as before. His father 
 broke the silence by a fervent ejaculation of thanks- 
 giving to God for the vindication of his son's character 
 which he had just witnessed. 
 
 " Now !" exclaimed M'Kenna, in a loud exulting 
 tone, " you all see that I did not murdher him I" 
 
 " You DID I" said a voice, which was immediately 
 recognised to be that of the deceased. 
 
 M*Kenna shrieked aloud, and immediately fled 
 with his gun towards the mountains, pursued by 
 Reillaghan's other son. The crowd rushed in towards 
 the body, whilst sorrow, affright, exultation, and won- 
 der, marked the extraordinary scene which ensued. 
 
 " Queen o' Heaven !" exclaimed old M'Kenna, 
 **' who could believe this only they hard it !" 
 
 "The murdher wouldn't lie I" shrieked out Mrs. 
 Reillaghan — " the murdher wouldn't lie I — the blood 
 o' my darlin' son spoke it ! — his blood spoke it ; or 
 'God, or his angel, spoke it for him !" 
 
 " It's beyant any thing ever known I" some ex- 
 claimed, "to come back, an' tell the deed upon his 
 murdherer I God presarve us, an' save us, this night ! 
 I wish we wor at home out o' this wild place !" 
 
 Others said they had heard of such things ; but this 
 having happened before their own eyes, surpassed any 
 thing that could be conceived. 
 
 The mendicant now advanced, and once more mys- 
 teriously held up his crucifix. 
 
 " Keep silence I" said he, in a solemn, sonorous 
 voice : "' Keep silence, I say, an' kneel down all o'
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 89 
 
 yees before what, I've in my hand. If you want to 
 know who or what the voice came from, I can tell 
 yees : — it was the crucifix that spoke I !" 
 
 This communication was received with a feeling of 
 devotion too deep for words. His injunction was in- 
 stantly complied with : the^- knelt, and bent down in 
 worship before it in the mountain wilds. 
 
 " Ay," said he, " little yees know the virtues of 
 that crucifix ! It was consecrated by a friar so holy 
 that it was well known there was but the shadow of 
 him upon the earth, the other part of him bein' night 
 an' day in heaven among the arch-angels. It shows 
 the power of this Crass, any way ; an' you may tell 
 your frinds that I'll sell bades touched wid it to the 
 faithful at sixpence a-piece. They can be put an 
 your padarcens as Dicades, wid a blessin'. Oxis 
 doxis glorioxis — Amin ! Let us now bear the corpse 
 home, antil it's dressed an* laid out dacently as it 
 ought to be." 
 
 The body was then placed upon an easy litter, 
 formed of great coats buttoned together, and sup- 
 ported by the strongest men present, who held it one 
 or two at each corner. In this manner they advanced 
 at a slow- pace, until they reached Owen Rcillaghan's 
 house, where they found several of the country people 
 assembled waiting for their return. 
 
 It was not until the body had been placed in an 
 inner room, where none were admitted until it should 
 be laid out, that the members of the family first 
 noticed the prolonged absence of Rcillaghan's other 
 son. The moment it had been alluded to, they were 
 seized with new alarm and consternation.
 
 so THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 ** Hanim an diouol !^^ said Reillaghan, bitterly, in 
 Irish, " but I doubt the red-handed villain has cut 
 short the lives of my two brave sons ! I only hope he 
 may stop in the counthry : I'm not widout frinds an' 
 followers that 'ud think it no sin in a just cause to 
 pay him in his own coin, an' to take from him an' his 
 a pound o' blood for every ounce of ours they shed.'* 
 
 A number of his friends instantly volunteered to 
 retrace their way to the mountains, and search for the 
 other son. " There's little danger of his life," said a 
 relation; " it's a short time Frank 'ud stand him, 
 particularly as the gun wasn't charged. We'll go, at 
 any rate, for fraid he might lose himself in the moun- 
 tains, or walk into some o' the lochs on his way home. 
 We had as good bring some whiskey wid us, for he 
 may want it badly." 
 
 TVhile they had been speaking, however, the snow 
 began to fall^ and the wind to blow in a manner that 
 promised a heavy and violent storm. They proceeded, 
 notwithstanding, on their search, and on whistling for 
 the dog, discovered that he was not to be found. 
 
 " He went wid us to the mountains, I know," said 
 the former speaker; " an' I think it likely he'll be 
 found wid Owen, wherever he is. Come, boys, step 
 out : it's a dismal night, any way, the Lord knows — 
 och, och !" And with sorrowful but vigorous steps 
 they went in quest of the missing brother. 
 
 Nothing but the preternatural character of the words 
 which were so mysteriously pronounced immediately 
 before Owen's pursuit of M'Kenna, could have pre- 
 vented that circumstance, together with the flight of 
 the latter, from exciting greater attention among the
 
 THE MII>XIGI!T MASS. 91 
 
 crowd. His absence, however, now that they had 
 time to reflect on it, produced unusual alarm, not only 
 on account of !M'Kemia's bad character, but from the 
 apprehension of Owen being lost in the mountains. 
 
 The inextinguishable determination of revenge ^-ith 
 which an Irishman pursues any person who, either 
 directly or indirectly, takes the life of a near relation, 
 or invades the peace of his domestic affections, was 
 strongly illustrated by the nature of Owen's pursuit 
 after M'Kenna, considering the appalling circum- 
 stances under which he undertook it. It is certainly 
 more than probable that M'Kenna, instead of flying, 
 would have defended himself with the loaded gun, 
 had not his superstitious fears been excited by the 
 words which so mysteriously charged him with the 
 murder. The direction he accidentally took led both 
 himself and his pursuer into the wildest recesses of 
 the mountains. The chase was close and desperate, 
 and certainly might have been fatal to Reillaghan, 
 had M'Kenna thought of using the gim. His terror, 
 however, exhausted him, and overcame his presence 
 of mind to such a degree, that so far from using the 
 weapon in his defence, he threw it aside, in order to 
 gain ground upon his pursuer. This he did but 
 slowly, and the pursuit was as yet uncertain. At 
 length Owen found the distance between himself and 
 his brother's murderer increasing ; the night was 
 dark, and he himself feeble and breathless : he there- 
 fore gave over all hope of securing him, and returned 
 to follow those who had accompanied him to the spot 
 where his brother's body lay. It was when retracing 
 his path that the nature of his situation occurred to
 
 1^ THE MirNIGHT MASS. 
 
 him : the snow had not begun to fall, but the appear- 
 ance of the sky was strongly calculated to depress 
 him. 
 
 Every person knows with what remarkable sudden- 
 ness snow storms descend. He had scarcely advanced 
 homewards more than twenty minutes, when the grey 
 tempest spread its dusky wings over the heavens, and 
 a darker shade rapidly settled upon the white hills — 
 liow becoming indistinct in the gloom of the air, 
 which was all in commotion, and groaned aloud with 
 the noise of the advancing storm. When he saw the 
 deep gloom, and felt the chilling coldness pierce his 
 flesh so bitterly, he turned himself in the direction 
 which led by the shortest possible cut towards his 
 father's house. He was at this time nearly three 
 miles from any human habitation ; and as he looked 
 into the darkness, his heart began to palpitate with 
 an alarm almost bordering on hopelessness. His dog, 
 which had, up till this boding change, gone on befoi^e 
 him, now partook in his master's apprehensions, and 
 trotted anxiously at his feet. 
 
 In the mean time the winds howled in a melancholy 
 manner along the mountains, and carried with them 
 from the upper clouds the rapidly descending sleet. 
 The storm-current, too, was against him, and as the 
 air began to work in dark confusion, he felt for the 
 first time how utterly helpless a thing he was under 
 the fierce tempest in this dreadful solitude. 
 
 At length the rushing sound which he first heard 
 in the distance approached him in all its terrors; and 
 in a short time he was staggering, like a drunken 
 man, under the incessant drifts which swept over him
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 93 
 
 and about him. Nothing could exceed the horrors of 
 the atmosphere at this moment. From the surface of 
 the earth the whirlwinds swept immense snow-clouda 
 that rose up instantaneously, and shot off along the 
 brows and ravines of the solitary wild, sometimes de- 
 scending into the vallies, and again rushing up the 
 almost perpendicular sides of the mountains, with a 
 speed, strength, and noise, that mocked at every thing 
 possessing life; whilst in the air the tumult and the 
 darkness continued to deepen in the most awful man- 
 ner. The winds seemed to meet from every point of 
 the compass, and the falling drifts flew backward and 
 forward in every direction; the cold became intense, 
 and Owen's efforts to advance homewards were begin- 
 ning to fail. He was driven about like an autumn 
 leaf, and his dog, which kept close to him, had nearly 
 equal difficulty in proceeding. No sound but that of 
 the tempest could now be heard, except the screaming 
 of the birds as they were tossed on sidewing through 
 the commotion which prevailed. 
 
 In this manner was Owen whirled about, till he 
 lost all knowledge of his local situation, being ignorant 
 whether he advanced towards home or otherwise. His 
 mouth and eyes were almost filled with driving sleet ; 
 sometimes a cloud of light sandlike drift would almost 
 bury him, as it crossed, or followed, or opposed his 
 path; sometimes he would sink to the middle in a 
 snow-wreath, from which he extricated himself with 
 great difficulty ; and among the many terrors by which 
 he was beset, that of walking into a lake, or over a 
 precipice, w^as not the least paralyzing. Owen was a 
 young man of great personal strength and activit}', fof
 
 ^ 1SE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 the possession of which, next to his brother, he had 
 been distinguished among his companions; but he 
 now became totally exhausted ; the chase after 
 M*Kenna, his former exertion, his struggles, his re- 
 peated falls, his powerful attempts to get into the 
 Yicinity of life, the desperate strength he put fortli in 
 breaking through the vortex of the whirlwind, all had 
 left him faint, and completely at the mercy of the 
 elements. 
 
 The cold sleet scales were now frozen to ice on his 
 cheeks; his clothes were completely incrusted with 
 the hard snow, which had been beating into them by 
 the strength of the blast, and his joints were getting 
 stiff and benumbed. The tumult of the tempest, the 
 w^hirling of the snow clouds, and the thick snow, now 
 falling, and again tossed upwards by sudden gusts to 
 the sky, deprived him of all power of reflection, and 
 rendered him, though not altogether blind or deaf, yet 
 incapable of forming any distinct opinion upon what 
 he saw or heard. Still, actuated by the unconscious 
 principle of self-preservation, he tottered on, cold, 
 feeble, and breathless, now driven back like a reed by 
 the strong rush of the storm, or prostrated almost to 
 suffocation under the whirlwinds, that started up like 
 savage creatures of life about him. 
 
 During all this time his faithful dog never aban- 
 doned him; but his wild bowlings only heightened 
 the horrors of his situation. When he fell, the affec- 
 tionate creature would catch the flap of his coat, or 
 his arm, in his teeth, and attempt to raise him; and 
 as long as his master had presence of mind, with the 
 unerring certainty of instinct, he would turn him.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT xMASS. 95 
 
 when taking a wToiig direction, into tliat which led 
 homewards. 
 
 Owen was not, however, reduced to this state with* 
 out experiencing sensations of which no language 
 could convey adequate notions. At first he struggled 
 heroically with the storm ; but when utter darkness 
 threw its impervious shades over the desolation around 
 him, and the fury of the elements grew so tremendous, 
 all the strong propensities to life became roused, the 
 convulsive throes of a young heart on the steep ot 
 death threw a wild and corresponding energy into his 
 vigorous frame, and occasioned him to cling to exist- 
 ence with a tenacity rendered still stronger by the 
 terrible consciousness of his unprepared state, and the 
 horror of being plunged into eternity, unsupported by 
 the rites of his church, whilst the crime of attempting 
 to take away human life lay on his soul. Those do- 
 mestic affections, too, which in Irishmen are so strong, 
 became excited; his home, his fireside, the faces of 
 his kindred, already impressed with affliction for the 
 death of one brother, and the mild countenance of the 
 fair girl to wTiom he was about to be united, were 
 conjured up in the powerful imagery of natural feel- 
 ing, the fountains of which were opened in his heart, 
 and his agonizing cr}' for life rose wildly from the 
 mountain desert upon the voice of the tempest. Then, 
 indeed, when the gulf of a two-fold death yawned 
 before him, did the struggUng spirit send up its 
 shrieking prayer to heaven with desperate impidse. 
 These struggles, however, as well as those of the body, 
 became gradually weaker as the storm tossed him 
 about, and with the chill of its breath withered hini
 
 96 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 into total helplessness. He reeled on, stiff and insen 
 sible, without knowing whither he went, falling witW 
 every blast, and possessing scarcely any faculty of lift 
 except mere animation. 
 
 - After about an hour, however, the storm subsided, 
 and the clouds broke away into light fleecy columni 
 before the wind ; the air, too, became less cold, and 
 the face of nature more visible. The driving sleet 
 and hard granular snow now ceased to fall; but were 
 succeeded by large feathery flakes, that descended 
 slowly upon the still air. 
 
 Had this trying scene lasted much longer, Owen 
 must soon have been a stiffened corse. The child- 
 like strength, however, which just enabled him to 
 bear up without sinking in despair to die, now sup- 
 ported him when there was less demand for energ\-. 
 The dog, too, by rubbing itself against him, and lick- 
 ing his face, enabled him, by a last eff'ort, to recollect 
 himself, so as to have a glimmering perception of his 
 situation. His confidence returned, and with it a 
 greater degree of strength. He shook, as well as he 
 could, the snow from his clothes, where it had accu- 
 mulated heavily, and felt himself able to proceed, 
 slowly it is true, towards his father's house, which he 
 had nearly reached when he met his friends, who were 
 once more hurrying out to the mountains in quest of 
 him, having been compelled to return, in consequence 
 of the storm, when they had first set out. The whis- 
 key, their companionship, and their assistance soon 
 revived him. One or two were dispatched home be- 
 fore them, to apprize the afflicted family of his safety j 
 and the intelligence was hailed with melancholy joy
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 97 
 
 by the Reillaghans. A faint light played for a mo- 
 ment over the gloom which had settled among them, 
 but it was brief; for on ascertaining the safety of their 
 second son, their grief rushed back with renewed 
 violence, and nothing could be heard but the voice of 
 sorrow and affliction. 
 
 Darby More, who had assumed the control of the 
 family, did every thing in his power to console them ; 
 his efforts, however, were viewed with a feeling little 
 short of indignation. 
 
 " Darby," said the afflicted mother, " you have, 
 undher God^ in some sinse, my fair son's death to 
 account for. You had a dhrame, but you wouldn't 
 tell it to us. If you had, my boy might be livin' this 
 day, for it would be asy for him to be an his guard." 
 
 *' ^lusha, poor woman," replied Darby, " sure you 
 don't know, you afflicted crathur, what you're spakin' 
 about. Tell my dhrame I Why, thin, it's myself 
 towld it to him from beginnin' to ind, and that whin 
 we wor goin' to mass this day itself. I desired him, 
 on the paril of his life, not to go out a tracin', or toards 
 the mountains, good or bad." 
 
 " You said you had a prayer that 'ud keep it back," 
 observed tlie mother, " an' why didn't you say it ?" 
 
 " I did say it," replied Darby, " an' that afore a 
 bit crassed my throath this mornin' ; but, you see he 
 broke his promise of not goin' to the mountains, an' 
 that was what made the dhrame come thrue." 
 
 " Well, well, Darby, I beg your pardon, an' God's 
 pardon, for judgin' you in the wrong. Oh, wurraw 
 Bthrue! my brave son, is it there you're lyin' wid us, 
 avoumeen machree!" and she again renewed her grief. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 ** Oh, thin, Pm sure I forgive you," said Darby; 
 ** but keep your grief in for a start, till I say the De 
 prowhinjis over him, for the pace an' repose of his 
 sowl. Kneel down all of yees." 
 
 He repeated this prayer in language which it would 
 require one of Edward Irving's adepts in the unknown 
 tongues to interpret. When he had recited about the 
 half of it, Owen, and those who had gone to seek him, 
 entered the house, and^ after the example of the others, 
 reverently knelt down until he finished it. 
 
 Owen's appearance once more renewed their grief. 
 The body of his brother had been removed to a bed 
 beyond the fire in the kitchen ; and when Owen looked 
 upon the features of his beloved companion, he ap- 
 proached, and stooped down to kiss his lips. He was 
 still too feeble, however, to bend by his own strength ; 
 and it is also probable that the warm air of the hou^e 
 relaxed him. Be this, however, as it may, he fell for- 
 ward, but supported himself by his hands, which were 
 placed upon the body ; a deep groan was heard, and 
 the apparently dead man opened his eyes, and feebly 
 exclaimed — " a dhrink ! a dhrink !'* 
 
 Darby More had, on concluding the De profundisy 
 seated himself beside the bed on which Mike lay; 
 but on hearing the groan, and the call for drink, he 
 leaped rapidly to his legs, and exclaimed, " My sowl 
 to hell an' the divil, Owen Reillaghan, but your son's 
 alive ' I Off wid two or three of yees, as hard as the 
 divil can dhrive yees, for the priest an' docthor ! ! Off 
 wid yees! ye damned lazy spalpeens, aren't ye near 
 there by this ? Give us my cant ! Are yees gone ? 
 Oh, by this an' by that — hell — eh — aren't yees
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS- 99 
 
 gone?" but ere he could finish the sentence they hud 
 set out. 
 
 '* Now," he exclaimed, in a voice whose tremendous 
 tones were strongly at variance with his own injunc- 
 tions — " Now, neighbours, d ii yees, keep silence. 
 
 Mrs. Reillaghan, get a bottle of whiskey an' a mug o' 
 wather Make haste. Hanim an diouol ! don't be 
 all nig^ht !» 
 
 The poor mother, however, could not stir ; the un- 
 expected revulsion of feeling which she had so sud- 
 denly experienced was more than she could sustain. 
 A long fainting tit was the consequence, and Darby's 
 commands were obeyed by the wife of a friendly 
 neighbour. 
 
 The mendicant immediately wetted Mike's lips, and 
 poured some spirits, copiously diluted with water, 
 down his throat; after which he held the whiskey 
 bottle, like a connoisseur, between himself and the 
 light. " I hope," said he, " this whiskey is the ra-al 
 crathur." He put the bottle to his mouth as he spake, 
 and on holding it a second time before his eye, he 
 shook his head complacently — " Ay^" said he, " if 
 any thing could bring the dead back to this world, my 
 fiowl to glory, but that would. Oh, thin, it would give 
 the dead life, sure enough !" He put it once more to 
 his lips, from which it was not separated without 
 relincpiishing a considerable portion of its contents. 
 
 " Dhea Grashthias T^ he exclaimed; " throth, I 
 find myself the betther o' that sup, in regard that it*s 
 good for this touch o' configuration that I'm throubled 
 wid inwardly! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis ! Amin!" 
 Thc2£ words he spoke in a low, placid voice, lest the 
 h2
 
 100 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 wounded man might be discomposed by his obser- 
 vations. 
 
 The rapidity with which the accoimt of Mike's 
 restoration to hfe spread among the neighbours was 
 surprising. Those who had gone for the priest and 
 doctor communicated it to all they met, and these 
 . again to others : so that in a short time the house was 
 surrounded by great numbers of their acquaintances, 
 all anxious to hear the particulars more minutely. 
 Darby, who never omitted an opportunity of impress- 
 ing the people with a belief in his own sanctity, and 
 in that of his crucifix, came out among them, and 
 answered their inquires by a solemn shake of his head, 
 and a mysterious indication of his finger to the cru- 
 cifix, but said nothing more. This was enough. The 
 murmur of reverence and wonder spread among them, 
 and ere long there were few present who did not be- 
 lieve that Reillaghan had been restored to life by a 
 touch of Darby's crucifix; an opinion which is not 
 wholly exploded until this day. 
 
 Peggy Gartknd, who, fortunately, had not heard 
 the report of her lover's death until it was contra- 
 dicted by the account of his revival, now entered, and 
 by her pale coimtenance betrayed strong symptoms of 
 affection and sympathy. She sat by his side, gazing 
 mournfully on his features, and with difficulty sup 
 pressed her tears. 
 
 For some time before her arrival, the mother and 
 sisters of Mike had been removed to another room, 
 lest the tumultuous expression of their mingled joy 
 and sorrow might disturb him. The fair artless girl, 
 although satisfied that he still lived, entertained no
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 101 
 
 hopes of his recovery ; hut she ventured, in a low, 
 trembling voice, to inquire from Darby some j)articu- 
 lars of the melancholy transaction which was likely to 
 deprive her of her betrothed husband. 
 
 '* Where did the shot sthrike him, Darby?" 
 
 " Clane through the body, a villish ; jist where 
 Captain Cramer was shot at the battle o' Bunker's 
 Hill, where he lay as good as dead for twelve hours, 
 an* was near bein' berrid a corp, an' him alive all the 
 time, only that as they were pullin' him off o' the cart, 
 he gev a shout, an' thin, a colleen dhas, they began 
 to think he might be livin' still. Sure enough, he was, 
 too, an' lived successfully, till he died wid dhrinkin' 
 brandy, as a cure for the gout; the Lord be praised!" 
 
 *' Where's the villain. Darby?" 
 
 *' He's in the mountains, no doubt, where he had 
 thim to fight wid that's a match for him— God, an' 
 the dark storm that fell a while agone. TheyUl pay 
 him, never fear, for his thrachery to the noble boy 
 that chastised him for your sake acushla oge! Sthrong 
 was your hand, a Veehal, an' ginerous was yoiu affec- 
 tionate heart; an' well you loved the fair girl that's 
 sittin' beside you ! Throth, Peggy, my heart's black 
 wid sarrow about the darlin' young man. Still life's 
 in him ; an' while there's life there's hope ; glory be 
 to God!" 
 
 The eulogium of the pilgrim, who was, in truth, 
 much attached to Mike, moved the heart of the affec- 
 tionate girl, whose love and sympathy were pure as 
 the dew on the grass-blade, and now as easily affected 
 by the slightest touch. She remained silent for a 
 time, but secretly glided her hand towards that of her
 
 102 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 lover, which she clasped in hers, and by a gentle and 
 timid pressure, strove to intimate to him that she was 
 beside him. Long but unavailing, was the struggle 
 to repress her sorrow : her bosom heaved ; she gave 
 two or three loud sobs, and burst into tears and 
 lamentations. 
 
 " Don't cry, avourneen," whispered Darby — " Don't 
 cry; I'll warrant you, that Darby More will ate share 
 of your weddin' dinner an' his, yit. There's a small 
 taste of colour comin' to his face, w^hich, I think, un- 
 dher God, is owin' to my touchin' him wid the cru- 
 ciwhix. Don't cry, a colleen, he'll get over it, an' 
 more than it, yit, a colleen bawn 1'* 
 
 Darby then hurried her into the roam where Mike's 
 mother and sisters were. On entering she threw her- 
 self into the arms of the former, laid her face on her 
 bosom, and wept bitterly. This renewed the mother's 
 grief: she clasped the interesting girl in a sorrowful 
 embrace ; so did his sisters. They threw themselves 
 into each other's arms, and poured forth those touch- 
 ing, but wild bursts of pathetic language, which are 
 never heard but when the heart is struck by some 
 desolating calamity. 
 
 " Husht!" said a neighbouring man who was pre- 
 sent ; '' husht ! it's a shame for yees, an' the boy not 
 dead yit." 
 
 "I'm not ashamed," said Peggy : " why should I 
 be ashamed of bein' sarry for the likes of Mike Reil- 
 laghan ? Where was his aquil ? Wasn't all hearts 
 upon him ? Didn't the very poor on the road bless 
 him whin he passed ? Who ever had a bad word 
 agin him, but the villain that murdhered him ? Mur-
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. NV 
 
 dhered him ! Heaven above me ! an' why ? For my 
 sake ! For my sake the pride o' the parish is laid 
 low ! Ashamed ! Is it for cryin' for my bethrothed 
 husband, that was sworn to me, an' I to him, before 
 the eye of God above us ? This day week I was to be 
 
 his bride ; an' now — now Oh, Vread Reillaghan, 
 
 take me to you ! Let me go to his mother ! My 
 heart's broke, Vread Reillaghan ! Let me go to her : 
 nobody's grief for him is like ours. You're his mo- 
 ther, an' I'm his wife in the sight o' God. Proud 
 was I out of him : my eyes brightened when they seen, 
 him, an' my heart got light when I heard his voice ; 
 an' now what's afore me ? — what's afore me but sor- 
 rowful days an' a broken heart !" 
 
 Mrs. Reillaghan placed her tenderly and affection- 
 ately beside her, ©n the bed whereon she herself sat. 
 With the corner of her handkerchief she wiped the 
 tears from the weeping girl, although her own flowed 
 fast. Her daughters, also, gathered about her, and, 
 in language of the most endearing kind, endeavoured 
 to soothe and console her. 
 
 " He may live yet, Peggy, avourneen," said his 
 mother : " my brave an' noble son may live yet, an' 
 you may be both happy. Don't be crj^in' so much, 
 asthore galh machree ;* sure he's in the hands o' God, 
 avourneen; an' your young heart won't be broke I 
 hope. Och, the Lord pity her young feelins !" ex- 
 claimed the mother, affected even by the consolation 
 she offered to the betrothed bride of her son : " is it 
 any wondher she'd sink undher sich a blow ! for, sure 
 enough, where was the likes of him? No, asthore; 
 ♦ The beloved white (girl) of my heart.
 
 104 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 it's no wondher — it's no -wondher ! Lonesome will . 
 your heart be widoiit him ; for I know what he'd feel 
 if a hair oi your head was injure4.'* 
 
 " Oh, I know it — I know it ! There was music in 
 his voice, an' grah* an' kindness to every crathur an 
 God's earth ; but to me — to me — oh, no one knew 
 his love to me, but myself an' God. Oh, if I was 
 dead, that I couldn't feel this, or if my life could save 
 his ! Why didn't the villain — the black villain, wid 
 God's curse upon him — why didn't he shoot me, thin 
 1 could never be Mike's wife, an' his hand o' murdher 
 might be satisfied ? If he had, I wouldn't feel as I do. 
 Ay; the warmest, an' the best, an' the dearest blood 
 of my heart, I could shed for him. That heart was 
 his, an' he had a right to it. Our love wasn't of 
 yistherday : afore the links of my hair came to my 
 showldhers I loved him, an' thought of him ; an' many 
 a time he tould me that I was his first ! God knows 
 he was my first, an' he will be my last, let him live 
 or die." 
 
 " Well, but, Peggy achora," said his sister, " may- 
 be it's sinful to be cryin' this a way, an' he not dead." 
 
 " God forgive me, if it's a sin," replied Peggy; 
 " Pd not wish to do any thing shiful or displasin' to 
 God; an' Pll sthrive to keep down my grief: I will, 
 as well as I can." 
 
 She put her hands on her face, and by an effort of 
 firmness, subdued the tone of her grief to a low con- 
 tinuous murmur of sorrow. 
 
 " An* along wid thafr," said the sister, " maybe the 
 
 * Affection.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 105 
 
 noise is disturbin' him. Darby put us all out o' the 
 kitchen, to have pace an' quietness about him." 
 
 " An* 'twas well thought o' Darby," she replied, 
 " an' may the blessin' o' God rest upon him for it I 
 A male's mate, or a night's lodgin' he'll never want 
 undher my father's roof for that goodness to him. 
 I'll be quiet thin." 
 
 There was now a short pause, during which those 
 in the room heard a smack, accompanied by the words, 
 ^^ Dheah Grashthias I Throth I'm the betther o' that 
 sup, so I am. Nothin' keeps this thief of a configu- 
 ration down but it. Dheah Grashthias for that ! Oh, 
 thin this is the stuff! It warms a body to the tops o* 
 the nails '." 
 
 " Don't spare it, Darby," said old Reillaghan, " if 
 it does you good." 
 
 " Avourneen," said Darby, " it's only what gives 
 me a little relief I ever take, jist by icay of cure, for 
 it's the only thing does me good, when I am this- 
 a-way." 
 
 Several persons in the neighbourhood were, in the 
 mean time, flocking to Reillaghan's house. A. worthy 
 man, accompanied by his wife, entered as the pilgrim 
 had concluded. The woman, in accordance with the 
 custom of the country, raised the Irish cry, in a loud 
 melancholy wail, that might be heard at a great dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Darby, who prided himself on maintaining silence, 
 could not preserve the consistency of his character 
 upon this occasion, any more than on that of Mike's 
 recent symptoms of life. 
 
 " Your sowl to the divil, you fiiggot !" he exclaimed,
 
 IfOGr THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 •* what do you mane ? The divil whip the tongue out 
 o' you, are you goin' to come here only to disturb the 
 boy that's not dead yet. Get out o' this, or be asy 
 wid your skhreechin', or by the crass that died for us, 
 only you're a woman, I'd tumble you wid a lick o' my 
 cant. Keep asy, you vagrant, an' the dacent boy not 
 dead yet. Heli bellows you, what do you mane ?" 
 
 " Not dead !" exclaimed the woman, with her body 
 bent in the proper attitude, her hands extended, and 
 the crying face turned with amazement to Darby. 
 " Not dead ! Wurrah, man alive, isn't he mur- 
 dhered?" 
 
 " Hell resave the matther for that !" replied Darby. 
 " I tell you, he's livin', an' will live, I hope, barrin' 
 your skirlin' dhrives the life that's in him out of him. 
 Go into the room there to the women, an' make your- 
 self scarce out o' this, or by the padareens about me> 
 I'll malivogue you." 
 
 - " We can't be angry wid the dacent woman," ob- 
 served old Reillaghan, " in regard that she came to 
 show her friendship and respect." 
 
 " I'd be angry wid St. Pether," said Darby, " an' 
 
 'nd not scruple to give him a lick o' my c Lord 
 
 presarve us! what was I goin' to say! Why, throth, 
 I believe the little wits I had are all gone a shaughran ! 
 I must fast a Friday or two for the same words agin 
 St. Pether. Oxis Doxis Glorioxis — Amin." 
 
 Hope is strong in love and in life. Peggy, now 
 that grief had eased her heart of its load of accumu- 
 lated sorrow, began to reflect upon Darby's anecdote 
 of Captain Cramer, which she related to those about 
 her. They all rejoiced to hear that it was possible to
 
 TBE MIDNIGHT MASS. 107 
 
 be wounded so severely and live. They also consoled 
 and supported each other, and expressed their trust 
 that Mike might also recover. The opinion of the 
 doctor was waited for with such anxiety as a felon 
 feels when the foreman of the jury hands down the 
 verdict which consigns him to life or death. 
 
 Whether Darby's prescription was the result of 
 chance or sagacity we know not. We are bound, 
 however, to declare that Reillaghan's strength was in 
 some degree restored, although the pain he suifered 
 amounted to torture. The surgeon (who was also a 
 physician, and, moreover, supplied his own medicines) 
 and the priest, as they lived in the same town, both 
 arrived together. The latter administered the rites of 
 his church to him ; and the former, who was a skilful 
 man, left nothing undone to accomplish his restora- 
 tion to health. He had been shot through the body 
 with a bullet — a circumstance which was not known 
 until the arrival of the surgeon. This gentleman ex- 
 pressed much astonishment at his surviving the wound, 
 but said that circumstances of a similar nature had 
 occurred, particularly on the field of battle, although 
 he admitted that they were few. 
 
 Darby, however, who resolved to have something 
 like a decided opinion from him, without at all con- 
 sidering whether such a thing was possible, pressed 
 him strongly upon the point. 
 
 " Arrah, blur-an-ager, Docthor Swither, say one 
 thing or other. Is he to live or die? Plain talk 
 Docthor, is all we want, an' no feasthalagh.''^* 
 
 "The bullet, I am inclined to think," replied the 
 * Nonsense.
 
 108 THE MIDNIGHT. MASS. 
 
 Doctor, " must either not have touched a vital part, 
 or touched it only slightly. I have known cases 
 similar, it is true; but it is impossible for. me to pro- 
 nounce a decisive opinion upon him just now." 
 
 " The divil resave the yarrib* ever I'll gather for 
 you agin, so long as my name's Darby More, except 
 you say either * life' or * death,' " said Darby, who 
 forgot his character of sanctity altogether. 
 
 "Darby, achora," said Mrs. Reillaghan, "don't, 
 crass the gintleman, an' him sthrivin' to do his best. , 
 Here, Paddy Gormly, bring some wather till the doc- 
 thor washes his hands." 
 
 " Darby," replied the Doctor, to whom he was well 
 known, " you are a good herbalist, but even although 
 you should not serve me as usual in that capacity, yet . 
 I cannot say exactly either life or death. The case is 
 too critical a one ; but I do not despair. Darby, if that 
 will satisfy you." 
 
 " More power to you, Docthor, achora. Hell-an- 
 age, Where's that bottle ? bring it here. Thank you, 
 Vread. Docthor, here's wishin' you all happiness, an' 
 may you set Mike on his legs wanst more ! See, 
 Docthor — see, man alive — look at this purty girl here, 
 wid her wet cheeks ; give her some hope, ahagur, if 
 you can; keep the crathur's spirits up, an' I'll furnish, 
 you wid every yarrib in Europe, from the nettle to the 
 rose." 
 
 " Don't despair, my good girl," said the Doctor, 
 addressing Peggy, "I hope, I trust, that he may re- 
 cover, but he must be kept easy and quiet." 
 
 " May the blessing of God, Sir, light down on you 
 * Herb.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 109 
 
 for the same words," replied Peggy, in a voice tremu- 
 lous with giatitude and joy. 
 
 " Are you done wid him, Docthor?" said old 
 Reillaghan. 
 
 *' At present," replied the Doctor, " I can do no-' 
 thing more for him; but I shall see him early to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 *' Bekase, Sir," continued the worthy man, '* here's 
 Darby More, who's afflicted wid a conflamboration, 
 or some sich thing, inwardly, an' if you could ase him, 
 Sir, I'd pay the damages, whatever they might be." 
 
 The Doctor smiled slightly. " Darby's complaint,'* 
 said he, " is beyond my practice; there is but one 
 cure for it, and that is, if I have any skill, a little of 
 what's in the bottle here, taken, as our prescriptions 
 sometimes say, ' when the patient is inclined for it.' " 
 
 " By my sou — sanctity, Docthor," said Darby, 
 " you're a man o' skill, any how, an' that's well 
 known, Sir. Nothin', as Father Hoolaghan says, but 
 the sup o' whiskey does this sarra of a configuration 
 good. It rises the wind off o' my stomach, Docthor I" 
 
 " It does, Darby, it does. Now let all be peace 
 and quietness," continued the Doctor : " take away 
 a great part of this fire, and don't attempt to remove 
 him to any other bed until I desire you. I shall call 
 again to-moiTOw morning early." 
 
 The doctor's attention to his patient was unremit- 
 ting; every thing that human skill, joined to long ex- 
 perience and natural talent, could do to restore the 
 young man to his family was done ; and in the course 
 of a few weeks the friends of Reillaghan had the 
 Batisfaction of seeing him completely out of danger.
 
 110 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Mike declared after his recovery, that though in- 
 capable of motion on the mountains, he was not alto- 
 gether insensible to what passed around him. The 
 loud tones of their conversation he could hear. The 
 oath which young M*Kenna uttered in a voice so wild 
 and exalted, fell clearly on his ear, and he endeavoured 
 to contradict it, in order that he might be secured and 
 punished in the event of his death. He also siiid, that 
 Ihe pain he suffered in the act of being conveyed home, 
 occasioned him to groan feebly; but that the sobs, 
 and cries, and loud conversation of those who sur- 
 rounded him, prevented his moans from being heard. 
 It is probable, after all, that were it not for the acci- 
 dental fall of Owen upon his body, he might not have 
 survived the wound, inasmuch as the medical skill, 
 wliich contributed to restore him, would not have been 
 called in. 
 
 Though old Frank M'Kenna and his family felt an 
 •oppressive load of misery taken off their hearts by the 
 prospect of Reillaghan's recovery, yet it was impossi- 
 ble for them to be insensible to the fate of their son, 
 knowing as they did, that he must have been out 
 among the mountains during the storm. His un- 
 happy mother and Rody sat up the whole night, ex- 
 pecting his return, but morning arrived without bring- 
 ing him home. For six days afterwards the search 
 for him was general and strict ; his friends and neigh- 
 bours traversed the mountain wastes until they left 
 scarcely an acre of them unexplored. On the sixth 
 day there came a thaw, and towards the close of the 
 seventh, he was found a " stiffened corse," upon the 
 very spot where he had shot his rival, and on which
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. Ill 
 
 he had challenged the Almighty to stretch him in 
 death, without priest or prayer, if he were guilty of 
 the crime with which he had been charged. He was 
 found lying with a circle drawn round him, his head 
 pillowed upon the innocent blood which he had shed 
 with the intention of murder, and a bloody cross 
 marked upon his breast and forehead. It was thought 
 that in the dread of approaching death he had formed 
 it with his hand, which came accidentally in contact 
 with the blood that lay in clots about him. 
 
 The manner of his death excited a profound and 
 wholesome feeling among the people, with respect to 
 the crime which he attempted to commit. The cir- 
 cumstances attending it, and his oath upon the spot 
 where he shot Reillaghan, are still spoken of by the 
 fathers of the neighbouring villages, and even by some 
 who were present at the search for his body. It was 
 also doubly remarkable on account of a case of spec- 
 tral illusion which it produced, and which was as* 
 cribed to the effect of M'Kenna's supernatural appear- 
 ance at the time. The daughter of a herdsman in 
 the mountains was strongly affected by the spectacle 
 of his dead body borne past her father's door. In 
 about a fortnight afterwards, she assured her family 
 that he appeared to her. She saw the apparition, in 
 the beginning, only at night; but ere long it ventured, 
 as she imagined, to appear in day-light. Many ima- 
 ginary conversations took place between them ; and 
 the fact of the peasantry flocking to the herd's house, 
 to satisfy themselves as to the truth of the rumour, is 
 yet well remembered in the parish. It was also affirmed, 
 that as the funeral of M'Kenna passed to the church-
 
 112 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 yard, a hare crossed it, which some one present struck 
 on the side with a stone. The hare, says the tradi- 
 tion, was not injured, but the sound of the stroke re- 
 sembled that produced on striking an em.pty barrel. 
 
 We have nearly wound up our story, in which we 
 have feebly endeavoured to illustrate scenes that were, 
 some time ago, not unusual in Irish life. There is 
 little more to be added, except that Mike Reillaghan 
 almost miraculously recovered; that he and Peggy 
 Gartland were happily married, and that Darby More 
 lost his character as a dreamer in that part of the 
 parish. Mike, with whom, however, he still continued 
 a favourite, used frequently to allude to the sneaking 
 crucifix^ the dream aforesaid, and his bit of fiction, in 
 assuring his mother that he had dissuaded him against 
 " tracing" on that eventful day. 
 
 " Well, avourneen," Darby would exclaim, " the 
 holiest of us has our failins; but, in throth, the truth 
 of it is, that myself didn't know what I was sayin', I 
 •was so through other ;* for I remimber that I was 
 badly afflicted wid this thief of a configuration inwardly 
 at the time. That, you see, an' your own throubles, 
 put my mind ashaughran for a start. But, upon my 
 sanctity, — an' sure that's a great oath wid me — only 
 for the Holy Carol you bought from me the night be- 
 fore, an' above all, touchin' you wid the blessed Cru- 
 cifix, you'd never a' got over the same accident. Oh, 
 you may smile an' shake your head, but it's thruth 
 whether or not ! Glory be to God !" 
 
 The priest of the parish, on ascertaining correctly 
 the incidents mentioned in this sketch, determined to 
 * Agitated.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 113 
 
 deprive the people of at least one pretext for their 
 licentiousness. He represented the abuses connected 
 with such a ceremony to the bishop; and from that 
 night to the present time, the inhabitants of Kilna- 
 heery never had, in their own parish, an opportunity 
 of hearing a Midnight Mass. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE DONAGH; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 
 
 12
 
 THE DONAGH ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 
 
 Carnmore, one of those small villages that are to be 
 found m the outskirts of many parishes in Ireland, 
 whose distinct boundaries are lost in the contiguous 
 mountain-wastes, was situated at the foot of a deep 
 gorge, or pass, overhung by two bleak hills, from the 
 naked sides of which the storm swept over it, without 
 discomposing the peaceful little nook of cabins that 
 stood below. About a furlong farther down were two 
 or three farm-houses, inhabited by a family named 
 Cassidy, men of simple, inoffensive manners, and con- 
 siderable wealth. They were, however, acute and 
 "Wise in their generation; intelligent cattle-dealers, on 
 whom it would have been a matter of some difficulty 
 to impose an unsound horse, or a cow older than was 
 intimated by her horn-rings, even when conscientiously 
 dressed up for sale by the ingenious aid of the file or 
 burning-iron. Between their houses and the hamlet 
 rose a conical pile of rocks, loosely heaped together, 
 from which the place took its name of Carnmore.
 
 118 THE donagh; or, 
 
 About three years before the time of this story, there 
 came two men with their families to reside in the up- 
 per village, and the house which they chose as a resi- 
 dence was one at some distance from those which 
 composed the little group we have just been describing. 
 They said their name was Meehan, although the 
 general report went, that this was not true ; that the 
 name was an assumed one, and that some dark mys- 
 tery, which none could penetrate, shrouded their his- 
 tory and character. They were certainly remarkable 
 men. The elder, named Anthony, was a dark, black- 
 browed person, stern in his manner, and atrociously 
 cruel in his disposition. His form was Herculean, 
 his bones strong and hard as iron, and his sinews 
 stood out in undeniable evidence of a life hitherto 
 spent in severe toil and exertion, to bear which he 
 appeared to an amazing degree capable. His brother 
 Denis was a small man, less savage and daring in his 
 character, and consequently more vacillating and 
 cautious than Anthony ; for the points in w^hich he 
 resembled him were superinduced upon his natural 
 disposition by the close connexion that subsisted be- 
 tween them, and by the identity of their former pur- 
 suits in life, which, beyond doubt, had been such as 
 could not bear investigation. 
 
 The old proverb of " birds of a feather flock toge- 
 ther," is certainly a true one, and iu this case it was 
 once more verified. Before the arrival of these men 
 in the village, there had been five or six bad charac- 
 ters in the neighbourhood, whose delinquencies were 
 pretty well known. With these persons the strangers, 
 by that sympathy w^hich assimilates with congenial
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 119 
 
 good or evil, soon became acquainted ; and although 
 their intimacy was as secret and cautious as possible, 
 still it had been observed, and was known; for they 
 had frequently been seen skulking together at day-^. 
 break, or in the dusk of evening. 
 
 It is unnecessary to say, that Meehan and liis bro- 
 ther did not mingle much in the society of Carnmorc. 
 In fact, the villagers and they mutually avoided each 
 other. A mere return of the common ]ihrases of 
 salutation was generally the most that ])asscd between 
 them : they never entered into that familiarity which 
 leads to mutual intercourse, and justities one neigh- 
 bour in freely entering the cabin of another, to spend 
 a winter's night, or a summer's evening, in anuising 
 conversation. Few hail ever been in the house of the 
 Meehans since it became theirs ; nor were the means 
 of their subsistence known. They led an idle life, 
 had no scarcity of food, were decently clothed, and 
 never wanted money ; circumstances which occasioned 
 110 small degree of conjecture in Carnmore and it« 
 vicinity. 
 
 Some said they lived by theft ; others that they 
 were coiners; and there were many who imagined, 
 from the diabolical countenance of the elder brother, 
 tliat he had sold liimself to the devil, who, they 
 utlirmed, set liis mark upon liim, and was his pay- 
 master. Upon this hypotliesis several were ready to 
 prove tliat he had neither breath nor shadow : they 
 had seen him, they said, standing under a hiilge-row 
 of elder — that unholy tree which furnished wood for 
 the cross, luid on which Judas hanged himself — yet, 
 :dthough it was noon-day in the month of July, his
 
 120 THE DONAGIi; OR, 
 
 person threw out no shadow. Worthy souls! because 
 the man stood in the shade at the time. But with 
 these simple explanations superstition had nothing to 
 do, although we are bound in justice to the reverend 
 old lady to affirm that she was kept exceedingly busy 
 in Carnmore. If a man had a sick cow, she was elf- 
 shot; if his child became consumptive, it had been 
 overlooked, or received a blast from the fairies ; if the 
 hooping-cough was rife, all the afflicted children were 
 put three times under an ass ; or when they happened 
 to have the " mumps,'' were led before sunrise, to a 
 south-running stream, with a halter hanging about 
 their necks, under an obligation of silence during the 
 ceremony. In short, there could not possibly be a more 
 superstitious spot than that which these men of 
 mystery had selected for their residence. Another 
 circumstance which caused the people to look upon 
 them with additional dread, was their neglect of mass 
 on Sundays and holidays, though they avowed them- 
 selves Roman Catholics. They did not, it is true, 
 join in the dances, drinking-matches, foot-ball, and 
 other sports with which the Carnmore folk celebrated 
 the Lord's day ; but they scrupled not, on the other 
 hand, to mend their garden-ditch, or mould a row of 
 cabbages on the Sabbath — a circumstance for which 
 two or three of the Carnmore boys were, one Sunday 
 evening when tipsy, well-nigh chastising them. Their 
 usual manner, however, of spending that day was by 
 sauntering lazily about the fields, or stretching them- 
 selves supinely on the sunny side of the hedges, their 
 arms folded into their bosoms, and their hats lying 
 over their faces to keep off the sun.
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 121 
 
 In the mean time, loss of property was becoming 
 quite common in the neighbourhood. Sheep were 
 stolen from the farmers, and cows and horses from 
 the more extensive graziers in the parish. The com- 
 plaints against the authors of these depredations were 
 loud and incessant : watches were set, combinations 
 for mutual security formed, and subscriptions to a 
 considerable amount entered into, with a hope of be- 
 ing able, by the temptation of a large reward, to work 
 upon the weakness or cupidity of some accomplice to 
 betray the gang of villains who infested the neighbour- 
 hood. All, however, was in vain; every week brought 
 some new act of plunder to light, perpetrated upon 
 such unsuspecting persons as had hitherto escaped the 
 notice of the robbers ; but no trace could be discovered 
 of the perpetrators. Although theft had from time to 
 time been committed upon a small scale before the 
 arrival of the Meehans in the village, yet it was un- 
 deniable that since that period the instances not only 
 multiplied, but became of a more daring and exten- 
 sive description. They arose in a gradual scale from 
 the hen-roost to the stable ; and with such ability 
 were they planned and executed, that the people, who 
 in every instance identified Meehan and his brother 
 with them, began to believe and hint that, in conse- 
 quence of their compact with the devil, they had power 
 to render themselves invisible. Common fame, who 
 can best treat such subjects, took up this, and never 
 laid it aside until, by narrating several exploits which 
 Meehan the elder was said to have performed in other 
 parts of the kingdom, she wound it up by roundly 
 informing the Carnmorians, that, having been once
 
 122 THE donagh; or, 
 
 taken prisoner for murder, he was caught by the leg, 
 when half through a hedge, but that, being mos^ 
 •wickedly determined to save his neck, he left the leg 
 with the officer who took him, shouting out that it was 
 a new Species of leg-bail ; and yet he moved away 
 with surprising speed, upon two of as good legs as any 
 man in his majesty's dominions might wish to walk 
 off upon, from the insinuating advances of a bailiff or 
 a constable ! 
 
 The family of the Meehans consisted of their wives 
 and three children, two boys and a girl ; the former 
 were the offspring of the younger brother, and the 
 latter of Anthony. It has been observed, with truth 
 and justice, that there is no man, how hardened and 
 diabolical soever in his natural temper, who does not 
 exhibit to some particular object a peculiar species of 
 affection. Such a man was Anthony Meehan. That 
 Bullen hatred which he bore to human societ}', and 
 that inherent depravity of heart which left the trail of 
 vice and crime upon his footsteps, were flung off his 
 character when he addressed his daughter Anne. To 
 him her voice was like music ; to her he was not the 
 reckless villain, treacherous and cruel, which the help- 
 less and unsuspecting found him ; but a parent kind 
 and indulgent as ever pressed an only and beloved 
 daughter to his bosom. Anne was handsome : had 
 she been bom and educated in an elevated rank in 
 society, she would have been softened by the polish 
 and luxury of life into perfect beauty : she was, how- 
 ever, utterly without education. As Anne experienced 
 from her father no unnatural cruelty, no harshnessj 
 nor even indifference, she consequently loved him in
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 123 
 
 return; for she knew that tenderness from svch a 
 man was a proof of i)arental love rarely to be found in 
 life. Perhaps she loved not her father tlic less on 
 perceiving that he was proscribed by the world ; a cir- 
 cumstance which might also have enhanced in his 
 eyes the affection she bore him. When jNIeehan came 
 to Carnmore, she was sixteen ; and, as that was three 
 years before the incident occurred on which we have 
 founded this narrative, the reader may now suppose 
 her to be about nineteen; an interesting country girl 
 as to person, but with a mind completely neglected, 
 yet remarkable for an uncommon stock of good-nature 
 and credulity. 
 
 About the hour of eleven o'clock, one winter's 
 night in the beginning of December, Meehan and his 
 brother sat moodily at their hearth. The fire was of 
 peat which had recently been put down, and, from 
 between the turf, the ruddy blaze was shooting out in 
 those little tongues and gust's of sober light, which 
 throw around the rural hearth one of those charms 
 which make up the felicity of domestic life. The 
 night was stormy, and the wind moaned and howled 
 along the dark hills beneath which the cottage stood. 
 Every object in the house was shrouded in a mellow 
 shade, which afforded to the eye no clear outline, ex- 
 cept around the hearth alone, where the light bright- 
 ened into a golden hue, giving the idea of calmness 
 and peace. Anthony Meehan sat on one side of it, 
 and his daughter opposite him, knitting : before the fire 
 sat Denis, drawing shapes in the ashes for his ov»n 
 amusement. 
 
 " Bless me," said he, " how sthrange it is !'*
 
 124 THE donagh; or, 
 
 "What is?" inquired Anthony, in his deep and 
 grating tones. 
 
 " Why, thin, it u sthrange !" continued the other, 
 who, despite of the severity of his brother, was re- 
 markably superstitious — " a coffin I made in the 
 ashes three times runnin' ! Isn't it very quare, 
 Anne?" he added, addressing the niece. 
 
 " Sthrange enough, of a sartinty," she replied, 
 being unwilling to express before her father the alarm 
 which the incident, slight as it was, created in her 
 mind; for she, like her uncle, was subject to such 
 ridiculous influences. " How did it happen, uncle?'* 
 
 " Why, thhi, no way in life, Anne ; only, as I was 
 thryin' to make a sboe, it turned out a coffin on my 
 hands. I thin smoothed the ashes, and began agin, 
 an' sorra bit of it but was a coffin still. Well, says I, 
 I'll give you another chance, — here goes once more; 
 — an', as sure as a gun's iron, it was a coffin the third 
 time ! Heaven be about us, it's odd enough !" 
 
 " It would be little matther you were nailed down 
 in a coffin," replied Anthony, fiercely; " the world 
 wo\ild have little loss. What a pitiful, cowardly 
 rascal you are ! Afraid o' your own shadow afther 
 the sun goes down, except Pm at your elbow! Can't 
 you dhrive all them palavers out o' your head? Didn't 
 the sargint tell us, an' prove to us, the time we broke 
 the guard-house, an' took Frinch lave o' the ridgment 
 for good, that the whole o' that, an' more along wid 
 it, is all priestcraft?" 
 
 " I remimber he did, sure enough : I dunna where 
 the same sargint is now, Tony ? About no good, any 
 way, I'll be bail. Howsomever, in regard o' that,
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 125 
 
 why doesn't yourself give up fastin' from the mate of 
 a Friday ?" 
 
 "Do you want me to sthretch you on the hearth?" 
 replied the savage, whilst his eyes kindled into fury, 
 and his grim visage darkened into a satanic expres- 
 sion. " I'll tache you to be puttin' me through my 
 catechiz about ^tin' mate. I may manage that as I 
 plase ; it comes at first-cost, any how : but no cross- 
 questions to me about it, if you regard your health!" 
 
 '* I must say for you," replied Denis, reproach- 
 fully, " that you're a good warrant to put the health 
 astray upon us of an odd start : we're not come to 
 this time o' day widout carryin' somethin' to remim- 
 ber you by. For my own part, Tony, I don't like 
 such tokens ; an' moreover, I wish you had resaved a 
 thrifle o' larnin', espishily in the writin' line; for 
 whenever we have any ditference, you're so ready to 
 prove your opinion by settin' your mark upon me, 
 that I'd rather, fifty times over, you could write it 
 with pen an' ink." 
 
 " My father will give that up, uncle," said the 
 niece; " it's bad for any body to be fightin', but 
 worst of all for brothers, that ought to live in peace 
 and kindness. Won't you, father?" 
 
 " Maybe I will, dear, some o' these days, on your 
 account, Anne; but you must get this creature of an 
 uncle of yours to let me alone, an' not be aggravatin' 
 me with his folly. As for your mother, she's worse ; 
 her tongue's sharp enough to skin a flint, and a batin' 
 a day has little effect on her." 
 
 Anne sighed, for she knew how low an irreligious 
 life, and the infamous society with which, as her fa-
 
 126 THE donagh; op 
 
 ther's wife, her mother was compelled to miiigie, had 
 degraded her. 
 
 " Well but, Father, you don't set her a good ex- 
 ample yourself," said Anne; " and if she scoulds 
 and drinks now, you know she was a different woman 
 when you got her. You allow this yourself; and the 
 crathur, the dhrunkest time she is, doesn't she cry 
 hittherly, remimberin' what she has been. Instead of 
 one batin' a day, father, thry no batin' a day, an' may 
 be it'ill turn out betther than thumpin' an' smashin' 
 lier, as you do." 
 
 " Why, thin, there's thruth an' sinse in what the 
 girl says, Tony," observed Denis. 
 
 '' Come," replied Anthony, " whatever she may say, 
 I'll suffer none of your interference. Go an' get us 
 the black bottle from the place ; it'll soon be time to 
 move. I hope they won't stay too long." 
 
 Denis obeyed this command with great readiness, 
 for whiskey in some degree blunted the fierce passions 
 of his brother, and deadened his cruelty; or rather 
 diverted it from minor objects to those which occurred 
 in the lawless perpetration of his villany. 
 
 The bottle was got, and in the mean time the fire 
 blazed up brightly ; the storm without, however, did 
 not abate, nor did Meehan and his brother wish that 
 it should. As the elder of them took the glass from 
 the hands of the other, an air of savage pleasure: 
 blazed in his eyes, on reflecting that the tempest ot 
 the night was favourable to the execution of the vil- 
 lanous deed on which they were bent. 
 
 " More power to you!" said Anthony, impiously 
 personifying the storm : " sure that's one proof that
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 127 
 
 Goi doesn't throuble his head about what we do, or 
 we would not get such a murtherin' fine night as is in 
 it, my how. That's it ! blow an' tundher away, an' 
 keep yourself an' us as black as hell, sooner than we 
 should fail in what we intind! Anne, your health, 
 acushla ! — Yours, Dinny ! If you keep your tongue 
 off o' rae, I'll neither make nor meddle in regard o' 
 the batin' o' you." 
 
 " I hope you'll stick to that, any how," replied 
 Denis; " for my part I'm sick and sore o' you every 
 day in the year. Many another man would put salt 
 wather between himself and yourself, sooner nor be- 
 come a battin'-stone for you, as I have been. Few 
 would bear it, when they could mend themselves." 
 • " What's that you say?" replied Anthony, suddenly 
 laying down his glass, catching his brother by the 
 collar, and looking him with a murderous scowl in the 
 face. " Is it thrachery you hint at ? — eh ? Sai-pent, Is 
 it thrachery you mane ?" and as he spoke, he com- 
 pressed Denis's neck between his powerful hands, 
 until the other was black in the face. 
 
 Anne flew to her uncle's assistance, and with much 
 difficulty succeeded in rescuing him from the deadly 
 gripe of her father, who exclaimed, as he loosed his 
 hold, " You may thank the girl, or you'd not spake, 
 nor dare to spake, about crossin' the salt-wather, or 
 lavin' me in a desateful way agin. If I ever suspect 
 that a thought of thrachery comes into your heart, I'll 
 do for you; and you may carry your story to the 
 world I'll send you to." 
 
 " Father dear, why are you so suspicious of my 
 uncle?" said Anne; " sure he's a long time livin'
 
 128 THE donagh; or. 
 
 1 
 
 with you, an' goin' step for step in all the danger you 
 meet with. If he had a mind to turn out a Judas 
 agin you, he might a done it long agone ; not to min- 
 tion the throuble it would bring on his own head, 
 seein* he's as deep in every thing as you are." 
 
 " If that's all that's throubling you," replied Denis, 
 trembling, " you may make yourself asy on the head' 
 of it; but well I know 'tisn't that that's on your 
 mind; 'tis your own conscience; but sure it's not fair 
 nor rasonable for you to vent your evil thoughts on 
 me !" 
 
 " Well, he won't," said Anne, " he'll quit it; his 
 mind's throubled; an', dear knows, it's no wondher 
 it should. Och, I'd give the world wide that his con- 
 science was lightened of the load that's upon it ! My 
 mother's lameness is nothin' ; but the child, poor 
 thing ! An' it was only widin three days of her lyin'- 
 in. Och, it was a cruel sthroke, father! An' when 
 I seen its little innocent face, dead, an' me widout a 
 brother, I thought my heart would break, thinkin* 
 upon who did it I" The tears fell in showers from 
 her eyes, as she added, " Father, I don't want to vex 
 you ; but I wish you to feel sorrow for that at laste. 
 Oh, if you'd bring the priest, an' give up sich coorses, 
 father dear, how happy we'd be, an' how happy your- 
 self 'ud be!" 
 
 Conscience for a moment started from her sleep, 
 and uttered a cry of guilt in his spirit : his face be- 
 came ghastly, and his eyes full of horror; his lips 
 quivered, and he was about to upbraid his daughter 
 with more harshness than usual, when a low whistle, 
 resembling that of a curlew, was heard at a chink of
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 129 
 
 t"he door. In a moment he gulped down another glass 
 of spirits, and was on his feet : " Go, Denis, an' get 
 the arms," said he to his brother, " while I let them 
 in." 
 
 On opening the door, three men entered, having 
 their great coats muffled about them, and their hats 
 slouched. One of them, named Kenny, was a short 
 villain, but of a thick-set, hairy, frame. The other 
 was kno^vn as " the Big Mower," in consequence of 
 his following that employment every season, and of 
 his great skill in performing it. He had a deep- 
 rooted objection against permitting the palm of his 
 hand to be seen ; a reluctance which common fame 
 attributed to the fact of his havnig received on that 
 part the impress of a hot iron, in the shape of the let- 
 ter T, not forgetting to add, that T was the hierogly- 
 phic for Thief. The villain himself affirmed it was 
 simply the mark of a cross, burned into it by a blessed 
 friar, as a charm against St. Vitus' s dance, to which 
 he had been subject. The people, however, were 
 rather sceptical, not of the friar's power to cure that 
 malady, but of the fact of his ever having moved a 
 limb under it ; and they concluded with telling him, 
 good-humouredly enough, that notwithstanding the 
 charm, he "svas destined to die " wdd the threble of it 
 in his toe." The third was a noted pedlar called 
 Martin, who, under pretence of selling tape, pins, 
 scissors, &c. was very useful in setting such premises 
 as this virtuous fraternity might, without much risk, 
 make a descent upon. 
 
 '' I thought yees would' out-stay your time," said 
 the elder Meehan, relapsing into his determined hardi- 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE donagh; or, 
 
 hood of character ; *' we're ready, hours agone. Dick 
 Rice gave me two curlew an' two patrich-calls to-day. 
 Now pass the glass among yees, while Denny brings 
 the arms. I know there's danger in this business, in 
 regard of the Cassidys livin' so near us. If I see any 
 body afut, I'll use the curlew call; an' if not, I'll 
 whistle twice on i\i&patrich^ one, an' yees may come 
 an. The horse is worth aighty guineas, if he's worth 
 a shillin' ; an' we'll make sixty of him ourselves." 
 
 For some time they chatted about the plan in con- 
 templation, and drank freely of the spirits, until at 
 .ength the impatience of the elder Meehan at the de- 
 lay of his brother became ungovernable. His voice 
 deepened into tones of savage passion, as he uttered a 
 series of blasphemous curses against this unfortunate 
 butt of his indignation and malignity. At length he 
 rushed out furiously to know why he did not return ; 
 but, on reaching a secret excavation in the mound 
 against which the house was built, he found, to his 
 utter dismay, that Denis had made his escape by an 
 artificial passage, scooped out of it to secure themselves 
 a retreat in case of surprise or detection. It opened 
 behind the house among a clump of black-thorn and 
 brushwood, arid was covered with green turf in such a 
 manner, as to escape the notice of all who were not 
 acquainted with the secret. Meehan's face, on his 
 return, was worked up into an expression truly 
 awful. 
 
 " We're sould!" said he; '' but, stop, I'll tache 
 the thraithur what revinge is !" 
 
 In a moment he awoke his brother's two sons, and 
 * Partridge.
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 131 
 
 dragged them by the neck, one in each hand, to the 
 hearth, 
 
 " Your villain of a father's off," said he, " to be- 
 tray us : go, an' folly him ; bring him back, an' he'll 
 be safe from me : but let him become a stag agin us, 
 an' if I should hunt you both into the bowels of the 
 airth, I'll send yees to a short account. I don't care 
 that," and he snapped his fingers — '' ha, ha — no, I 
 don't care that for the law ; I know how to dale with 
 it, when it comes! An, what's the stuff about the 
 other world, but priestcraft and lies !" 
 
 " Maybe," said the Big Mower, " Denis is gone to 
 get the foreway of us, an' to take the horse himself. 
 Our best plan, is to lose no time, at all events ; so let 
 us hurry, for fraid the night might happen to clear 
 up." 
 
 " He !" said Meehan, " he go alone ! No : the 
 miserable wretch is afeard of his own shadow. I only 
 wondher he stuck to me so long : but sure he wouldn't, 
 only I bate the courage in, and the fear out of him. 
 You're right, Brian," said he upon reflection, " let us 
 lose no time, but be off. Do yees mind ?" he added 
 to his nephews ; " Did yees hear me ? If you see him, 
 let him come back, an' all will be berrid ; but, if he 
 doesn't, you know your fate;" saying which, he and 
 his accomplices departed amid the howling of the 
 storm. 
 
 The next morning, Cammore, and indeed the v.-hole 
 parish, was in an uproar; a horse, worth eighty 
 guineas, had been stolen in the most daring manner 
 from the Cassidys, and the hue-and-cry was up after 
 the thief or thieves who took him. For several days 
 k2
 
 132 THE donagh; or, 
 
 the search was closely maintained, but without success; 
 not the slightest trace could be found of him or them. 
 The Cassidys could very well bear to lose him ; but 
 there were many struggling farmers, on whose property 
 serious depredations had been committed, who could 
 not sustain their loss so easily. It was natural under 
 these circumstances, that suspicion should attach to 
 many persons, some of whom had but indifferent cha- 
 racters before, as well as to several who certainly had 
 never deserved suspicion. When a fortnight or so had 
 elapsed, and no circumstances transpired that might 
 lead to discovery, the neighbours, including those who 
 had principally suffered by the robberies, determined 
 to assemble upon a certain day at Cassidy's house, for 
 the purpose of clearing themselves, on oath, of the 
 imputations thrown out against some of them, as ac- 
 complices in the thefts. In order, however, that the 
 ceremony should be performed as solemnly as possible, 
 they determined to send for Father Farrell, and Mr. 
 Nicholson, a magistrate, both of whom they requested 
 to undertake the task of jointly presiding upon this 
 occasion; and, that the circumstance should have 
 every publicity, it was announced from the altar by 
 the priest, on the preceding Sabbath, and published 
 on the church-gate in large legible characters, ingeni- 
 ously printed with a pen by the village schoolmaster. 
 In fact, the intended meeting, and the object of it, 
 were already notorious ; and much conversation was 
 held upon its probable result, and the measures which 
 might be taken against those who should refuse to 
 swear. Of the latter description there was but one 
 opinion, which was that their refusal in such a case
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 133 
 
 would be tantamount to guilt. The innocent were 
 anxious to vindicate themselves from suspicion : and, 
 as the suspected did not amount to more than a dozen, 
 of course the whole body of the people, including the 
 thieves themselves, who applauded it as loudly as the 
 others, all expressed their satisfaction at the measures 
 about to be adopted. A day was therefore appointed, 
 on which the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, parti- 
 cularly the suspected persons, should come to assem- 
 ble at Cassidy's house, in order to have the characters 
 of the innocent cleared up, and the guilty made 
 
 On the evening before this took place, were assem- 
 bled in Meehan's cottage, the elder Meehan, and the 
 rest of the gang, including Denis, who had absconded 
 on the night of the theft. 
 
 " Well, well, Denny," said Anthony, who forced 
 his rugged nature into an appearance of better temper, 
 that he might strengthen the timid spirit of his bro- 
 ther against the scrutiny about to take place on the 
 morrow — perhaps, too, he dreaded him — " Well, well, 
 Denny, I thought sure enough, that it was some new 
 piece of cowardice came over you. Just think of 
 him," he added, " shabbin' off, only because he 
 made, with a bit of a rod, three strokes in the ashes 
 that he thought resembled a coffin I — ha, ha, ha I" 
 
 This produced a peal of derision at Denis's pusil- 
 lanimous terror. 
 
 "Ay I" said the Big Mower, "he was makin' a 
 coffin, was he ? I wondher it wasn't a rope you drew, 
 Denny. If any here dies in the coil, it will be the 
 greatest coward, an' that's yourself."
 
 134 . THE donagh; or, 
 
 *' You may all laugh," replied Denis, " but I know- 
 such things to have a manin'. When my mother 
 died, didn't my father, the heavens be his bed ! see a 
 black coach about a week before if? an' sure from the 
 first day she tuck ill, the dead-watch was heard in the 
 house every night : and what was more nor that, she 
 kept warm until she went into her grave ;* an', ac- 
 cordingly, didn't my sisther Shibby die within a year 
 afther?" 
 
 " It's no matther about thim things," replied An- 
 thony; " it's thruth about the dead-watch, my mother 
 keepin' warm, an' Shibby's death, any way. But on 
 the night we tuck Cassidy's horse, I thought you were 
 goin' to betray us : 1 was surely in a murdherin' pas- 
 sion, an' would have done harm, only things turned 
 out as they did." 
 
 " Why," said Denis, " the thruth is, I was afeard 
 some of us would be shot, an' that the lot would fall 
 on myself; for the coffin, thinks I, was sent as a 
 wamin'. How-and-ever, I spied about Cassidy's 
 stable, till I seen that the coast was clear ; so whin 1 
 heard the low cry of the patrich that Anthony and I 
 agreed on, 1 joined yees." 
 
 " Well, about to-morrow," observed Kenny — " ha, 
 ha, ha ! — there'll be lots o' swearin'. Why the whole 
 parish is to switch the primer ; many a thumb and 
 coat-cuif will be kissed in spite of priest or magistrate. 
 I remimber once, whin I was swearin' an alibi for 
 
 * It is supposed in Ireland, when a corpse retains, for a 
 longer space of time than usual, any thing like animal heat, 
 that some person belonging to the family of the deceased will 
 Jie within a year.
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 135 
 
 long Paddy Murray, that suffered for the M'Gees, I 
 kissed my thumb, I thought, so smoothly, that no one 
 would notish it ; but I had a keen one to dale with, 
 so says he, ' You know for the matther o' that, my 
 good fellow, that you have your thumb to kiss every 
 day in the week,' says he, ' but you might salute the 
 book out o' dacency and good manners; not,' says he, 
 * that you an' it are strangers aither; for, if I don't 
 mistake, you're an ould hand at swearin' alibis.' At 
 all evints, I had to smack the book itself, and it^s I, 
 and Barney Green, and Tim Casserly, that did swear 
 stiffly for Paddy, but the thing was too clear agin him. 
 So he suffered, poor fellow, an' died right game, for 
 he said over his dhrop — ha, ha, ha — that he was as 
 innocent o' the murder as a child unborn : an' so he 
 was in one sinse, bein' afther gettin' absolution." 
 
 " As to thumb-kissin'," observed the elder Meehan, 
 " let there be none of it among us to-morrow ; if we're 
 caught at it 'twould be as bad as stayin' away altoge- 
 ther : for my part, I'll give it a smack like a pistol 
 shot — ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 " I hope they won't bring the priest's book," said 
 Denis. '* I haven't the laste objecaOu agin payin' 
 my respects to the magistrate's paper, but somehow I 
 don't like tastin' the priest's in a falsity." 
 
 *' Don't you know," said the Big Mower, " that 
 whin a magistrate's present, it's ever an' always only 
 the Tistament by law that's used. I myself wouldn't 
 kiss the mass-book in a falsity. 
 
 " There's none of us sayin' we'd do it in a lie," 
 said the elder Meehan; " an' it's weU for thousands 
 that the law doesn't use the priest's book ; though,
 
 136 THE DONAGH ; OR, 
 
 after all, aren't there books that say religion's all a 
 sham. I think myself it is; for if what they talk 
 about justice an' Providence is thrue, would Tom Dil-, 
 Ion be transported for the robbery ive committed at 
 Bantry? Tom, it's true, was an ould offender; but 
 he was innocent of that, any way. The world's all 
 chance, boys, as sargint Eustace used to say, and whin 
 we die there's no more about us ; so that I don't see 
 why a man mightn't as well switch the priest's book 
 as any other, only that, somehow, a body can't shake 
 the terror of it off o' them." 
 
 *' I dunna, Anthony, but you an' I ought to curse 
 that sargint ; only for him we mightn't be as we are, 
 sore in our conscience, an' afeard of every fut we hear 
 passin'," observed Denis. 
 
 " Spake for your own cowardly heart, man alive," 
 replied Anthony; " for my part, I'm afeard o' nothin'. 
 Put round the glass, and don't be nursin' it there all 
 night. Sure we're not so bad as the rot among the 
 sheep, nor the black leg among the bullocks, nor the 
 staggers among the hordes, any how ; an' yet they'd 
 hang us up only for bein' fond of a bit o' mate — ha, 
 ha, ha!" 
 
 " Thrue enough," said the Big Mower, philoso- 
 phizing — " God made the beef and the mutton, and 
 the grass to fed it ; but it was man made the ditches : 
 now we're only bringin' things back to the right way 
 that Providence made them in, when ould times vvere 
 in it, manin' before ditches war invinted — ha, ha, 
 ha !" 
 
 *' 'Tis a good argument," observed Kenny, " only 
 that judge and jury would be a little delicate in actiu'
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 13*7 
 
 up to it ; an' the more's the pity. Howsomever, as 
 Providence made the mutton, sure it's not harm for us 
 to take what he sends." 
 " Ay ; but," said Denis, 
 
 " God made man, an' man made money j 
 God made bees, an' bees made honey : 
 God made Satan, an' Satan made sin j 
 An' God made a hell to put Satan in. 
 
 Let nobody say there's not a hell ; isn't there it plain 
 from Scripthur?" 
 
 " I wish you had Scripthur tied about your neck !" 
 replied Anthony — " How fond of it one o' the greatest 
 thieves that ever missed the rope is ! Why the fellow 
 could plan a roguery with any man that ever danced 
 the hangman's hornpipe, an' yit he he's repatin' bits 
 an' scraps of ould prayers, an' charms, an' stuff. Ay, 
 indeed I Sure he has a varse out o' the Bible, that 
 he thinks can prevint a man from bein' hung up any 
 day 1" 
 
 While Denny, the Big Mower, and the two Mee- 
 hans were thus engaged in giving expression to their 
 peculiar opinions, the Pedlar held a conversation of a 
 different kind with Anne. 
 
 With the secrets of the family in his keeping, he 
 commenced a rather penitent review of his own life, 
 and expressed his intention of abandoning so danger- 
 ous a mode of accumulating wealth. He said he 
 thanked heaven that he had already laid up sufficient 
 for the wants of a reasonable man ; that he under- 
 stood farming and the management of sheep particu- 
 larly well : that it was his intention to remove to a 
 different part of the kingdom, and take a farm ; and
 
 138 THE donagh; or, 
 
 that nothing prevented him from having done thif 
 before, hut the want of a helpmate to take care of his 
 establishment : he added, that his present wife was of 
 an intolerable temper, and a greater villain by fifty 
 degrees than himself. He concluded by saying, that 
 his conscience twitched him_ night and day for living 
 with her, and that by abandoning her immediately, 
 becoming truly religious, and taking Anne in her 
 place, he hoped, he said, to atone in some measure for 
 his former errors. 
 
 Anthony, however, having noticed the earnestness 
 which marked the Pedlar's manner, suspected him of 
 attempting to corrupt the principles of his daughter, 
 having forgotten the influence which his own opinions 
 were calculated to produce upon her heart. 
 
 " Martin," said he^ " 'twould be as well you ped 
 attintion to what we're sayin' in regard o' the trial to-* 
 morrow, as to be palaverin' talk into the girl's ear 
 that can't be good comin' from your lips. Quit it, I 
 say, quit it! Corp an duowol — I wont allow such 
 proceedins !" 
 
 " Swear till you blister your lips, Anthony," replied 
 Martin : " as for me, bein' no residenthur, I'm not 
 bound to it; an' what's more, I'm not suspected. 
 'Tis settin' some other bit o' work for yees I'll be, 
 while you're all clearin' yourselves from stealin' honest 
 Cassidy's horse. 1 wish we had him safely disposed 
 of in the mane time, an' the money for him an' the 
 other beasts in our pockets." 
 
 Much more conversation of a similar kind passed 
 between them upon various topics connected with their 
 profligacy and crimes. At length they separated for
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 139 
 
 the night, after having concerted their plan of action 
 for the ensuing scrutiny. 
 
 The next morning, before the hour appointed ar- 
 rived, the parish, particularly the neighbourhood of 
 Carnmore, was struck with deep consternation. La- 
 bour became suspended, mirth disappeared, and every 
 face was marked with paleness, anxiety, and appre- 
 hension. If two men met, one shook his head mys- 
 teriously, and inquired from the other, *' Did you hear 
 the news?" 
 
 •' Ay ! ay ! the Lord be about us all ! I did ; an' I 
 pray God it may lave the counthry as it came 
 to it!" 
 
 " Oh, an' that it may, I humbly make supplication 
 this day !" 
 
 If two women met, it was with similar mystery and 
 fear: ^^Vread, do you know what's at the Cassidys'?" 
 
 " Whisht, a-hagur, I do; but let what will happen, 
 sure it's best for us to say nothin'." 
 
 " Say ! the blessed Virgin forbid ! I'd cut my hand 
 off o' me, afore I'd spake a word about it; only 
 that" 
 
 " Whisht ! woman — for mercy's sake — don't" 
 
 And so they would separate, each crossing herself 
 devoutly. 
 
 The meeting at Cassidy's was to take place that day 
 at twelve o'clock; but, about two hours before the 
 appointed time, Anne, who had been in some of the 
 other houses, came into her father's, quite pale, breath- 
 less and trembling. 
 
 * Oh !" she exclaimed, with clasped hands, whilst 
 the tears fell fast from her eyes, " we'll be lost, <
 
 140 THE donagh; or, 
 
 ruined; — did yees hear what's in the neighbourhood 
 wid the Cassidys ?" 
 
 *' Girl," said the father, with more severity than he 
 had ever manifested to her before, " I never yit ris my 
 hand to you, but, ma corp an duowol, if you open 
 your lips, rWfell you where you stand. Do you want 
 that cowardly uncle o' yours to be the manes o' han^- 
 in' your father ? Maybe that was one o' the lessons 
 Martin gave you last night ?" And as he spoke he 
 knit his brows at her with that murderous scowl 
 which was habitual to him. The girl trembled, and 
 began to think that since her father's temper deepened 
 in domestic outrage and violence as his crimes multi- 
 plied, the sooner she left the family the better. Every 
 day, indeed, diminished that species of instinctive 
 aflfection which she had entertained towards him; and 
 this, in proportion as her reason ripened into a capa- 
 city for comprehending the dark materials of which 
 his character was composed. Whether he himself be- 
 gan to consider detection at hand, or not, we cannot 
 say; but it is certain, that his conduct was marked 
 with a callous recklessness of spirit, which increased 
 in atrocity to such a degree, that even his daughter 
 could only not look on him with disgust. 
 
 " What's the matter now?" inquired Denis, with 
 alarm : " is it any thing about us, Anthony?" 
 
 " No, 'tisn't," replied the other, " any thing about 
 us ! What 'ud it be about us for ? 'Tis a lyin' re- 
 port that some cunnin' knave spread, hopin' to find 
 out the guilty. But hear me, Denis, once for all; 
 we're goin' to clear ourselves — now listen — an' let 
 my words sink deep into your heart: if you refuse to
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 141 
 
 swear this day— no matther whafs put into your 
 hand — you'll do harm — that's all : have courage, 
 man ; hut should you coio, your coorse will he short ; 
 an' mark, even if you escape me, your sons won't : I 
 have it all planned ; an' corp an duoiool ! thim you 
 won't know from Adam will revinge me, if I'm taken 
 up through your unmanliness." 
 
 *' 'Twould be hetther for us to lave the counthry," 
 said Anne ; " we might slip away as it is." 
 
 " Ay," said the father, " an' be taken by the neck 
 afore we'd get two miles from the place ! no, no, gir- 
 sha ; it's the safest way to brazen thim out. Did you 
 hear me, Denis ?" 
 
 Denis started, for he had been evidently pondering 
 on the mysterious words of Anne, to which his bro- 
 ther's anxiety to conceal them gave additional mys- 
 tery. The cofBn, too, recurred to him; and he feared 
 that the death shadowed out by it, would in some 
 manner or other occur in the family. He was, in fact, 
 one of those miserable villains with but half a con- 
 science; — that is to say, as much as makes them the 
 slaves of the fear which results from crime, without 
 being the slightest impediment to their committing it. 
 It was no wonder he started at the deep pervading 
 tones of his brother's voice, for the question was put 
 with ferocious energy. 
 
 On starting, he looked with vague terror on his 
 brother, fearing, but not comprehending, his question. 
 
 " What is it, Anthony?" he inquired. 
 
 " Oh, for that matther," replied the other, " no- 
 thin' at all : think o' what I said to you, any how ; 
 swear through thick an' thin, if you have a regard for
 
 li^ THE donagh; or, 
 
 your own health, or for your childher. Maybe I had 
 betther repate it agin for you," he continued, eying 
 him with mingled hatred and suspicion. < " Denis, as 
 a friend, I bid you mind yourself this day, an' see you 
 don't bring aither of us into throuble." 
 
 There lay before the Cassidys' houses a small flat 
 of common, trodden into rings by the young horses 
 they were in the habit of training. On this level 
 space were assembled those who came, either to cleeir 
 their own character from suspicion, or to witness the 
 ceremony. The day was dark and lowering, and 
 heavy clouds rolled slowly across the peaks of the 
 surrounding mountains ; scarcely a breath of air could 
 be felt ; and, as the country people silently approached, 
 such was the closeness of the day, their haste to 
 arrive in time, and their general anxiety, either for 
 themselves or their friends, that almost ever}^ man, on 
 reaching the spot, might be seen taking up the skirts 
 of his " cothamore," or " big coat," (the peasant's 
 handkerchief,) to wipe the sweat from his brow; and 
 as he took off his dingy woollen hat, or caubeen, the 
 perspiration rose in strong exhalations from his head 
 " Michael, am I in time ?" might be heard from 
 such persons, as they arrived : " did this business be- 
 gin yit?" 
 
 *' Full time, Larry ; myself 's here an hour ago, but 
 no appearance of any thing as yit. Father Farrell 
 an' Squire Nicholson are both in Cassidy's waitin' till 
 they're all gather, whin they'll begin to put thim 
 through their facins. You hard about what they've 
 got?" 
 
 " No; for I'm only on my way home from the berril
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. M3 
 
 of a cleaveen of mine, that we put clown this momin' 
 in Tullyard. What is it ?" 
 
 " Why, man alive, it's through the whole parish 
 inready,'^ — he then went on, lowering his voice to a 
 whisper, and speaking in a tone bordering on dismay. 
 
 The other crossed himself, and betrayed symptoms 
 of awe and astonishment, not unmingled with fear. 
 
 " Well," he replied, *' I dunna whether I'd come 
 here, if I'd known that; for, innocent or guilty, I 
 wouldn't wish to be near it. Och, may God pity thim 
 that's to come acrass it, espishily if they dare to do it 
 in a lie !" 
 
 " They needn't, I can tell yees both," observed a 
 third person, " be a hair afeard of it, for the best rason 
 livin', that there's no thnith at all in the report, nor 
 the Cassidys never thought of sindin' for any thing o' 
 the kind : I have it from Larry Cassidy's own lips, 
 an' he ought to know best." 
 
 The truth is, that two reports were current among 
 the crowd : one, that the oath was to be simply on the 
 Bible ; and the other, that a more awful means of 
 expurgation was resorted to by the Cassidys. The 
 people, consequently, not knowing which to credit, 
 felt that most painful of all sensations — uncertainty. 
 
 During the period which intervened between their 
 assembling and the commencement of the ceremony, 
 a spectator, interested in contemplating the workings 
 of human nature in circumstances of deep interest, 
 would have had ample scope for observation. The 
 occasion was to them a solemn one. There was little 
 conversation among them ; for when a man is wound 
 up to a pitch of great interest, he is seldom disposed
 
 144 THE donagh; or, 
 
 to relish discourse. Every brow was anxious, every 
 cheek blanched, and every arm folded : they scarcely 
 stirred, or when they did, only with slow abstracted 
 movements, rather mechanical than voluntary. If an 
 individual made his appearance about Cassidy's door, 
 a sluggish stir among them was visible, and a low 
 murmur of a peculiar character might be heard ; but 
 on perceiving that it was only some ordinary person, 
 all subsided again into a brooding stillness that was 
 equally singular and impressive. 
 
 Under this pecuHar feeling was the multitude, when 
 Meehan and his brother were seen approaching it from 
 their own house. The elder, with folded arms, and 
 hat pulled over his brows, stalked grimly forward, 
 having that remarkable scowl upon his face, which 
 had contributed to establish for liim so diabolical a 
 character. Denis walked by his side, with his coun- 
 tenance strained to inflation; — a miserable parody of 
 that sullen effrontery which marked the unshrinking 
 miscreant beside him. He had not heard of the or- 
 deal, owing to the caution of Anthony; but, notwith- 
 standing his effort at indifference, a keen eye might 
 have observed the latent anxiety of a man who was 
 habitually villanous, and naturally timid. 
 
 When this pair entered the crowd, a few secret 
 glances, too rapid to be noticed by the people, passed 
 between them and their accomplices. Denis, on see- 
 ing them present, took fresh courage, and looked with 
 the heroism of a blusterer upon those who stood about 
 him, especially whenever he found himself under the 
 scrutinizing eye of his brother. Such was the horror 
 and detestation in which they were held, that on ad-
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 145 
 
 vancing into the assembly, the persons on each side 
 turned away, and openly avoided them : eyes full of 
 fierce hatred were bent on them vindictively, and 
 '* curses, not loud, but deep," were muttered with an 
 indignation which nothing but a divided state of feel- 
 ing could repress within due limits. Every glance, 
 however, was paid back by Anthony with interest, 
 from eyes and black shaggy brows tremendously fero- 
 cious; and his curses, as they rolled up half smothered 
 from his huge chest, were deeper and more diabolical 
 by far than their own. He even jeered at them; but, 
 however disgusting his frown, there was something 
 truly appalling in the dark gleam of his scoff, which 
 threw them at an immeasurable distance behind him, 
 in the power of displaying on the countenance the 
 worst of human passions. 
 
 At length Mr. Nicholson, Father Farrell, and his 
 curate, attended by the Cassidys and their friends, 
 issued from the house : two or three servants preceded 
 them, bearing a table and chairs for the magistrate 
 and priests, who, however, stood during the cere- 
 mony. When they entered one of the rings before 
 alluded to, the table and chairs were placed in the 
 centre of it, and Father Farrell, as possessing most 
 influence over the people, addressed them very im- 
 pressively. 
 
 " There are," said he, in conclusion, " persons in 
 this crowd whom we know to be guilty ; but we will 
 have an opportunity of now witnessing the lengths to 
 which crime, long indulged in, can carry them. To 
 such people I would say, beware! for they know not 
 the situation in which they are placed." 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE DONAGH ; OR, 
 
 During all this time there was not the sligntest 
 allusion made to the mysterious ordeal which had 
 excited so much awe and apprehension among them — 
 a circumstance which occasioned many a pale, down- 
 cast face to clear up, and reassume its usual cheerful 
 expression. The crowd now were assembled around 
 the ring, and every man on whom an imputation had 
 been fastened came forward, when called upon, to the 
 table at which the priests and magistrate stood un- 
 covered. The form of the oath was framed by the 
 two clergymen, who, as they knew the reservations 
 and evasions commonest among such characters, had 
 ingeniously contrived not to leave a single loop-hole 
 through which the consciences of those who belonged 
 to this worthy fraternity might escape. 
 
 To those acquainted with Irish courts of justice 
 there was nothing particularly remarkable in the swear- 
 ing. Indeed, one who stood among the crowd might 
 hear from those who Avere stationed at the greatest 
 distance from the table, such questions as the fol- 
 lowing : — 
 
 " Is the thing in it, Art?" 
 
 " Noj 'tis nothin' but the Laio Bible, the ma- 
 gistrate's own one." 
 
 To this the querist would reply, with a satisfied 
 nod of the head, " Oh, is that all ? I heard they war 
 to have it ;" on which he would push himself through 
 the crowd until he reached the table, where he took 
 his oath as readily as another. 
 
 " Jem Hartigan," said the magistrate, to one of 
 those persons, " are you to swear ?" 
 
 ** Faix, myself doesn't know, your honour; only
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 147 
 
 that I hard them say that the Cassidys mintioned our 
 names along Avid many other honest people; an' one 
 wouldn't, in that case, lie under a false report, your 
 honour, from any one, when we're as clear as thcni 
 that never saw the light of any thing of the kind." 
 
 The magistrate then put the book into his hand, 
 and Jem, in return, fixed his eye, with much appa- 
 rent innocence, on his face : " Now, Jem Hartigan," 
 &c. &c. and the oath was accordingly administered. 
 Jem put the book to his mouth, with his thumb raised 
 to an acute angle on the back of it ; nor was the smack 
 by any means a silent one which he gave it, (his 
 thumb.) 
 
 The magistrate set his ear with the air of a man 
 who had experience in discriminating such sounds. 
 *' Hartigan," said he, " you'll condescend to kiss the 
 hook, Sir, if you please : there's a hollowness in that 
 smack, my good fellow, that can't escape me." 
 
 *' Not kiss it, your honour ? why, by this staff in 
 my hand, if ever a man kissed" — 
 
 " Silence, you impostor," said the curate; "I watched 
 you closely, and am confident your lips never touched 
 the book." 
 
 " j\Iy lips never touched the book ! — Why, you 
 know I'd be sarry to conthradict either o' yees; but I 
 was jist goin' to absarve, wid simmission, that my 
 own lips ought to know best; an' don't you hear them 
 tellin' you that they did kiss it :" and he grinned with 
 confidence in their faces. 
 
 " You double-dealing reprobate," said the parish 
 priest, " I'll lay my whip across your jaws. I saw 
 you, too, an' you did not kiss the book." 
 
 L 2
 
 148 THE donagh; or, 
 
 " By dad, an' maybe J did not, sure enough," he 
 replied : any man may make a mistake unknownst to 
 himself; but I'd give my oath, an' be the five Grasses, 
 
 I kissed it as sure as however, a good thing's 
 
 never the worse o' bein' twice done, gintlemen ; so 
 here goes, jist to satisfy yees ;" and, placing the book 
 near his mouth, and altering his position a little, he 
 appeared to comply, though, on the contrary, he 
 touched neither it nor his thumb. " It's the same 
 thing to me," he continued, laying down the book 
 Avith an air of confident assurance, " It's the same 
 thing to me if I kissed it fifty times over, which I'm 
 ready to do if thai doesn't satisfy yees." 
 
 As every man acquitted himself of the charges 
 brought against him, the curate immediately took 
 down his name. Indeed, before the " clearing" com- 
 menced, he requested that such as were to swear would 
 stand together within the ring, that, af*ter having 
 sworn, he might hand each of them a certificate of 
 the fact, which they appeared to think might be ser- 
 viceable to them, should they happen to be subse- 
 quently indicted for the same crime in a court of 
 justice. This, however, was only a plan to keep them 
 together for what was soon to take place. 
 
 The detections of thumb-kissing were received by 
 those who had already sworn, and by several in the 
 outward crowd, with much mirth. It is but justice, 
 however, to many of those assembled to state, that 
 they appeared to entertain a serious opinion of the 
 nature of the ceremony, and no small degree of ab- 
 horrence against those who seemed to trifle with the 
 solemnity of an oath.
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 149 
 
 Standing on the edge of the circle, in the inner- 
 most row, were Meehan and his brother. Tlie former 
 eyed, with all the hardness of a Stoic, the successive 
 individuals, as they passed up to the table. His ac- 
 complices had gone forward, and to the surprise of 
 many who strongly suspected them, in the most in- 
 different manner " cleared" themselves in the trying 
 words of the oath, of all knowledge of, and participa- 
 tion in, the thefts that had taken place. 
 
 The grim visage of the elder Meehan was marked 
 by a dark smile, scarcely perceptible ; but his brother, 
 whose nerves were not so firm, appeared somewhat 
 confused and distracted by the imperturbable villany 
 of the perjurers. 
 
 At length they were called up. Anthony advanced 
 slowly, but collectedly, to the table, only turning his 
 eye slightly about, to observe if his brother accompa- 
 nied him. " Denis," said he, " which of us will 
 swear first? you may;" for as he doubted his bro- 
 ther's firmness, he was prudent enough, should he 
 fail, to guard against having the sin of perjury to 
 answer for, along with those demands which his 
 country had to make for his other crimes. Denis 
 took the book, and cast a slight glance at his brother, 
 as if for encouragement; their eyes met, and the 
 darkened brow of Anthony hinted at the danger of 
 flinching in this crisis. The tremor of his hand was 
 not, perhaps, visible to any but Anthony, who, how- 
 ever, did not overlook this circumstance. He held 
 the book, but raised not his eye to meet the looks of 
 either the magistrate or the priests ; the colour also 
 left his face, as with shrinking lips he touched the
 
 150 THE DONAGH ; OR, 
 
 Word of God in deliberate falsehood. Having then 
 laid it down, Anthony received it with a firm grasp, 
 and whilst his eye turned boldly in contemptuous 
 mockery upon those who presented it, he impressed it 
 with the kiss of a man whose depraved conscience 
 seemed to goad him only to evil. After " clearing" 
 himself, he laid the Bible upon the table with the 
 affected air of a person who felt hurt at the imputation 
 of theft, and joined the rest with a frown upon his 
 countenance, and a smothered curse upon his lips. 
 
 Just at this moment, a person from Cassidy's house 
 laid upon the table a small box covered with black 
 cloth ; and our readers will be surprised to hear^ that 
 if fire had come down visibly from heaven, greater 
 awe and fear could not have been struck into their 
 hearts, or depicted upon their countenances. The 
 casual conversation, and the commentaries upon the 
 ceremony they had witnessed, instantly settled into a 
 most profound silence, and every e\^e was turned to- 
 wards it with an interest absolutely fearful. 
 
 " Let," said the curate, " none of those who have 
 sworn depart from within the ring, until they once 
 more clear themselves upon this," and as he spoke, 
 he held it up — " behold !" said he, " and tremble — 
 behold The Donagh ! ! !" 
 
 A low murmur of awe and astonishment burst from 
 the people in general, whilst those within the ring, 
 who, with few exceptions, were the worst characters 
 in the parish, appeared ready to sink into the earth. 
 Their countenances, for the most part, paled into the 
 condemned hue of guilt ; many of them became almost 
 unable to stand; and altogether, the state of trepida-
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 151 
 
 tion and terror in which they stood, was strikingly 
 wild and extraordinary. 
 
 The curate proceeded : " Let him now who is 
 guilty depart ; or, if he wishes, advance, and challenge 
 the awful penalty annexed to perjury upon this ! 
 Who has ever been known to swear falsely upon the 
 Donagh, without being visited by a tremendous pu- 
 nishment, either on the spot, or in twenty-four hours 
 after his perjury? If we ourselves have not seen 
 such instances ^vith our own eyes, it is because none 
 liveth who dare incur such a dreadful penalty ; but 
 we have heard of those who did, and of their awful 
 punishment afterwards. Sudden death, madness, 
 paralysis, self-destruction, or the murder of some one 
 dear to them, are the marks by which perjury upon 
 the Donagh is known and visited. Advance, now, 
 ye who are innocent, but let the guilty withdraw ; for 
 we do not desire to witness the terrible vengeance 
 which would attend a false oath upon the Donagh. 
 Pause, therefore, and be cautious ! for if this grievous 
 sin be committed, a heavy punishment will fall, 
 not only upon you, but upon the parish in which it 
 occurs !" 
 
 The words of the priest sounded to the guilty like 
 the death-sentence of a judge. Before he had con- 
 cluded, all, except Meehan and his brother, and a 
 few who were really innocent, had slunk back out of 
 the circle into the crowd. Denis, however, became 
 pale as a corpse ; and from time to time wiped the 
 large drops from his haggard brow : even Anthony's 
 cheek, despite of his natural callousness, was less red; 
 his eyes became disturbed; but by their influ-
 
 152 THE DONAGH , OR, 
 
 ence, he contrived to keep Denis in sufficient dread> 
 to prevent him from mingling, Uke the rest, among 
 the people. The few who remained along with them, 
 advanced; and notwithstanding their innocence, 
 when the Donagh was presented and the figure of 
 Christ and the Twelve Apostles displayed in the 
 solemn tracery of its rude carving, they exhibited 
 symptoms of fear. With trembling hands they 
 touched the Donagh, and with trembling lips kissed 
 the Crucifix, in attestation of their guiltlessness of the 
 charge with which they had been accused. 
 
 " Anthony and Denis Meehan, come forward," 
 said the curate, " and declare your innocence of the 
 crimes with which you are charged by the Cassidys 
 and others." 
 
 Anthony advanced ; but Denis stood rooted to the 
 ground ; on perceiving which, the former sternly 
 returned a step or two, and catching him by the arm 
 with an admonitory grip, that could not easily be mis^ 
 understood, compelled him to proceed with himself 
 step by step to the table. Denis, however, could feel 
 the strong man tremble, and perceive that although 
 he strove to lash himself into the energy of despair, 
 and the utter disbelief of all religious sanction, yet 
 the trial before him called every slumbering prejudice 
 and apprehension of his mind into active power. 
 This was a death-blow to his own resolution, or 
 rather it confirmed him in his previous determination 
 not to swear on the Donagh, except to acknowledge 
 his guilt, which he could scarcely prevent himself 
 from doing, such was the vacillating state of mind to 
 which he felt himself reduced.
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 153 
 
 When Anthony reached the table, his huge form 
 seemed to dilate by his effort at maintaining the firm- 
 ness necessary to support him in this awful struggle 
 between conscience and superstition on the one hand, 
 and guilt, habit, and infidelity, on the other. He 
 fixed his deep, dilated eyes upon the Donagh, in a 
 manner that betokened somewhat of irresolution : his 
 countenance fell ; his colour came and went, but 
 eventually settled in a flushed red; his powerful 
 hands and arms trembled so much, that he folded 
 them to prevent his agitation from being noticed : the 
 grimness of his face ceased to be stern, while it re- 
 tained the blank expression of guilt; his temples 
 swelled out with the terrible play of their blood ves- 
 sels ; his chest, too, heaved up and down with the 
 united pressure of guilt, and the tempest which shook 
 him within. At length he saw Denis's eye upon him, 
 and his passions took a new direction ; he knit his 
 brows at him with more than usual fierceness, ground 
 his teeth, and with a step and action of suppressed 
 fury, he placed his foot at the edge of the table, and 
 bowing down under the eye of God and man, took 
 the awful oath on the mysterious Donagh, in a false- 
 hood ! When it was finished, a feeble groan broke 
 from his brother's lips. Anthony bent his eye on 
 him with a deadly glare ; but Denis saw it not. The 
 shock was beyond his courage, — he had become in- 
 sensible. 
 
 Those who stood at the outskirts of the crowd, 
 seeing Denis apparently lifeless, thought he must 
 have sworn falsely on the Donagh, and exclaimed, 
 *' He's dead! gracious God! Denis Meehan's struck 
 dead by the Donagh ! He swore in a lie, and is now
 
 154 THE donagh; or, 
 
 a corpse !" Anthony paused, and calmly surveyed 
 him as he lay with his head resting upon the hands 
 of those who supported him. At this moment a 
 silent breeze' came over where they stood; and, as 
 the Donagh lay upon the table, the black ribbons 
 with which it was ornamented fluttered with a melan- 
 choly appearance, that deepened the sensations of the 
 people into something peculiarly solemn and preter- 
 natural. Denis at length revived ; and stared wildly 
 and vacantly about him. When composed sufficiently 
 to distinguish and recognise individual objects, he 
 looked upon the gloomy visage and threatening eye of 
 his brother, and shrunk back with a terror almost 
 epileptical. *' Oh!" he exclaimed, " save me! save 
 me from that man, and I'll discover all !" 
 
 Anthony calmly folded one arm into his bosom, and 
 his lip quivered with the united influence of hatred 
 and despair. 
 
 " Hould him !" shrieked a voice, which proceeded 
 from his daughter, " hould my father, or he'll 
 murdherhim! Oh! oh! merciful heaven !" 
 
 Ere the words were uttered, she had made an at- 
 tempt to clasp the arms of her parent, whose motions 
 she understood ; but only in time to receive from the 
 pistol, which he had concealed in his breast, the bullet 
 aimed at her uncle ! She tottered ! and the blood 
 spouted out of her neck upon her father's brows, who 
 hastily put up his hand and wiped it aw^ay, for it had 
 actually blinded him. 
 
 The elder Meehan was a tall man, and as he 
 stood, elevated nearly a head above the crowd, his 
 grim brows red w^ith his daughter's blood — which, in 
 attempting to wipe away, he had deeply streaked
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 155 
 
 across his face — his eyes shooting fiery gleams of his 
 late resentment, mingled with the wildness of unex- 
 pected horror — as he thus stood, it would be impos- 
 sible to contemplate a more revolting picture of that 
 state to which the principles that had regulated his 
 life must ultimately lead, even in this world. 
 
 On perceiving what he had done, the deep working 
 of his powerful frame was struck into sudden stillness, 
 and he turned his eyes on his bleeding daughter, with 
 a fearful perception of her situation. Now was the 
 harvest of his creed and crimes reaped in blood ; and 
 he felt that the stroke which had fallen upon him, 
 was one of those by which God will sometimes bare 
 his arm and vindicate his justice. The reflection, 
 however, shook him not : the reality of his misery 
 was too intense and pervading, and grappled too 
 strongly with his hardened and unbending spirit, to 
 waste its power upon a nerve or a muscle. It was 
 abstracted, and beyond the reach of bodily suffering. 
 From the moment his daughter fell, he moved not : 
 his lips were half open with the conviction produced 
 by the blasting truth of her death, effected prematurely 
 by his own hand. 
 
 Those parts of his face which had not been stained 
 with her blood, assumed an ashy paleness, and 
 rendered his countenance more terrific by the con- 
 trast. Tall, powerful, and motionless, he appeared 
 to the crowd, glaring at the girl, like a tiger anxious 
 to join his offspring yet stunned with the shock of the 
 bullet which has touched a vital part. His iron-grey 
 hair, as it fell in thick masses about his neck, was - 
 moved slightly by the blast, and a lock which fell over 
 his temple, was blown back with a motion rendered
 
 156 THE donagh; or, 
 
 more distinct by his statue-like attitude, immovable as 
 death. 
 
 A silent and awful gathering of the people around 
 this impressive scene, intimated their knowledge of 
 what they considered to be a judicial punishment 
 annexed to perjury upon the Donagh. This relic lay 
 on the table, and the eyes of those who stood within 
 view of it, turned from Anthony's countenance to it, 
 and again back to his blood-stained visage, with all 
 the overwhelming influence of superstitious fear. 
 Shudderings, tremblings, crossings, and ejaculations, 
 marked their conduct and feeling; for though the 
 incident in itself was simply a fatal and uncommon one, 
 yet they considered it supernatural and miraculous. 
 
 At length a loud and agonizing cry burst from the 
 lips of Meehan — " Oh, God ! — God of heaven an' 
 earth ! — have I murdhered my daughter ?" and he 
 cast down the fatal weapon with a force which buried 
 it some inches into the wet clay. 
 
 The crowd had closed upon Anne ; but, with the 
 strength of a giant, he flung them aside, caught the 
 girl in his arms, and pressed her bleeding to his 
 bosom. He gasped for breath : " Anne," said he, 
 " Anne, I am without hope, an' there's none to forgive 
 me except you; — none at all : from God, to the 
 poorest of his creatures, I am hated an' cursed by all, 
 except you! Don't curse me, Anne; don't curse 
 me I Oh, is'nt it enough, darlin', that my sowl is 
 now stained with your blood, along with my other 
 crimes ? Oh, think, darlin', of my broken heart ! In 
 hell, on earth, an' in heaven, there's none to forgive 
 your father but yourself ! — none ! none ! Oh, what's 
 corain' over me ! I'm dizzv an' shiverin' ! How
 
 THE HORSE STEALERS. 157 
 
 cowld the day's got of a sudden ! Hould up, avour- 
 neen machree ! I was a bad man ; but to yow, Anne, 
 I was not as I was to every one ! Darlin', oh, look at 
 me with forgiveness in your eye, or any way don't 
 curse me ! Oh ! I'm far cowlder now ! Tell me 
 that you forgive me, acushla oge machree ! — Manirti 
 asthee hu* darlin' say it. I dar'n't look to God ! 
 but oh ! do you say the forgivin' word to your father 
 before you die !" 
 
 " Father," said she, " I deserve this — it's only just : 
 I had plotted with that divilish Martin to betray them 
 all, except yourself, an' to get the reward ; an' then 
 we intended to go — an' — live at a distance — an' in 
 wickedness — where we — might not be known — he's 
 at our house — let him be — secured. Forgive me, 
 father; — you said so often that there was no thruth in 
 religion — that I began to — think so. Oh ! — God ! 
 have mercy upon me!" And with these words she 
 expired, 
 
 Meehan's countenance, on hearing this, was over- 
 spread with a ghastly look of the most desolating 
 agony : he staggered back, and the body of his 
 daughter, which he strove to hold, w^ould have fallen 
 from his arm-s, had it not been caught by the by- 
 standers. His eye sought out his brother, but not in 
 resentment. " Oh ! she died, but didn't say ' I for- 
 give -xou 1' Denis," said he, " Denis, bring me 
 home — I'm sick — very sick — oh, but it's cowld — 
 every thing's reeling — cowld — cowld it is!" — and as 
 he uttered the last words, he shuddered, fell down in a 
 fit of apoplexy, never to rise again ; and the bodies of 
 ♦ Young pulse of my heart ! my soul is within thee.
 
 158 
 
 THE DONAGH. 
 
 his daughter and himself were both waked and buried 
 together. 
 
 The result is brief. The rest of the gang were se- 
 cured: Denis became approver, by whose evidence 
 they suffered that punishment decreed by law to thi 
 crimes of which they had been guilty. The tw( 
 events which we have just related, of course, added t( 
 the supernatural fear and reverence previously enter 
 tained for this terrible relic. It is still used as ai 
 ordeal of expurgation, in cases of stolen property 
 and we are not wrong in asserting, that many of thos 
 misguided creatures, who too frequently hesitate no 
 to swear falsely on the word of God, would suffe 
 death itself, sooner than commit a perjury on tb 
 Donagh. (A.)
 
 PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER, 
 
 AN OUTLINE.
 
 PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 
 
 AN OUTLINE. 
 
 Phil Purcel was a singular character, for he was 
 never married ; but notwithstanding his singularity, 
 no man ever possessed, for practical purposes, a more 
 plentiful stock of duplicity. All his acquaintances 
 knew that Phil was a knave of the first water, yet was 
 he decidedly a general favourite. Now as vre hate 
 mystery ourselves, we shall reveal the secret of this 
 remarkable popularity; though, after all, it can 
 scarcely be called so, for Phil was not the first cheat 
 who has been popular in his day. The cause of his 
 success lay simply in this; — that he never laughed : 
 and none of our readers need be told, that the appear- 
 ance of a grave cheat in Ireland is an originality which 
 almost runs up into a miracle. This gravity induced 
 every one to look upon him as a phenomenon. The 
 assumed simplicity of his manners was astonishing, and 
 the ignorance which he feigned, so apparently natural, 
 that it was scarcely possible for the most keen -sighted 
 searcher into human motives to detect him. The only 
 
 VCL. I. M
 
 162 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 way of understanding the man was to deal with him : 
 if, after that, you did not comprehend him thoroughly, 
 the fault was not Phil's, but your own. Although not 
 mirthful himself, he was the cause of mirth in others ; 
 for, v/ithout ever smiling at his own gains, he contrived 
 to make others laugh at their losses. His disposition, 
 setting aside laughter, was strictly anomalous. 'Jhe 
 most incompatible, the most unamalgamatible, and 
 the most uncomeatable qualities that ever refused to 
 unite in the same individual, had no scruple at all to 
 unite in Phil. But we hate metaphysics, which we 
 leave to the mechanical philosophers, and proceed to 
 state that Phil was a miser, which is the best expla- 
 nation we can give of his gravity. 
 
 Ireland, owing to the march of intellect, and the 
 superiority of modern refinement, has been for some 
 years past, and is at present, well supplied with an 
 abundant variety of professional men, every one of 
 whom will undertake, for proper considerations, to 
 teach us, Irish, all manner of useful accomplishments. 
 The dra^nng-master talks of his profession; the 
 dancing-master of his profession ; the fiddler, tooth- 
 drawer, and corn-cutter, (who, by the way, reaps a 
 richer harvest than we do,) since the devil has tempted 
 the schoolmaster to go abroad, are all practising in his 
 absence, as professional men. 
 
 Now Phil must be included among this class of 
 grandiloquent gentlemen, for he entered life as a l^- 
 fessor of Pig-driving; and it is but justice towards 
 him to assert, that no corn-cutter of them all ever 
 elevated his profession so high as Phil did that in 
 which he practised. In fact, he raised it to the most
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 163 
 
 exalted 'pitch of improvement of v/hich it was then 
 susceptible; or to use the cant of the day, he soon 
 arrived at " the head of his profession." 
 
 In Phil's time, however, pig-driving was not so 
 general, nor had it made such rapid advances as in 
 modern times. It was, then, simply pig-driving, un- 
 accompanied by the improvements of poverty, sickness, 
 and famine. The governments of those days were not 
 so enlightened as the governments of these. Political 
 economy had not taught the people how to be poor 
 upon the most scientific principles; free trade had 
 not shown the nation the most improved plan of re- 
 ducing itself to the lowest possible state of distress ; 
 nor liberalism enabled the working classes to scoff at 
 religion, and wisely to stop at the very line that lies 
 between outrage and rebellion. Many errors and in- 
 conveniences, now happily exploded, were then in 
 existence. The people, it is true, were somewhat at- 
 tached to their landlords, but still they were biurdened 
 with the unnecessary appendages of good coats and 
 stout shoes ; were tolerably industrious, and had the 
 mortification of being able to pay their rents, and feed 
 in comfort. They were not, as they are now, free 
 from new coats and old prejudices, nor imjjroved by 
 the intellectual march of politics and poverty. When 
 either a man or a nation starves, it is a luxury to 
 starve in an enlightened manner; and nothing is 
 moft consolatory to a person acquainted with public 
 rights and constitutional privileges, than to under- 
 stand those liberal principles upon which he fasts and 
 goes naked. 
 
 From all we have said, the reader sees clearly that 
 M 2
 
 164 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 pig-driving did not then proceed upon so extensive a 
 scale ^s it does at present. The people, in fact, killed 
 many of them for their own use ; and we know not 
 how it happened, but political ignorance and good 
 bacon kept them in more flesh and comfort than those 
 theories which have since succeeded so well in intro- 
 ducing the science of starvation as the basis of national 
 prosperity. Irishmen are frequently taxed with ex- 
 travagance, in addition to their other taxes; but we 
 should be glad to know what people in Europe reduce 
 economy in the articles of food and clothing to such 
 close practice as they do. Our governments and our 
 landlords appear to be trying such an experiment 
 upon our great power of living on a little food, as the 
 man did who entertained the warm expectation of be- 
 ing able to bring his horse to live without it ; but who, 
 when he had brought him to one straw per diem^ 
 found that the animal was compelled to decline the 
 comforts of such economy, by dying in his own de- 
 fence. In our ignorant days we had a trade, but no 
 Custom-house; and now, in our enlightened days, we 
 have a Custom-house, but no trade. Our Institutions 
 have become Absentees, like our landlords, and are to 
 be found spending their money in London, in order 
 to increase the prosperity, and secure the attachment 
 of Irishmen. 
 
 An old bachelor uncle of ours, in the country, 
 seduced by the plausiljility of a tailor's puff in the 
 metropolis, sent him, in reliance upon what he pro- 
 fessed in it, his height and weight for a suit of clothes. 
 The clothes came ; but as the old gentleman happened 
 to be wry-necked, wore his head, in fact, upon one of
 
 THE PIG-DUIVER. 105 
 
 his shoulders, and ^vas a little hump-hacked, into the 
 hargain — points which he either forgot, or declined 
 mentioning — it is unnecessary to say, that the cluthcB 
 did not fit. 
 
 " I ought to have known," said the old gentleman, 
 " from the peculiarity of my make, that no tailor 
 could fit me without taking my measure." 
 
 In like manner may we say that England is legis- 
 lating for us without taking our measure ; and that 
 her laws, consequently, are a bad fit, considering the 
 unconscionable price we pay for them. 
 
 There was, in Ireland, an old breed of swine, which 
 is now nearly extinct, except in some remote parts of 
 the country, where they are still useful in tlie himting 
 season, particularly if dogs happen to be scarce.* 
 They were a tall, loose species, with legs of an un- 
 usual length, with no flesh, short ears, as if they had 
 been cropped for sedition, and with long faces of a 
 highly intellectual cast. They were also of such ac- 
 tivity that few greyhounds could clear a ditch or cross 
 a field with more agility or speed. Their backs formed 
 a rainbow arch, capabla of being contracted or ex- 
 tended to an inconceivable degree; and their usual 
 rate of travelling in droves was at mail-coach speed, 
 or six Irish miles an hour, preceded by an outrider to 
 clear the way, whilst their rear was brought up by 
 another horseman, going at a three-quarter gallop. 
 
 In the middle of summer, when all nature reposed 
 under the imited influence of heat and dust, it was an 
 interesting sight to witness a drove of them sweeping 
 
 * We assuro John Bull, on thu authority of Phil Purcel, 
 that this U a fact.
 
 166 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 past., like a whirlwind, in a cloud of their own raising; 
 their sharp and lengthy outlines dimly visible through 
 the shining haze, like a flock of antelopes crossing the 
 deserts of the cast. 
 
 But alas ! for those happy days ! This breed is now 
 a curiosity — few specimens of it remaining except in 
 the mountainous parts of the country, whither these 
 lovers of liberty, like the free natives of the back 
 settlements of America, have retired to avoid the en- 
 croachments of civilization, and exhibit their Irish 
 antipathy to the slavish comforts of steam-boat navi- 
 gation, and the relaxing luxuries of English feeding. 
 
 Indeed, their patriotism., as evinced in an attach- 
 ment to Ireland and Irish habits, was scarcely more 
 remarkable than their sagacity. There is not an an- 
 tiquarian among the members of that learned and use- 
 ful body, the Irish Academy, who can boast such an 
 intimate knowledge of the Irish language in all its 
 shades of meaning and idiomatic beauty, as did this 
 once flourishing class of animals. Nor were they 
 confined to the Irish tongue alone, many of them un- 
 derstood English too ; and it was said of those that 
 belonged to a convent, the members of which, in their 
 intercourse with each other, spoke only in Latin, that 
 they were tolerable masters of that language, and 
 refused to leave a potato field or plot of cabbages, 
 except when addressed in it. To the English tongue, 
 however, they had a deep-rooted antipathy; whether 
 it proceeded from the national feeling, or the fact of 
 its not being sufficiently guttural, I cannot say : but 
 be this as it may, it must be admitted that they were 
 excellent Irish scholars, and paid a surprising degree
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 167 
 
 of deference and obedience to whatever was addressed 
 to them in their own language. In Munster, too, 
 such of them as belonged to the hedge-schoolmasters 
 were good proficients in Latin ; but it is on a critical 
 knowledge of their native tongue that I take my stand. 
 On this point they were unrivalled by the most learned 
 pigs or antiquarians of their day ; none of either class 
 possessing, at that period, such a knowledge of Irish 
 manners, nor so keen a sagacity in tracing out Irisli 
 roots. 
 
 Their education, it is true, was not neglected^ and 
 their instructors had the satisfaction of seeing that it 
 was not lost. Nothing could .present a finer display 
 of true friendship founded upon a sense of equalit}'', 
 mutual interest, and good-will, than the Irishman and 
 his pig. The Arabian and his horse are proverbial ; 
 but had our English neighbours known as much of 
 Ireland as they did of Arabia, they would liave found 
 as signal instances of attachment subsisting between 
 the former as between the latter; and, perhaps, when 
 the superior comforts of an Arabian hut are contrasted 
 with the squalid poverty of an Irish cabin, they would 
 have perceived a heroism and a disinterestedness 
 evinced by the Irish parties, that would haw struck 
 them with greater admiration. 
 
 The pigs, however, of the present day are a fat, 
 gross, and degenerate breed; and more like well-fed 
 aldermen than Irish pigs of the old school. They are, 
 in fact, a proud, lazj', carnal race, entirely of the 
 earth, earthy. John Bull assures us it is one comfort, 
 however, that we do not eat, but ship them out of the 
 country ; yet, after all, with great respect to John, it
 
 168 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 is not surprising that v,e should repine a little on 
 thinking of the good old times of sixty years since, 
 when every Irishman could kill his own pig, and eat 
 it when he pleased. We question much whether any 
 measure that might make the eating of meat compul- 
 sory upon us, would experience from Irishmen a very 
 decided opposition. But it is very condescending in 
 John to eat our beef and mutton ; and as he happens 
 to want both, it is particularly disinterested in him to 
 encourage us in the practice of self-denial. It is pos- 
 sible, however, that we may ultimately refuse to ban- 
 quet by proxy on our own provisions ; and that John 
 may not be much longer troubled to eat for us in that 
 capacity. 
 
 The education of an Irish pig, at the time of which 
 we write, was an important consideration to an Irish- 
 man. He, and his family, and his pig, like the Ara- 
 bian and his horse, all slept in the same bed ; the pig 
 generally, for the sake of convenience, next the 
 " stock." At meals the pig usually was stationed at 
 the scrahag, or potato-basket; where the only in- 
 stances of bad-temper he ever displayed broke out in 
 petty and unbecoming squabbles with the younger 
 branches of the family. Indeed, if he ever descended 
 from his high station as a member of the domestic 
 circle, it vv'as upon these occasions, when, with a want 
 of dignity, accounted for only by the grovelling motive 
 of self-interest, he embroiled himself in a series of 
 miserable feuds and contentions about scraping the 
 pot, or carrying off from the jealous urchins about him 
 more than came to his share. In these heart-burnings 
 about the good things of this world, he was treated
 
 THE riG-DKlVEK. 169 
 
 "with uncommon forbearance : in nis master he alwuytJ 
 had a friend, from whom, when he i!,runted out his 
 appeal to him, he was certain of receiving redress : 
 *' Barney, hehavo, avick : hay down the potstick, an* 
 don't he batin' the pij^, the crathur." 
 
 In fact, the pig was never mentioned but with this 
 endearing epithet of " crathur" annexed. " Barney, 
 go an' call home the pig, the crathur, to his dinner, 
 before it gets cowld an him." " Barney, go an' sec if 
 you can see the pig, the crathur, his buckwhist will 
 soon be rcadv." " Barney, run an' dbrive the pig, tlie 
 crathur, out of Larry Neil's phatie-fiehl : an', Barney, 
 whisper, a bouchal bawn, don't run too hard, Barney, 
 for fraid you'd lose your breath. What if the crathur 
 does get a taste o' the new phaties — small blame to 
 him for the same !" 
 
 In short, whatever might have been the habits of 
 the family, such were those of the pig. The latter 
 was usually out early in the morning to take exercise, 
 and the unerring regularity with which he returned at 
 meal time, gave sufficient proof that procuring an ap- 
 petite was a work of supererogation on his part. Jf 
 he came before the meal was prepared, his station was 
 at the door, which they usually shut to keep him out 
 of the way until it should be ready. In the mean 
 time, so far as a forenoon serenade and an indifTcrcnt 
 voice could go, his powers of melody were freely exer- 
 cised on the outside. But he did not stop here : every 
 stretch of ingenuity was tried by which a possibility of 
 gaining admittance could be established. The hat 
 and rags were repeatedly driven in from the windows, 
 which from practice and habit he was enabled to
 
 1^10 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 'approach on his hind legs ; a cavity \Nas also worn by 
 the frequent grubbings of his snout under the door, 
 the lower part of which was broken away by the sheer 
 strength of his tusks, so that he was enabled, by 
 thrusting himself between the bottom of it and the 
 ground, to make a most unexpected appearance on 
 the hearth, before his presence was at all convenient 
 or acceptable. 
 
 But, independently of these two modes of entrance, 
 i. e. the door and window, there was also a third, by 
 which he sometimes scrupled not to make a descent 
 upon the family. This was by the chimney. There 
 are many of the Irish cabins built for economy's sake 
 against slopes in the ground, so that the labour of 
 erecting either a gable or side-wall is saved by the 
 perpendicular bank that remains after the site o-f the 
 house is scooped away. Of the facilities presented by 
 this peculiar structure, the pig never failed to avail 
 himself. He immediately moimted the roof, (through 
 which, however, he sometimes took an unexpected 
 flight,) and traversing it with caution, reached the 
 chimney, into which he deliberately backed himself, 
 and, with no small share of courage, went down pre- 
 cisely as the northern bears are said to descend the 
 trunks of trees during the winter, but with far different 
 motives. 
 
 In this manner he cautiously retrograded down- 
 wards with a hardihood w^hich set fur-ze bushes, 
 brooms, tongs, and all other available weapons of the 
 cabin at defiance. We are bound, however, to declare, 
 that this mode of entrance, which w^as only resorted 
 to when every other failed, was usually received by
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 171 
 
 the cottager and his family with a degree of mirth and 
 good humour that were not lost upon the sagacity of 
 the pig. In order to save him from being scorched, 
 which he deserved for his temerity, they usually re- 
 ceived him in a creel, often in a quilt, and sometimes 
 in the tattered blanket, or large pot, out of which he 
 looked with a humorous conception of his own enter- 
 prise, that w^as highly diverting. We must admit, 
 however, that he was sometimes received with the 
 comforts of a hot poker, which Paddy pleasantly 
 called, '^ givin' him a ivarm welcome." 
 
 Another trait in the character of these animals, was 
 the utter scorn wdth which they treated all attempts 
 to fatten them. In fact, the usual consequences of 
 good feedhig Avere almost inverted in their case; and 
 although I might assert that they became leaner in 
 l^roportion to what they received, yet I must confine 
 myself to truth, by stating candidly that this was not 
 the fact ; that there was a certain state of fleshless- 
 ness to which they arrived, but from which they 
 neither advanced nor receded by good feeding or bad. 
 
 At this point, despite of all human ingenuity, they 
 remained stationary for life, received the bounty af- 
 forded them with a greatness of appetite resembling 
 the fortitude of a brave man, which rises in energy 
 according to the magnititile of that which it has to 
 encounter. The truth is, they w^ere scandalous hypo- 
 crites ; for with the most prodigious capacity for food, 
 they were spare as philosophers, and fitted evidently 
 more for the chase than the sty ; rather to run down 
 a buck or a hare for the larder, than to have a place 
 in it themselves. If you starved them, they defied
 
 1-72 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 you to diminish their flesh ; and if you stuffed thexii 
 like aldermen, they took all they got, but disdained 
 to carry a single ounce more than if you gave them 
 whey thickened with water. In short, they gloried in 
 maceration and liberty; were good Irish scholars, 
 sometimes acquainted with Latin ; and their flesh, 
 after the trouble of separating it from a superfluity of 
 tough skin, was excellent venison so far as it went. 
 
 Now Phil Purcel, whom we will introduce more 
 intimately to the reader by and by, was the son of a 
 man who always kept a pig. His father's house had 
 a small loft, to which the ascent was by a step-ladder 
 through a door in the inside gable. The first good 
 thing ever Phil was noticed for was said upon the 
 following occasion. His father happened to be called 
 upon, one morning before breakfast, by his landlord, 
 who it seems occasionally visited his tenantry to 
 encourage, direct, stimulate^ or reprove them, as the 
 case might require. Phil was a boy then, and sat on 
 the hob in the corner, eyeing the landlord and his 
 father during their conversation. In the mean time 
 the pig came in, and deliberately began to ascend the 
 ladder with an air of authority that marked him as 
 one in the exercise of an established right. The 
 landlord was astonished at seeing the animal enter 
 the best room in the house, and could not help ex- 
 pressing his surprise to old Purcel : 
 
 " Why, Purcel, is your pig in the habit of treating 
 himself to the comforts of your best room ?" 
 
 " The pig is it, the crathur? Why, your haner," 
 said Purcel, after a little hesitation, " it sometimes 
 goes up of a mornin' to v;aken the childhre, particu-
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 173 
 
 larly when the buckwist happens to be late. It 
 doesn't like to be waithi'; and sure none of us likes to 
 be kept from the male's mate, your haner, when we 
 want it, no more than it, the crathur." 
 
 " But I wonder your wife permits so filthy an 
 animal to have access to her rooms in this manner." 
 
 " Filthy !" replied Mrs. Purcel, who felt herself 
 called upon to defend the character of the pig, as well 
 as her own, " why one would think. Sir, that any 
 crathur that's among Christy een childhre, like one o' 
 themselves, couldn't be filthy. I could take it to my 
 dyin' day, that there's not a claner or dacenter pig in 
 the kingdom, than the same pig. It never misbe- 
 haves, the crathur, but goes out, as wise an' riglar, jist 
 by a look, an' that's enough for it, any day — a single 
 look, your haner, the poor crathur !" 
 
 " I think," observed Phil, from the hob, " that 
 nobody has a betther right to the run of the house, 
 whedher up stairs or down stairs, than him that pays 
 the rinty 
 
 " Well said, my lad !" observed the landlord, 
 laughing at the quaint ingenuity of Phil's defence. 
 " His payment of the rent is the best defence pos- 
 sible, and no doubt should cover a multitude of his 
 errors." 
 
 " A multitude of his shins you mane, Sir," said 
 Phil, " for thrath he's all shhi." 
 
 In fact, Phil from his infancy had an uncommon 
 attachment to these animals, and by a mind natu- 
 rally shrewd and observing, made himself as intimately 
 acquahited with their habits and instincts, and the 
 best modes of managing them, as ever the celebrated
 
 1^ 
 
 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 Cahirna Cappul did with those of the horse. Be- 
 fore he was fifteen he could drive the most vicious, 
 and obstinate pig as quietly before him as a lamb ; 
 yet no one knew how, nor by what means he had 
 gained the secret that enabled him to do it. Whenever 
 he attended a fair, his time was principally spent 
 among the pigs, where he stood handling, and 
 examining, and pretending to buy them, although he 
 seldom had half-a-crown in his pocket. At length, 
 by hoarding up such small sums as he could possibly 
 lay his hands on, he got together the price of a " slip," 
 which he bought, reared, and educated in a manner 
 that did his ingenuity great credit. When this was 
 brought to its. ne plus ultra of fatness, he sold it, 
 and purchased two more, which he fed in the same 
 way. On disposing of these, he made a fresh pur- 
 chase, and thus proceeded, until, in the course of a 
 few years, he was a well-known pig-jobber. 
 
 Phil's journeys as a pig-driver to the leading sea- 
 port towns nearest him, were always particularly 
 profitable. In Ireland swine are not kept in sties, as 
 they are among English feeders, but j)ermitted to go 
 at liberty through pasture fields, commons, and along 
 roadsides, where they make up as well as they can for 
 the scanty pittance allowed them at home during 
 meal times. We do not, however, impeach Phil's 
 honesty ; but simply content ourselves with saying, 
 that when his jouniey was accomplished, he mostly 
 ibund the original number with which he had set out 
 increased by three or four^ and sometimes to half-a- 
 dozen. Pigs in general resemble each other, and it 
 surely was not Phil's fault if a stray one, feeding on
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 175 
 
 •he roadside or common, thought proper to join his 
 lock and see the world. Phil's object, we presume, 
 is'as only to take care that his original number was 
 lot dmiinished, its increase being a matter in which 
 10 felt little concern. 
 
 He now determined to take a professional trip to 
 England, and that this miglit be the more productive, 
 le resolved to purchase a drove of the animals we 
 lave been describing. No time was lost in this 
 speculation. The pigs were bought up as cheaply as 
 jossible, and Phil set out, for the first time in his 
 life, to try with what success he could measure his 
 skill against that of a Yorkshireman. On this occa- 
 sion, he brought with him a pet, which he had with 
 :onsiderable pains trained up for purposes hereafter 
 io be explained. 
 
 There was nothing remarkable in the passage, 
 unless that every creature on board was sea-sick, 
 except the pigs ; even to them, however, the change 
 was a disagreeable one ; for to be pent up in the hold 
 jf a ship was a deprivation of liberty, w^hich, fresh 
 as they were from their native hills, they could not 
 relish. They felt, therefore, as patriots, a loss of 
 freedom, but not a Avhit of appetite ; for, in truth, of 
 the latter no possible vicissitude short of death could 
 deprive them. 
 
 Phil, however, with an assumed air of simplicity 
 absolutely stupid, disposed of them to a Yorkshire 
 dealer, at about twice the value they would have 
 brought in Ireland, though as pigs went in England 
 it was low enough. He declared that they had been 
 fed on tip-top feeding ; which was literally true, as
 
 176 PHIL PUKCEL, 
 
 he afterwards admitted that the tops of nettles and 
 potato stalks constituted the only nourishment they 
 had got for three weeks before. 
 
 The Yorkshireman looked with great contempt 
 upon what he considered a miserable essay to take 
 him in. 
 
 " What a fule this Hirishmun mun bea;" said he, 
 " to think to teake me in ! Had he said that them 
 there Hirish swoine were badly feade, I'd ha' thought 
 it fairish enough on un ; but to seay that they was 
 oil weal feade on tip-top feeadin' ! Nea, nea ! I 
 knaws weal enough that they was neat feade on 
 nothin' at oil, which meakes them looak so poorish I 
 Howsomever, I shall fatten them, I'se warrant — I'se 
 warrant I shall !" 
 
 When driven home to sties somewhat more com- 
 fortable than the cabins of unfortunate Irishmen, 
 they were well suppaed with food which would have 
 been very often considered a luxury by poor Paddy 
 himself, much less by his pigs. 
 
 " Measter," said the boor who had seen them fed, 
 " them there Hirish pigs ha' not teasted nout for a 
 moonth yet : they feade like nout I never seed o' my 
 laife ! !" 
 
 *' Ay ! ay !" replied the master, " I'se warrant 
 they'll soon fatten — I'se warrant they shall, Hodge 
 ■ — they be praime feeders — I'se warrant they shall; 
 and then, Hodge, we've bit the soft Hirishmun." 
 
 Hodge gave a knowing look at his master, and 
 grinned at this observation. 
 
 The next morning Hodge repaired to the sties to 
 Bee how they were thriving; when, to his great con-
 
 THE PlG-DRlVER. 177 
 
 stevnatiuii, lie found the feeding troughs clean as if 
 they had been washed, and not a single Irish pig to be 
 seen or lieard about the premises ; but to what retreat 
 the animals could have betaken themselves, was com- 
 pletely beyond his comprehension. He scratched his 
 head, and looked about him in much perplexity : 
 
 " Dang un I" he exclaimed, " I never seed nout 
 like this." 
 
 He would have proceeded in a strahi of cogitation 
 equally enlightened, had not a noise of shouting, 
 alarm, and confusion in the neighbourhood, excited 
 his attention. He looked about him, and to his utter 
 astonishment saw that some extraordinary commotion 
 prevailed, that the country was up, and the hills alive 
 with people, who ran, and shouted, and wheeled at 
 full flight in all possible directions. His first object 
 was to join the crowd, which he did as soon as pos- 
 sible, and found that the pigs he had shut up the 
 preceding night in sties whose enclosures were at 
 least four feet high, had cleared them like so many 
 chamois, and were now closely pursued by the neigh- 
 bours, who rose en masse to hunt down and secure 
 such dreadful depredators. 
 
 The waste and mischief they had committed in one 
 night were absolutely astonishing. Bean and turnip 
 fields, and vegetable enclosures of all descriptions, 
 kitchen-gardens, corn-fields, and even flower-gardens, 
 were rooted up and destroyed with an a})pearancc 
 of system which would have done credit to Terry Alt 
 himself. 
 
 Their speed was the theme of every tongue. Hedges 
 were taken in their flight, and cleared in a style that
 
 08 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 occasioned the country people to turn up their eyes, 
 and scratch their thick incomprehensive heads in 
 wonder. Dogs of all degrees bit the dust, and were 
 caught up dead in stupid amazement hy their owners, 
 M^ho began to doubt whether or not these extraordinary 
 animals were swine at all. The depredators in the 
 mean time had adopted the Horatian style of battle. 
 Whenever there was an ungenerous advantage taken 
 in the pursuit, by slipping dogs across or before their 
 path, they shot off at a tangent through the next 
 .crowd, many of whom they prostrated in their flight ; 
 by this means they escaped the dogs imtil the latter 
 were somewhat exhausted, when, on finding one in 
 advance of the rest, they turned, and, with standing 
 bristles and burning tusks, fatally checked their pur- 
 suer in his full career. To wheel and fly until 
 another got in advance, was then the plan of fight ; 
 but, in fact, the conflict was conducted on the part of 
 the Irish pigs with a fertility of expediency that did 
 credit to their country, and established for those who 
 displayed it, the possession of intellect far superior to 
 that of their opponents. The pigs now began to 
 direct their course towards the sties in which they 
 had been so well fed the night before. This being 
 their last flight, they radiated towards one common 
 centre, with a fierceness and celerity that occasioned 
 the women and children to take shelter within doors. 
 On arriving at the sties, the ease with which they 
 shot themselves over the four feet walls was incredible. 
 The farmer had caught the alarm, and just came out 
 in time to witness their return ; he stood with his 
 hands driven down into the pockets of his red,
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 179 
 
 capacious waistcoat, and uttered not a word. When 
 the last of them came bounding into the sty, Hodge 
 approached, quite breathless and exhausted : 
 
 " Oh, measter," he exclaimed, " these be not Hirish 
 pigs at oil, they be Hirish deevils ; and yau mun ha' 
 bought 'em fra a cunning monl" 
 
 " Hodge," replied his master, " I'se be bit — I'se 
 heard feather talk about un. That breed's true 
 Hirish ; but I'se try and sell 'em to Squoire Jolly to 
 hunt wi' as beagles, for he wants a pack. They do 
 say all the swoine that the deevils were put into ha' 
 been drawned; but for my peart, I'se sure that some 
 on un must ha' escaped to Hireland." 
 
 Phil, during the commotion excited by his knavery 
 in Yorkshire, was traversing the country, in order to 
 dispose of his remaining pig; and the manner in 
 which he effected his first sale of it was as follows : — 
 
 A gentleman was one evenmg standing with some 
 •labourers by the way side when a tattered Irishman, 
 equipped in a pair of white dusty brogues, stockings 
 without feet, old patched breeches, a bag slung across 
 his shoulder, his coarse shirt lying open about a neck 
 tanned by the sun into a reddish yellow, a hat nearly 
 the colour of the shoes, and a hay rope tied for com- 
 fort about his waist : in one hand he also held a 
 straw rope, that depended from the hind leg of a pig 
 which he drove before him ; in the other was a 
 cudgel, by the assistance of which he contrived to 
 limp on after it, his two shoulder blades rising and 
 falling alternately with a shrugging motion that indi- 
 cated great fatigue. 
 
 When he came opposite where the gentleman stood 
 N 2
 
 180 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 he checked the pig, which instinctively commenced 
 feeding upon the grass hy the edge of the road. 
 
 " Och," said he, wiping his brow with the cuff of 
 his coat, " mavrone orth a aimick* hut I'm kilt wit 
 you. Musha, Gad bless yer haner, an' maybe ye'd 
 buy a slip of a pig fwhrom me, that has my heart 
 bruck, so she has, if ever any body's heart was bruck 
 wit the likes of her ; an' sure so there was, no doubt, 
 or I wouldn't be as I am wit her. I'll give her a 
 dead bargain. Sir ; for it's only to get her aff av my 
 hands I'm wantin', plase yer haner — husth amuck-i- 
 husth, a veehoneeff Be asy, an' me in conwersation 
 wit his haner here !" 
 
 " You are an Irishman?" the gentleman inquired. 
 
 " I am, Sir, from Cannaught, yer haner, an' 'ill sell 
 the crathur dag cheap, all out. Asy, you thief!" 
 
 " I don't want the pig, my good fellow," replied 
 the Englishman, without evincing curiosity enough 
 to inquire how he came to have such a commodity for 
 sale. 
 
 " She'd be the darlint in no time wit you, Sir ; the 
 run o' your kitchen 'ud make her up a beauty, your 
 haner, along wit no throuble to the sarwints about 
 sweepin' it, or any thing. You'd only have to lay 
 down the scrahag on the flure, or the misthress, Gad 
 bliss her, could do it, an' not lave a crumblin' behind 
 her, besides slecpin, your haner, in the earner bey ant, 
 if she'd take the throuble." 
 
 The sluggish phlegm of the Englishman was stirred 
 
 * My sorrow on you for a pig. 
 
 Silence, pig ! Silence, you vagabond I
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 181 
 
 up a little by the tv.isicd, and somewhat incompre- 
 hensible nature of these instructions. 
 
 " How far do you intend to proceed to-night, 
 Paddy?" said he. 
 
 " The sarra one o' myself knows, plaze yer haner : 
 sure we've an ould savin' of our own in Ireland Ite- 
 rant — that he's a wise man can tell how far he'll go, 
 Sir, till he comes to his journey's ind. I'll give tliis 
 crathur to you at more nor her value, yer haner." 
 
 " More ! — why the man knows not what tie's say- 
 ing," observed the gentleman; '^ less you mean, I 
 suppose, Paddy?" 
 
 " More or less, Sir : you'll get her a bargain ; an' 
 Gad bless you, Sir I" 
 
 " But it is a commodity which I don't want at pre- 
 sent. I am very well stocked with pigs, as it is. Tr\' 
 elsev>here." 
 
 '' She'd flog the counthry side. Sir ; an' if the 
 mishthress herself, Sir, 'ud shake the wishp o' sthraw 
 fwhor her in the kitchen. Sir, near the Mhoire. Yer 
 haner could spake to her about it ; an' in no time put 
 a knife in her whin you plazed. In regard o' the 
 other thing, Sir — she's like a Cliristyeen, yer haner, 
 an' no throuble. Sir, if you'dbe seein' company or any 
 thing." 
 
 " It's an extraordinary pig, this of yours." 
 
 " It's no lie fwhor you, Sir ; she's as clane an' 
 dacent a crathur. Sir ! Och, if the same pig 'ud 
 come into the care o' the misthress. Gad bliss her ! 
 an' I'm sure if she has as much gudness in her face 
 as the hanerable dinnha ousahl — the handsome gin- 
 tieman she's married upon ! — you'll have her thrivin'
 
 182 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 bravely, Sir, shartly, plase Gad, if you'll take courage. 
 Will I dhrive her up the aveny fwhor you, Sir ? A 
 good gintlewoman I'm sure, is the same mishtriss I 
 Will I dhrive her up fwhor you, Sir ? Shadh amuck 
 — shadh dherimP^^ 
 
 " No, no ; I have no further time to lose ; you 
 may go forward." 
 
 " Thank yer haner : is it whorid tijtirst the house 
 abow, Sir ? I wouldn't be standin' up, Sir, wit you 
 about a thrifle ; an' you'll have her, Sir, fwhor any 
 thing you plase beyant a pound, yer haner ; an' 'tis 
 throwin' her away it is : but one can't be hard wit a 
 rale gintleman, any way." 
 
 " You only annoy me, man ; besides I don't want 
 the pig ; you lose time ; I don't want to buy it, I 
 repeat to you." 
 
 " Gad bliss you, Sir — Gad bliss you ! Maybe if 
 I'd make up to the mishthress, yer haner ! Thrath 
 she wouldn't turn the crathur from the place, in re- 
 gard that the tindherness ow the feelin' would come 
 ower her — the rale gintlewoman, any way ! 'Tis dag 
 chape you have her at what I said, Sir ; an' Gad bliss 
 you !" 
 
 " Do you want to compel me to purchase it whether 
 I will or no ?" 
 
 " Thrath, it's whor next to nothin' I'm givin' her 
 to you, Sir ; but sure you can make your own price 
 at any thing beyant a pound. Hurrish amuck — stadh 
 anish ! — be asy, you crathur, sure you're gettin' into 
 good quarthers, any how — goin' to the hanerable- 
 English gintleman's kitchen; an' Gad knows it's ff; 
 * Behave yourself, pig — behave, I say.
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 183 
 
 pleasure to dale ^vit 'cm. Ocli, the world's differ 
 there is betiixt thim an' our own dirty Irish buckeens, 
 that 'ud shkin a bad skilleen, an' pay their debts 
 wit the remaindher. The gateman 'ud let me in, vcr 
 haner, an' I'll meet you at the big house abow." 
 
 " Upon my honour this is a good jest," said the 
 gentleman, absolutely teased into compliance ; " you 
 are forcing me to buy that which I don't want." 
 
 " Sure you will, Sir ; you'll want more nor that 
 yit, plase Gad, if you be spared. Come, amuck — 
 come, you crathur ; faix, you're in luck so you are — 
 gettin' so good a place wit his haner here, that vou 
 won't know yourself shortly, plase Gad." 
 
 He immediately commenced driving his pig to- 
 wards the gentleman's residence with such an air 
 of utter sim])licity as would have imposed upon any 
 man not guided by direct inspiration. Whilst he 
 approached the house, its proprietor arrived there by 
 another path a few minutes before him, and, addT^ess- 
 ing his lady, said, 
 
 " My dear, will you come and look at a purchase 
 which an Irishman has absolutely compelled me to 
 make. You had better come and see himself too, for 
 he is the greatest simpleton of an Irishman I have ever 
 seen." 
 
 The lady's curiosity was more easily excited than 
 that of her husband. She not only came out, but 
 brought with her some ladies who had been on a 
 visit, in order to hear the Irishman's brogue, and to 
 amuse themselves at his expense. Of the pig, toO;, it 
 appeared she was determined to know sometliing. 
 
 " George, my love, is the pig also from Ireland?"
 
 184 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 ^' I don't know, my dear; but I should think so 
 from its flesh'less appearance. I have never seen so 
 spare an animal of that class in this country." 
 
 " Juliana," said one of the ladies to her companion, 
 " don't go too near him. Gracious ! look at the 
 bludgeon, or beam, or something he carries in his 
 hand, to fight and beat the people, I suppose : yet," 
 she added, putting up her glass, " the man is actually 
 not ill-looking ; and, though not so tall as the Irish- 
 man in Sheridan's Rivals, he is well made." 
 
 " His eyes are good," said her companion — " a 
 bright grey and keen ; and were it not that his nose 
 is rather short and turned up, he would be human." 
 
 " George, my love," exclaimed the lady of the 
 mansion, " he is like most Irishmen of his class that 
 I have seen; indeed, scarcely so intelligent, for he 
 does appear quite a simpleton, except, perhaps, a 
 lurking kind of expression, which is a sign of their 
 humour, I suppose. Don't you think so, my love?" 
 
 " No, my dear; I think him a bad specimen of the 
 Irishman. Whethei it is that he talks our language 
 hut imperfectly, or that he is a stupid creature, I can- 
 not say ; but in selling the pig just now, he actually 
 told me that he would let me have it for more than it 
 was worth." 
 
 *' Oh, that was so laughable I We will speak to 
 him, though." 
 
 The degree of estimation in Avhich these civilized 
 English held Phil was so low, that this conversation 
 took place within a few yards of him, precisely as if 
 he had been an animal of an inferior species, or one of 
 the aborisnnes of New Zealand.
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 185 
 
 "Pray ^vhat is your name?" inquired the matron. 
 
 *' Phadhrumshagh Corfuffle, plase yer lianer : my 
 fadher carrid the same name upon him. We're av 
 the Corfuffles av Leatherum Laghy, my lady; but my 
 granmutlher ^vas a Dornyeen, an' my o-svn mudher, 
 plase yer haner, ^vas o' the Shudhurthaghans o' Bally- 
 madoghy, my ladyship. Stadh anish, amuck hradacjli 
 — be asy, can't you, an' me in conwershation wit the 
 beauty o' the world that Pm spakin' to." 
 
 " That's the Negus language," observed one of the 
 young ladies, who affected to be a wit and a blue- 
 stocking; " it's Irish and English mixed." 
 
 " Thrath, an' but that the handsome young lady's 
 so purty," observed Phil, " Pd be sayin' myself that 
 that's a quare remark upon a poor unlarned man; 
 but, Gad bless her, she is so purty what can one say 
 for lookin' an her!" 
 
 " The poor man, Adelaide, speaks as well as he 
 can," replied the lady, rather reprovingly : " he is by 
 no means so wild as one would have expected." 
 
 " Candidly speaking, much tamer than / expected," 
 rejoined the Avit. " Indeed, I meant the poor Irish- 
 man no offence." 
 
 "Where did you get the pig, friend? and how come 
 you to have it for sale so far from home?" 
 
 " Fv.hy it isn't whor sale, my lady," replied Phil, 
 evading the former question ; " the masther here. Gad 
 bless him an' spare him to you, ma'am!— thrath an* 
 it's his four quarthers that knew how to pick out a 
 wife, any how, whor beauty an' all hancrable whor- 
 mationso' grandheur — so he did; an' wed he desarves 
 you, ray lady : faix, it's a fine houseful o' thirn you'll
 
 186 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 have, plase Gad — an' fwhy not ? whin it's all in the 
 coorse o' Providence, bein' both so handsome; — he 
 gev me a pound note whor her, my ladyship, an' liis 
 own plisiire aftherwards; an' I'm now watin' to be 
 ped." 
 
 " What kind of a country is Ireland, as I under- 
 stand you are an Irishman ?" 
 
 " Thrath, my lady, it's like fwhat maybe you never 
 seen — a fool's purse, ten guineas goin' out whor one 
 that goes in." 
 
 " Upon my word that's wit," observed the young 
 blue-stocking. 
 
 " What's your opinion of Irishwomen ?" the lady 
 continued ; " are they handsomer than the English 
 ladies, think you ?" 
 
 " Murdher, my lady," says Phil, raising his cau- 
 been, and scratching his head in pretended perplexity, 
 with his finger and thumb, " fwhat am I to say to 
 that, ma'am, and all of yees to the fwhore ? But the 
 sarra one av me will give it agin the darlins beyant." 
 
 " But which do you think the more handsome ?" 
 
 " Thrath I do, my lady; the Irish and English 
 women would flog the world, an' sure it would be a 
 bumin' shame to go to set them agin one another 
 fwhor beauty." 
 
 " Whom did you mean by the ' darlins beyant' ?" 
 inquired the blue-stocking, attempting to pronounce 
 the words. 
 
 " Faix, Miss, who but the crathurs ower the wa- 
 ther, that kills us entirely, so they do." 
 
 •' I cannot comprehend him," she added, to the 
 ludy of the mansion.
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 187 
 
 " Arrah, maybe Pel make bould to take up the 
 manners from you fwhor a while, my lady, plase yer 
 haner?" said Phil, addressing the latter. 
 
 " I do not properly understand you," she replied, 
 *' speak plainer." 
 
 " Throth, that's fwhat they do, yer haner; they 
 never go about the bush wit yees — the gintlemen, 
 ma'am, of our counthry, fwhin they do be coortin' 
 yees; an' I want to ax, ma'am, if you plase, fwhat 
 you think of thim, that is if ever any of them had the 
 luck to come acrass you, my lady?" 
 
 " I have not been acquainted with many Irish gen- 
 tlemen," she replied; " but I hear they are men of a 
 remarkable character." 
 
 " Faix, 'tis you may say that," replied Phil; " sowl, 
 my lady, 'tis well for the masther here, plase yer 
 haner. Sir, that none o' them met wit the mishthress 
 before you was both marrid, or, wit riverence be it 
 spoken, 'tis the sweet s^ide o' the tongue they'd be 
 layin' upon you, ma'am, an' the rough side to ^:he 
 masther himself, along wit a few scrapes of a pen on 
 a slip o' paper, jist to appoint the time and place, in 
 regard of her ladyship's purty complexion — an' who 
 can deny that, any Avay ? Faix, ma'am, they've a way 
 wit them, my counthrymin, that the ladies like well 
 enough to thravel by. Asy, you deludher, an' me in 
 conwersaytion wit the quality." 
 
 " I am quite anxious to know how you came by the 
 pig, Paddy?" said the wit. 
 
 " Arrah, Miss, sure 'tisn't pigs you're thinkin' on, 
 an' us discoorsin' about the gintlemen from Ireland, 
 that you're all so fond ow here; faix. Miss, they're
 
 188 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 the boys that can fwhoight for yees, an' 'ud rather be 
 bringin' an Enghshman to the sad fwhor your sakes, 
 nor atin' bread an' butther. Fwhy, now, Miss, if 
 you were beyant wit us, the sarra ounce o' gunpowdher 
 we'd have in no time, for love or money." 
 
 " Upon my word I should like to see Ireland I" 
 exclaimed the blue-stocking; " and why would the 
 gunpowder get scarce, pray?" 
 
 " Faix, fightin' about you. Miss, an' all of yees 
 sure ; for myself sees no differ at all in your hanerable 
 fvv^hormations of beauty an' grandeur, an' all high- 
 flown admirations." 
 
 " But tell us where you got the pig, Paddy?" per- 
 sisted the wit, struck naturally enough with the cir- 
 cumstance. *' How do you come to have an Irish 
 pig so far from home ?" 
 
 " Fwhy thin, Miss, 'twas to a brodher o' my own 
 I was bringin' it, that was livin' down the counthry 
 here, an' fwhin 1 came to fwhere he lived, the sarra 
 one o' me knew the place, in regard o' havin' forgot 
 the name of it entirely, an' there was I wit the poor 
 crathur an my hands, till his haner here bought it 
 whrom me — Gad bless you. Sir!" 
 
 *' As I live, there's a fine Irish blunder," observed 
 the wit ; " I shall put it in my common-place book — 
 it will be so genuine. 1 declare I'm quite delighted !" 
 
 " Well, Paddy," said the gentleman, '* here's your 
 money. There's a pound for you, and that's much 
 more than the miserable animal is worth." 
 
 " Thrath, Sir, you have the crathur at what we call 
 in Ireland a bargain.* Maybe yer haner 'ud spit upon 
 * Ironically — a take in.
 
 THE ?IG-DRI\ER. 189 
 
 the money fwlior luck, Sir. It's the way we do, Sir, 
 beyant." 
 
 " Noj no, Paddy, take it as it is. Good heavens I 
 what barbarous habits these Irish have in all their 
 modes of life, and how far they are removed from any 
 thing like civilization I" 
 
 " Thank yer haner. Faix, Sir, this'll come so 
 handy for tbe landlord at home, in regard o' the rint 
 for the bit o' phatie ground, so it will, if I can get 
 home agin widout brakin' it. Arrah, maybe yer haner 
 'ud give me the price o' my bed, an' a bit to ate. Sir, 
 an' keep me from brakin' in upon this, Sir, Gad bless 
 the money ! I'm thinkin' o' the poor wife an' childher, 
 Sir — strivin', so I am, to do fwhor the darlins." 
 
 " Poor soul," said the lady, " he is affectionate in 
 ti^ie midst of his wretchedness and ignorance." 
 
 *' Here — here," replied the Englishman, anxious 
 to get rid of him, " there's a shilling, which I give be- 
 cause you appear to be attached to your family." 
 
 " Och, och, fwhat can I say. Sir, only that long 
 may you reign ower your family an' the hanerable 
 ladies to the fwhore, Sir. Gad fwhor ever bliss you. 
 Sir, but you're the kind, noble gintleman, an' all be- 
 longin' to you, Sir I" 
 
 Having received the shilling, he was in the act of 
 departing, when, after turning it deliberately in his 
 hand, shrugging his shoulders two or three times, and 
 scratching his head, with a vacant face he approached 
 the lady. 
 
 " Musha, ma'am, an' maybe ye'd have the tindher- 
 ness in your heart, seein' that the gudness is in yer 
 hanerable face, any way, an' it would save the skill-
 
 190 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 yeen that the masther gev'd me for pay in' my passage, 
 so it would, jist to bid the steward," my ladyship, to 
 ardher me a bit to ate in the kitchen below. The 
 hmiger, ma'am, is hard upon me, my lady ; an' fwhat 
 I'm doin', sure, is in regard o' the wife at home, an' 
 the childher, the crathurs, an' me far fvvhrom them, 
 in a sthrange counthry, Gad help me !" 
 
 " What a singular being, George ! and how beauti- 
 fully is the economy of domestic affection exemplified, 
 notwithstanding his half-savage state, in the little 
 plans he devises for the benefit of his wife and chil- 
 dren !" exclaimed the good lady, quite unconscious 
 that Phil was a bachelor. " Juliana, my love, desire 
 Simmons to give him his dinner. Follow this young 
 lady, good man, and she will order you refreshment." 
 
 " Gad's blessin' upon your beauty an' gudness, my 
 lady ; an' a man might thravel far afore he'd meet the 
 likes o' you for aither o' them. Is it the other hand- 
 some young lady I'm to folly, ma'am?" 
 
 " Yes," replied the young wit, with an arch smile ; 
 '' come after we." 
 
 " Thrath, Miss, an' it's an asy task to do that, any 
 way; wit a heart an' a half I go, acushla; an' I seen 
 the day, Miss, that it's not much o' mate an' dhrink 
 'ud throuble me, if I jist got lave to be lookin' at you, 
 wit nothin' but yourself to think an. But the wife 
 an' childher. Miss, makes great changes m us en- 
 tirely." 
 
 " Why you are quite gallant, Paddy." 
 . ** Thrath, I suppose I am now. Miss ; but you see, 
 my hauerable young lady, that's our fwhailin' at 
 home : the counthry's poor, an' we can't help it.
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. J 91 
 
 whedher or not. We're fwhorced to it, Miss, whin 
 we come ower here, by you, an' the likes o' you, ma- 
 vourneen!" 
 
 Phil then proceeded to the house, was sent to the 
 kitchen by the young lady, and furnished through the 
 steward with an abundant supply of cold meat, bread, 
 and beer, of which he contrived to make a meal that 
 somewhat astonished the servants. Having satisfied 
 his hunger, he deliberately, but with the greatest sim- 
 plicity of countenance, filled the wallet which he car- 
 ried slung across his back, with whatever he had left, 
 observing as he did it : — 
 
 " Fwhy, thin, 'tis sthrange it is that the same cus- 
 tom is wit us in Ireland beyant that is here ; fwhor 
 whinever a thraveller is axed in, he always brings 
 fwhat he doesn't ate along wit him. An sure enough 
 it's the same here amongst yees," he added, packing 
 up the bread and beef as he spoke, " but Gad bliss 
 the custom, any how, fwhor it's a good one!" 
 
 When he had secured the provender, and was ready 
 to resume his journey, he began to yawn, and to ex- 
 hibit the most unequivocal symptoms of fatigue : 
 
 " Arrah, Sir," said he to the steward, " you wouldn't 
 have e'er an ould barn that I'd throw myself in fwhor 
 the night ? The sarra leg I have to put undher me, 
 now that I've got stiff wit the sittin' so lang;* that, 
 an' a wishp o' sthraw. Sir, to sleep an, an' Gad bliss 
 you!" 
 
 " Paddy, I cannot say," replied the steward; -'but 
 I shall ask my master, and if he orders it, you shall 
 
 * This is pronounced as in the first syllable of " Laugolee," 
 — not like the Scotch " lang."
 
 192 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 have the comfort of a hard fioor and clean straw 
 Paddy — that you shall." 
 
 " Many thanks to you, Sir : it's in your face, in 
 thrath, the same gudness an' ginerosity." 
 
 The gentleman, on hear.ing Phil's request to he per- 
 mitted a sleeping place in the ham, was rather sur- 
 prised at his wretched notion of comfort than at the 
 request itself. 
 
 " Certainly, Timmins, let him sleeep there," he 
 replied; " give him sacks and straw enough. I dare 
 say he will feel the privilege a hixury, poor devil, 
 .after his fatigue. Give him his hreakfast in the morn- 
 ing, Timmins. Good heavens," he added, " what a 
 singular people ! AVhat an amazing progress civiUza- 
 tion must make before these Irish can be brought at 
 all near the commonest standard of humanity !" 
 
 At this moment Phil, who was determined to back 
 the steward's request, approached them. 
 
 *' Paddy," said the gentleman, anticipating him, 
 " I have ordered you sacks and straw in the barn, 
 and your breakfast in the morning before you set 
 out." 
 
 " Thrath," said Phil, " if there's e'er a sthray 
 blissin' goin', depind an it, Sir, you'll get it, fwhor 
 your hanerable ginerosity to the sthranger. But 
 about the ' slip,' Sir — if fhe misthress herself 'ud 
 shake the wishp o' sthraw fwhor her in the far earner 
 o' the kitchen below, an' see her gettin' her supper, 
 the crathur, before she'd put her to bed, she'd be 
 thrivin' like a salmon. Sir, in less than no time; an' 
 to ardher the sarwints. Sir, if you plase, not to be de- 
 fraudin' the crathur of the big piatees. Fwhor ir
 
 THE riG-DRIVER. 193 
 
 regard it cannot spake fwhor itself, Sir, it frets as 
 wise as a Christyeen, when it's not honestly thrated." 
 
 " Never fear, Paddy; we shall take good care of it." 
 
 " Thank you. Sir. But I aften heerd, Sir, that you 
 dunna how to feed pigs in this counthry in ardher to 
 mix the fwhat an' lane, lair (layer) about." 
 
 " And how do you manage that in Ireland, Paddy?" 
 
 " Fwhy, Sir, I'll tell you how the mishthress, Gad 
 bliss her, will manage it fwhor you: Take the cratlnu*, 
 Sir, an' feed it to-morrow till it's as full as a tick — 
 that's fwhor the fwhat^ Sir; thin let her give it nothin' 
 at all the next day, but keep it black fwhastin' — that's 
 fwhor the lane (lean). Let her stick to that, Sir, 
 keepin' it atin one day an fastin' anodher, for six 
 months, thin put a knife in it, an' if you don't have 
 the fwhat an' lane, lair about, beautiful all out, fwhy 
 uiver bl'eve Phadrumshagh Corfuffle agin. Ay, in- 
 deed I" 
 
 The Englishman looked keenly at Phil, but could 
 only read in his countenance a thorough and implicit 
 belief in his own recipe for mixing the fat and lean. 
 It is impossible to express his contempt for the sense 
 and intellect of Phil ; nothing could surpass it but the 
 contempt which Phil entertained for him. 
 
 " Well," said he to the servant, " I have often 
 lieard of the barbarous habits of the Irish, but I must 
 say that the incidents of this evening have set my 
 mind at rest upon the subject. Good heavens ! Avhen 
 will ever this besotted country rise in the scale of 
 nations ! Did ever a human being hear of such a 
 method of feeding swine ! I should have thought it in- 
 credible had I heard it from any but an Irishman !" 
 
 vol,. 1. o
 
 194 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 Phil then retired to the kitchen, •where his assumed 
 simplicity highly amused the servants, who, after an 
 hour or two's fun with " Paddy," conducted him in 
 a kind of contemptuous procession to the barn, where 
 they left him to his repose. 
 
 The next morning he failed to appear at the hour of 
 breakfast, but his non-appearance was attributed to 
 his fatigue, in consequence of which he was supposed 
 to have over-slept himself. On going, however, to 
 call him from the barn, they discovered that he had 
 decamped; and on looking after the " slip" it was 
 found that both had taken French leave of the Eng- 
 lishman. Phil and the pig- had actually travelled 
 fifteen miles that morning, before the hour on which 
 he was missed — Phil going at a dog's trot, and the pig 
 following at such a respectful distance as might not 
 appear to identify them as fellow-travellers. In this 
 manner Phil sold the pig to upwards of two dozen in- 
 telligent English gentlemen and farmers, and after 
 winding up his bargains successfully, both arrived in 
 Liverpool, highly delighted by their commercial trip 
 through England. 
 
 The passage from Liverpool to Dublin, in Phil's 
 time, was far diiferent from that which steam and 
 British enterprise have since made it. A vessel was 
 ready to sail for the latter place on the very day of 
 Phil's arrival in town; and, as he felt rather anxious 
 to get out of England as soon as he could^ he came, 
 after selling his pig in good earnest, to the aforesaid 
 vessel to ascertain if it were possible to get a deck 
 passage. The year had then advanced to the latter 
 part of autumn; so that it was the season when those
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER. 195 
 
 inconceivable hordes of Irishmen who emigrate perio « 
 dically for the purpose of hghtening John Bull's 
 labour, were in the act of returning to that country in 
 which they find little to welcome them — but domestic 
 affection and misery. 
 
 When Phil arrived at the vessel, he found the cap- 
 tain in a state of peculiar difficulty. About twelve or 
 fourteen gentlemen of rank and property, together 
 with a score or upwards of highly respectable persons, 
 but of less consideration, were in equal em-barrass- 
 ment. The fact was, that as no other vessel left 
 Liverpool that day, about five hundred Irishmen, 
 mostly reapers and mowers, had crowded upon deck, 
 each detennined to keep his place at all hazards. 
 The captain, whose vessel was small, and none of the 
 stoutest, flatly refused to put to sea with such a num- 
 ber. He told them it was madness to think of it; he 
 could not risk the lives of the other passengers, nor 
 even their own, by sailing with five hundred on the 
 deck of so small a vessel. If the one half of them 
 would withdraw peaceably, he would carry the other 
 half, which was as much as he could possibly accom- 
 plish. They were very willing to grant that what he 
 said was true; but in the mean time, not a man of 
 them would move, and to clear out such a number of 
 fellows, who loved nothing better than fighting, 
 ajrmed, too, with sickles and scythes, was a task be- 
 yond either his ability or inclination to execute. • He 
 remonstrated with them, entreated, raged, swore, and 
 threatened, but all to no purpose. His threats and 
 entreaties were received with equal good humour. 
 Gibes and jokes were broken on him without number, 
 o 2
 
 i96 tHIL PURCEL, 
 
 and as his passion increased, so did their mirth, until 
 nothing could be seen huf the captain in vehement 
 gesticulation, the Irishmen huzzaing him so vocife- 
 rously, that his damns and curses, uttered against 
 them, could not reach even his own ears, 
 
 *' Gentlemen," said he to his cabin passengers, 
 *' for the love of Heaven, tax your invention to dis- 
 cover som<e means whereby to get one-half of these 
 men out of the vessel, otherwise it will be impossible 
 that we can sail to-day. I have already proffered to 
 take one-half of them by lot, but they will not hear 
 of it ; and how to manage I am sure I don't know." 
 
 The matter, however, was beyond their depth ; the 
 thing seemed utterly impracticable, and the chances 
 of their putting to sea were becoming fainter and 
 fainter. 
 
 " Bl — t their eyes!" he at length exclaimed, " the 
 ragged, hungry devils ! If they heard me with de- 
 cency I could bear their obstinacy better: but no, 
 they must turn me into ridicule, and break their jests, 
 and turn their cursed barbarous grins upon me in my 
 own vessel. I say, boys," he added, proceeding to 
 address them once more — ** I say, savages, I have 
 just three observations to make. The first is," 
 
 "Arrah, Captain, avourneen, had'nt you betthcr 
 get upon a stool," said a voice, "an' put a text before 
 it, thin divide it dacently into three halves, an' make 
 a sarmon of it." 
 
 *' Captain, you wor intinded for the church," added 
 another. You're the moral* of a Methodist preacher, 
 if you wor dressed in black." 
 * Model.
 
 THE riG -DRIVER, 197 
 
 " Let him alone," said a third, " he'd be a jinteel 
 man enough in a wildherness, an' 'ud make an illigant 
 dancin'-masther to the bears." 
 
 " He's as graceful as a shaved pig on its hind legs, 
 dancin' the ' Baltihorum Jig.' " 
 
 The captain's face was literally black with passion : 
 he turned away with a curse, which produced another 
 huzza, and swore that he would rather encounter the 
 bay of Biscay in a storm, than have any thing to do 
 with such an unmanageable mob. 
 
 " Captain," said a little, shrewd-looking Con- 
 naught man, " what 'ud you be willin' to give any 
 body, over an' abow his free passage, that 'ud tell you 
 how to get one half o' them out?" 
 
 *' I'll give him a crown," replied the captain, " to- 
 gether with grog and rations to the eyes : I'll be hanged 
 if I don't. 
 
 " Thin I'll do it fwhor you, Sir, if you keep your 
 word wit me." 
 
 '* Done," said the Captain, " it's a bargain, my 
 good fellow, if you accomplish it ; and, what's more, 
 I'll consider you a knowing one." 
 
 " I'm a poor Cannaught man, your haner," replied 
 our friend Phil, " but what's to prevint me thnin' ? 
 Tell thim," he continued, " that you must go ; purtind 
 to be fwhor takin' thim wit you, Six. Put Munshther 
 agin Cannaught, one half an this side, an' the odher 
 an that, to keep the crathur of a ship steady, your 
 haner ; an' fvvhin you have thim half an' half, wit a 
 little room betuxt thim, * now,' says your haner> 
 ' boys, you're divided into two halves ; if one sido:
 
 198 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 kicks the other out o' the ship, I'll bring the ran' 
 quirors." 
 
 The captain said not a word in reply to Phil, but 
 immediately ranged the IMunster and Connaught men 
 on each side of the deck — a matter which he found 
 little difficulty in accomplishing, for each party, 
 hoping that he intended to take themselves, readily 
 declared their Province, and stood together. When 
 they were properly separated, there still remained 
 about forty or fifty persons belonging to neither pro- 
 vince ; but, at Phil's suggestion, the captain paired 
 them off to each division, man for man, until they 
 were drawn up into two bodies. 
 
 *' Now," said he, " there you stand : let one half of 
 you drub the other out of the vessel, and the conquer- 
 ors shall get their passage." 
 
 Instant was the struggle that ensued for the sake 
 of securing a passage, and from the anxiety to save a 
 shilling, by getting out of Liverpool on that day. 
 The saving of the shilling is indeed a consideration 
 with Paddy which drives him to the various resources 
 of begging, claiming kindred with his resident coun- 
 trymen in England, pretended illness, coming to be 
 passed from parish to parish, and all the turnings and 
 shiftings which his reluctance to part with money 
 renders necessary. Another night, therefore, and 
 probably another day in Liverpool would have been 
 attended with expense. This argument prevailed with 
 all : with Munster as well as with Connaught, and 
 they fought accordingly. 
 
 When the attack first commenced, each party hoped 

 
 THE riG-DRIVER. 199 
 
 to be able to expel the other without blows. This 
 plan was soon abandoned. In a few minutes the 
 sticks and fists were busy. Throttling, tugging, 
 cuffing, and knocking down — shouting, hallooing, 
 huzzaing, and yelling, gave evident proofs that the 
 captain, in embracing Phil's proposal, had unwittingly 
 applied the match to a mine, whose explosion was 
 likely to be attended with disastrous consequences. 
 As the fight became warm, and the struggle more 
 desperate, the hooks and scythes were resorted to ; 
 blood began to flow, and men to faW, disabled and, 
 apparently dying. The immense crowd which had 
 now assembled to witness the fight among the Irish- 
 men, could not stand tamely by, and see so many 
 lives likely to be lost, without calling in the civil 
 authorities. A number of constables in a few minutes 
 attended ; but these worthy officers of the civil autho- 
 rities experienced very uncivil treatment from the 
 fists, cudgels, and sickles of both parties. In fact, 
 they were obliged to get from among the rioters with 
 all possible celerity, and to suggest to the magistrates 
 the necessity of calling in the military. 
 
 In the mean time the battle rose into a furious and 
 bitter struggle for victory. The deck of the vessel 
 was actually slippery with blood, and many were lying 
 in an almost lifeless state. Several were pitched into 
 the hold, and had their legs and arms broken by the 
 fall ; some were tossed over the sides of the vessel, 
 and only saved from drowning by the activity of the 
 sailors ; and not a few of those who had been knocked 
 down in the beginning of the fray were trampled intp 
 insensibility.
 
 200 
 
 PHIL PURCEL, 
 
 The Munster men at length gave way ; and 
 their opponents, following up their advantage, suc- 
 ceeded in driving them to a man out of the vessel, 
 just as the military arrived. Fortunately their inter- 
 ference was unnecessary. The ruffianly captain's 
 object was accomplished ; and as no lives were lost, 
 nor any injury more serious than broken bones and 
 flesh-wovmds sustained, he got the vessel in readiness, 
 and put to sea. 
 
 Who would not think that the Irish were a nation 
 of misers, when our readers are informed that all this 
 bloodshed arose from their unwillingness to lose a 
 shilling by remaining in Liverpool another night ? 
 Or, who could believe that these very men, on reach- 
 ing home, and meeting their friends in a fair or market, 
 or in a public-house after mass on a Sunday, would 
 sit down and spend, recklessly and foolishly, that 
 veiy money which in another country they part with 
 as if it were their very heart's blood ? Yet, so it is! 
 Unfortunate Paddy is wiser any where than at home, 
 where wisdom, sobriety, and industry are best calcu- 
 lated to promote his own interests. 
 
 This slight sketch of Phil Purcel we have pre 
 sented to our readers as a specimen of the low, cunning 
 Connaughtman ; and we have only to add, that neither 
 the pig-selling scene, nor the battle on the deck of 
 the vessel in Liverpool is fictitious. On the contrary, 
 we have purposely kept the tone of our description of 
 the latter circumstance beneath the reality. Phil, 
 however, is not drawn as a general portrait, but as 
 one of that knavish class of men called *' jobbers," a 
 description of swindlers, certainly not more common
 
 THE PIG-DRIVER, 
 
 201 
 
 m Ireland than in any other country. We have 
 known Connaughtmen as honest and honourable as 
 it was possible to be ; yet there is a strong preju- 
 dice entertained against them in every other proviiwe 
 of Ireland, as is evident by the old adage, " Never 
 trust a Connaughtman."
 
 THE 
 
 GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH.
 
 THE 
 
 GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH, 
 
 Peter Connell was for many years of his life a 
 pattern and a proverb, for industry and sobriety. He 
 jfirst began the world as keeper of a shebeen-house at 
 the cross-roads, about four miles from the town of 
 Bailypoteen. He was decidedly an honest man to 
 his neighbours, but a knave to excisemen, whom 
 he hated by a kind of instinct that he had, which 
 prompted him, in order to satisfy his conscience, to 
 render them every practicable injury within the com- 
 pass of his ingenuity. Shebeen-house keepers and 
 excisemen have been, time out of mind, destructive of 
 each other ; the exciseman pouncing like a beast or 
 bird of prey upon the shebeen man and his illicit 
 spirits ; the shebeen man staving in the exciseman, 
 like a baiTel of doublings, by a knock from behind a 
 hedge, which sometimes sent him to that world which 
 is emphatically called the world of spirits. For this, 
 ii sometimes happened, that the shebeen man was 
 hanged ; but as his dcfUh only nmltiplied that of the
 
 206 
 
 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 excisemen in a geometrical ratio, the sharp-scented 
 fraternity resolved, if possible, not to risk their lives, 
 either by exposing themselves to the necessity of tra- 
 velling h^' night, or prosecuting by day. In this they 
 acted wisciy and prudently : fewer of the unfortunate 
 peasantry were shot in their rencounters with the 
 yeomanry or military, on such occasions, and the re- 
 taliations became by degrees less frequent, until, at 
 .ength, the murder of a ganger became a rare occur- 
 rence in the country. 
 
 Peter, before his marriage, had wrought as labour- 
 ing servant to a man who kept two or three private 
 stills in those caverns among the remote mountains, 
 to which the ganger never thought of penetrating, 
 because he supposed that no human enterprise would 
 have ever dreamt of advancing farther into them than 
 appeared to him to be practicable. In this he was 
 frequently mistaken ; for though the still-house was 
 in many cases inaccessible to horses, yet by the con- 
 trivance of slipes — a kind of sledge — a dozen men 
 could draw a couple of sacks of barley with less 
 trouble, and at a quicker pace, than if horses only 
 had been employed. By this, and many other similar 
 contrivances, the peasantry were often able to carry 
 on the work of private distillation in places so distant, 
 that few persons could suspect them as likely to be 
 chosen for such purposes. The uncommon personal 
 strength, the daring spirit, and great adroitness of 
 Peter Connell, rendered him a very valuable acquisi- 
 tion to his master in the course of his illicit occupa- 
 tions. Peter was, in addition to his other qualities, 
 sober and ready-witted, so that Whenever the ganger
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 207 
 
 made his appearance, his expedients to baffle him 
 were often inimitable. Those expedients did not, 
 however, always arise from the exigency of the mo- 
 ment ; they were often deliberately, and with much 
 exertion of ingenuity, planned by the proprietors and 
 friends of such establishments, perhaps for weeks 
 before the ganger's visit occurred. But, on the other 
 hand, as the ganger's object was to take them, if 
 possible, by surprise, it frequently Happened that his 
 appearance was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. 
 It was then that the prompt ingenuity of the people 
 was fully seen, felt, and understood, by the baffled 
 exciseman, who too often had just grounds for bitterly 
 cursing their talent at outwitting him. 
 
 Peter served his master, as a kind of superintendent 
 in such places, until he gained the full knowledge of 
 distilling, according to the processes used by the most 
 popular adepts in the art. Plaving acquired this, he 
 set up as a professor, and had e5;cellent business. In 
 the mean time, heliad put together by degrees a small 
 purse of money, to the amount of about twenty 
 guineas, no inconsiderable sum for a young Irishman 
 who intends to begin the world' on his own account. 
 He accordingly married", and as the influence of a 
 wife is usually not to be controlled daring the honey- 
 moon, !Mrs. Connell prevailed on Peter to relinquish 
 his trade of distiller, and to embrace some other mode 
 of life that might not render their living so much 
 asunder necessary; Peter suffered himself to be 
 prevailed upon, and promised to have nothing more 
 to do with private distillation, as a distiller. One of 
 the greatest curses attending this lawless business, is
 
 208 THE GEOGRAPHY 
 
 the idle and irregular habit of life which it gradually 
 induces. Peter could not now relish the labour of 
 an agriculturist to which he had been bred ; and yet 
 he was too prudent to sit down and draw his own and 
 his wife's support from so exhaustible a source as 
 twenty guineas. Two or three days passed, during 
 which " he cudgelled his brains," to use his own 
 subsequent expression, in plans for future subsistence ; 
 two or three consultations were held with Ellish, in 
 which their heads were laid togetiier, and, as it was 
 still the honey-moon, the subject-matter of the con- 
 sultation, of course, was completely forgotten. Before 
 the expiration of a second month, however, they were 
 able to think of many other things, in addition to the 
 fondlings and endearments of a new-married couple. 
 Peter was every day becoming more his own man, 
 and Ellish by degrees more her own woman. " The 
 purple light of love," which had changed Peter's red 
 head into a rich auburn, and his swivel eye into a 
 knowing wink, exceedingly irresistible in his bache- 
 lorship, as he made her believe, to the country girls — 
 had passed away, taking the aforesaid auburn along 
 with it, and leaving nothing but the genuine carrot 
 behind. Peter, too, on opening his eyes one morn- 
 ing about the beginning of the third month, perceived 
 that his wife was, after all, nothing more than a 
 thumping red cheeked wench, with good eyes, a 
 mouth rather large, and a nose very much resembling, 
 in its curve, the seat of a saddle, allowing the top to 
 correspond with the pummel. 
 
 *' Pether," said she, "it's like a dhrame to me that 
 you're neglectin' your business, alaniia.'*
 
 AN IRISH OaTII. 209 
 
 " Is it 3^011, "beauty? but, may be, you'd first ))oint 
 out to me what business, barrin' buttlieriu' up yourself, 
 I have to mind, you phan.ix bright?" 
 
 " Quit yourself, Pether ! it's time for you to give up 
 your ould ways ; you caught one bird wid them, an' 
 that's enough. What do you intindto do ? It's full 
 time for you to be lookin' about you." 
 
 " Lookin' about me ! What do you mane, El- 
 lish?" 
 
 *' The dickens a bit o' me thought of it," replied 
 the wife, laughing at the unintentional allusion to the 
 circumspect cliaracter of Peter's eyes, — " upon my 
 faix, I didn't— ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 " Why, thin, but you're full o' your fun, sure 
 enough, if that's w^hat you're at. Maybe, avour- 
 neen, if I had looked right afore me, as I ought to 
 do, it's Katty Murray an' her snug farm I'd have, 
 instead of" — 
 
 Peter hesitated. The rapid feelings of a woman, 
 and an Irishwoman, quick and tender, had come forth 
 and subdued him. She had 7zo^ voluntarily alluded to 
 his eyes; but on seeing Peter offended, she imme- 
 diately expressed that sorrow and submission which 
 are most powerful when accompanied by innocence, 
 and when meekly assumed to pacify rather than to 
 convince. A tear started to her eye, and with a voice 
 melted into unaffected tenderness, she addressed him, 
 but he scarcely gave her time to speak. 
 
 " No, avourneen, no, I won't say what I was ajoin* 
 to mintion. I won't indeed, Ellish, dear ; an' forgive 
 me for voundin' your feelins, alanna dhas. Hell 
 resave her an' her farm ! I dunna what put her into 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 my head at all; but I thought you wor jokin' me 
 about my eyes : an' sure if you war, acuslila, that's 
 no rason that I'd not allow you to do that an' more 
 wid your own Pether. Give me a slewsther,^ agrah 
 — a sweet one, now!" 
 
 He then laid his mouth to hers, and immediately a 
 sound, nearly resembling a pistol-shot, was heard 
 through every part of the house. It was, in fact, a 
 kiss upon a scale of such magnitude and magnifi- 
 cence, that the Emperor of Morocco might not blush 
 to be charged with it. A reconciliation took place, 
 and in due time it was determined that Peter, as he 
 understood poteen, should open a shebeen-house. 
 
 The moment this resolution was made, the wife 
 kept coaxing him, until he took a small house at the 
 cross-roads before alluded to, where, in the course of 
 a short time, he was established, if not in his own 
 line, yet in a mode of life approximating to it as nearly 
 as the inclination of Ellish would permit. The cabin 
 which they occupied had a kitchen in the middle, and 
 a room at each end of it, in one of which was their 
 own humble chaff bed, with its blue quilted drugget 
 cover ; in the other, stood a couple of small tables, 
 some stools, a short form, and one chair, being a pre- 
 sent from his father-in-law. These constituted Peter's 
 whole establishment, so far as it defied the ganger. 
 To this we must add a five-gallon keg of spirits hid 
 in the garden, and a roll of smuggled tobacco. From 
 the former he bottled, over night, as much as was 
 usually drank the following day ; and from the to- 
 bacco, which was also kept under ground, he cut, 
 * A kiss of fondness.
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 21 1 
 
 with the same caution, as much as to-morrow 's exi- 
 gencies might require. This he kept in his coat 
 pocket, a place where the ganger would never think 
 of searching for it, divided into halfpenny and penny- 
 worths, ounces or half-ounces, according as it might 
 be required; and as he had it without duty, the liberal 
 spirit in which he dealt it out to his neighbours soon 
 brought him a large increase of custom. 
 
 Peter's wife was an excellent manager, and he 
 himself a pleasant, good-humoured man, full of whim 
 and inoffensive mirth. His powers of amusement 
 were of a high order, considering his station in life, 
 and his want of education. These qualities contri- 
 buted, in a great degree, to bring both the young and 
 the old to his house diu-ing the long winter nights, in 
 order to hear the fine racy humour with which he 
 related his frequent adventures and battles with 
 excisemen. In the summer evenings, he usually 
 engaged a piper or fiddler, and had a dance, a con- 
 trivance by which he not only rendered himself po- 
 pular, but increased his business. 
 
 In this mode of life, the gi-eatest source of anxiety 
 to Peter and Ellish was the difficulty of not offending 
 their friends by refusing to give them credit. Many 
 plans, were, with great skill and forethought, devised 
 to obviate this evil; but all failed. A short board 
 was first procured, on which they got written with 
 chalk — 
 
 " No creditt giv'n — barrin' a thrifle to Pether's friends." 
 
 Before a week passed, after this intimation, the num- 
 ber of " Pether's friends" increased so rapidly, that 
 p2
 
 212^ 
 
 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 neither he nor Ellish knew the half of them. Every 
 scamp in the parish was hand and glove with him : 
 the drinking tiihe, particularly, became desperately 
 attached to him and Ellish. Peter was natn.ally 
 kind-hearted, and found that his firmest resolutions 
 too often gave way before the open flattery with which 
 he wa"s assailed. He then changed his hand, and 
 left Ellish to bear the brunt of their blarney. When- 
 ever any person or persons were seen approaching 
 the house, Peter, if he had reason to suspect an attack 
 upon his indulgence, prepared himself for a retreat. 
 Ke kept his eye to the window, and if they turned 
 from the direct line of the road, he immediately 
 slipped into bed, and lay close in order to escape 
 them. In the mean time they enter. 
 
 " God save all here ! Ellish, agra machree, how- 
 are you?" 
 
 " God save you kindly ! Faix, I'm middlin', I 
 thank you, Condy : how is yourself, an' all at home?" 
 
 " Devil a heartier, barrin' my father, that's touched 
 wid a loss of appetite afther his meals — ha, ha, ha '" 
 
 " M'.isha, the dickens be an you, Condy, but youre 
 your father's son, any way ; the best company in Europe 
 is the same man. Throth, whether you're jokin' or 
 not, I'd be sarry to hear of any thing to his disadvan- 
 tage, dacent man. Boys, won't yees go down to the 
 other room ?" 
 
 " Go way v/id yees, boys, till I spake to Ellish here 
 about the affairs o' the nation. Why, Ellish, yon 
 stand the cut all to pieces. By the contints o' the 
 book, you do ; Pether doesn't stand it half so Mrell. 
 How is he, the thief?"
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 213 
 
 " Throth, he's not well to-day, in regard of a smo- 
 therin' about the heart he tuck tliis mornin' afther 
 his breaki'ast. He jist laid himself on the bed a while, 
 to see if it would go off of him — God be jiraiscd for 
 all his marcies !" 
 
 " Thin, upon my sotexsition, I'm sarr}' to hear it, 
 and so will all at home, for there's not in the parish 
 we're sittin' in a couple that our family has a greater 
 regard an' friendship for, than him an' yourself. Faix, 
 my modlier, no longer ago than Friday night last, 
 argued down Bartle Meegan's throath, that you and 
 Biddy ]Martin war the two portliest weemen that comes 
 into llie chapel. God forgive myself, I was near cpiar- 
 rellin' wid Bartle, on the head of it, bekase I tuck my 
 modher's part, as I had good right to do." 
 
 " Thrath I'm thankful to you both, Condy, for your 
 kindness." 
 
 *' Oh, the sarra taste o' kindness was in it at all, 
 Ellish, 'twas only the truth ; an' as long as I live, I'll 
 stand up for that." 
 
 " Arrah, how is your aunt down at Carntall?" 
 
 " Indeed thin but middlin', not geltin' her health : 
 she'll soon give the crow a puddin', any way ; thin, 
 Ellish, you thief, I'm in for the yallow boys. Do you 
 know thim that came in wid me ?" 
 
 " Why thin I can't say I do. Who are they, 
 Condy?" 
 
 " Why one o' thim's a bachelor to my sisther 
 Norah, a very dacent boy, indeed — him wid the 
 frieze jock upon lum, an' the buckskin breeches. 
 The other three's from Tec nabraighera beyant. 
 They're related to my brother-in-law, ]Mick Dillon,
 
 214 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 1 
 
 "by his first wife's brother-in-law's uncle. They're 
 come to this neigh}3ourhood till the 'Sizes, bad luck 
 to them, goes over ; for you see, they're in a little 
 throuble." 
 
 *' The Lord grant them safe out of it, poor boys !" 
 " I brought them up here to treat them, poor fel- 
 lows ; an' EUish, avourneen, you must credit me 
 for whatsomever we may have. The thruth is, you 
 see, that when we left home, none of us had any 
 notion of dhrinkin', or I'd a put something in my 
 pocket, so that I'm taken at an average. — Bud-an'- 
 age how is little Dan ? Sowl, Ellish, that goorsoon, 
 when he grows up, will be a credit to you. I don't 
 think there's a finer child in Europe of his age, so 
 there isn't." 
 
 " Indeed, he's a good child, Condy. But, Condy, 
 avick, about givin' credit : — by thim five crasses, if I 
 could give score to any boy in the parish, it 'ud be to 
 yourself. It was only last night that I made a pro- 
 mise against doin' sich a thing for man or mortual. 
 We're a'most broken an' harrish'd out o' house an' 
 home by it ; an' what's more, Condy, we intend to 
 give up the business. The landlord's at us every 
 day for his rint, an' we owe for the two last kegs we 
 got, but hasn't a rap to meet aither o' thim ; an' 
 enough due to us if we co d get it together : an' 
 whisper, Condy, atween ourselves, that's what ails 
 Pether, although he doesn't wish to let an to any one 
 about it." 
 
 " Well but you know Pm safe, Ellish ?" 
 ** I know you are, avourneen, as the bank itself ; 
 an' should have what vou want wid a heart an' a
 
 /vN IRISH OATH, 215 
 
 half, only for the promise I made an my two knees 
 last night, aginst givin' credit to man or woman. 
 Why the dickens didn't you come yistlierday ?" 
 
 " Didn't I tell you, woman alive, that it was by 
 accident, an' that I wished to sarve the house, that 
 we came at all. Come, come, Eilish ; don't disgrace 
 me afore my sisther's bachelor an' the sthrange boys 
 that's to the fore. By this staff in my hand, I wouldn't 
 for the best cow in oiu: byre be put to the blush afore 
 thim ; an' besides, there's a cleeveenship atweeii your 
 family an' ours." 
 
 " Condy, avoumeen, say no more : if you were fed 
 from the same hreast wid me, I Couldn't, nor wouldn't 
 break my promise. I wouldn't have the sin of it an 
 me for the wealth o' the three kingdoms." 
 
 " Bedad, you're a quare woman ; an' only that my 
 regard for you is great entirely, we would be two, Ei- 
 lish ; but I know you're dacent still." 
 
 He then left her, and joined his friends in the little 
 room that was appropriated for drinking, where, with 
 a great deal of mirth, he related the failure of the 
 plan they had formed for outwitting Peter and Eilish. 
 
 '' Boys," said he, " she's too many foi us ! St. 
 Pether himself wouldn't make a hand of her. Faix, 
 she's a cute one. I palavered her at the rate of a 
 hunt, an' she ped me back in my own coin, wid da- 
 cent intherest — but no whiskey ! — Now to take a rise 
 out o' Pether. Jist sit where yees are, till I come 
 back." 
 
 He then left them enjoying the intended " spree," 
 and went back to Eilish. 
 
 " Well I'm sure, Eilish, if any one had tuck their
 
 216 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 book oatli that you'd refiise my father's son sich a 
 thrifle, I wouldn't beUeve them. It's not wid Pether's 
 knowledge you do it, I'll be bound. But bad as you 
 thrated us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, 
 at any rate." 
 
 As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent 
 him, he pressed into the room where Peter lay. 
 
 " Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are, at 
 this hour o' the day ?" 
 
 " Eh ? Who's that— who's that? oh I" 
 " Why thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the 
 way wid you?" 
 
 " Oh !— oh 1 Eh ? Is that Condy ?" 
 *' All that's to the fore of him. What's asthray 
 wid you, man alive ?" 
 
 " Throth, Condy, I don't know rightly. I went 
 out, wantin' my coat, about a week ago, an' got cowld 
 in the small o' the back : I've a pain in it ever since. 
 Be sittin'." 
 
 ' ' Is your heart safe ? You have no smotherin' or 
 any thing upon it? 
 
 *' Why thin, thank goodness, no ; it's all about my 
 back an' my hinches." 
 
 " Divil a thing it is but a compkint they call an 
 alloverness ails you, you shkaimer o' the world wide. 
 'Tis the oil o' the hazel, or a rubbin' down wid an oak 
 towel you w^ant. Get up, I say, or, by this an' by 
 that, I'll flail you widin an inch o' your life." 
 " Is it beside yourself you are, Condy ?" 
 " No, no, faix; I've found you out : Ellish is afther 
 tellin' me that it was a smotherin' on the heart; but 
 it's a pain in the small o' the back wid yourself. Oh,
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 211 
 
 you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I take 
 the stick to you'" 
 
 " Why thin all sorts o' fortune to you, Condy — 
 ha, ha, ha ! — but you're the sarra's per, for there's no 
 escapin' you. What was that I hard atween you an' 
 EUish ?" said Peter, getting up. 
 
 " The sarra matther to you. If you behave your- 
 self, we may let you into the wrong side o' the sacret 
 afore you die. Go an' get us a pint o' what you 
 knov/," replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " Ellish," said Peter, *' I suppose we must give it 
 to thim. Give it — give it, avourneen. Now, Condy, 
 wliin 'ill you pay me for this ?" 
 
 " Never fret yourself about that; you'll be ped. 
 Honour bright^ as the black said whin he stole the 
 boots." 
 
 " Now, Pether," said the wife, " sure it's no use 
 axin' me to give it, afther the promise 1 made last 
 night. Give it yourself; for me, I'll have no hand in 
 sich thhis^s, good or bad. I hope we'll soon get out 
 of it altogether, for myself 's sick an' sore of it, dear 
 knows!" 
 
 Peter accordingly furnished them with the liquor, 
 and got a promise that Condy would certainly pay him 
 at Mass on the following Sunday, which was only 
 three days distant. The fun of the boys was exube- 
 rant at Condy's success : they drank, and laughed, 
 and sang, until pint after pint followed in rapid suc- 
 cession. 
 
 Ever}' additional inroad upon the keg brought a 
 fresh groan from Ellish ; and even Peter himself be-
 
 218 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 gan to look blank as their potations deepened. When 
 the night was far advanced they departed, after hav- 
 ing first overwhelmed Ellish with professions of the 
 warmest friendship, promising that in future she ex- 
 clusively should reap whatever benefit was to be 
 derived from their patronage. 
 
 In the mean time Condy forgot to perform his pro- 
 mise. The next Sunday passed, but Peter was not 
 paid, nor was his clever debtor seen at Mass, or in 
 the vicinity of the shebeen-house, for many a month 
 afterwards — an instance of ingratitude which mortified 
 his creditor extremely. The latter, who felt that it 
 was a take in, resolved to cut short all hopes of ob- 
 taining credit from them in future. In about a week 
 after the foregoing hoax, ho got up a board, present- 
 ing a more vigorous refusal of score than the former. 
 His friends, who were more in number than he could 
 possibly have imagined, on this occasion, were altoge- 
 ther wiped out of the exception. The notice ran to 
 the following effect : — 
 
 " Notice to the Public, and to Pether ConneWs friends in par- 
 ticlar — Divil resave the morsel of credit will be got or given 
 in this house, while there is stick or stone of it together, barrin 
 them that axes it has the ready money. 
 
 " Pether X Connell, his mark. 
 
 " Ei>LisH X CoNNELL, her mark." 
 
 This regulation, considering every thing, was a very 
 proper one. It occasioned much mirth among Peter's 
 customers ; but Peter cared little about that, provided 
 he made the money- 
 
 The progress of his prosperity, dating it from so 
 small a beginning, was certainly slow. He owed it
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 219 
 
 priiicipally to the careful habits of Ellish, and his o^vii 
 sobriety. He was prudent enough to avoid placing 
 any sign in his window, by which his house could be 
 known as a shebeen ; for he was not ignorant, that 
 there is no class of men more learned in this species 
 of hieroglyphics than excisemen. At all events, he 
 was prepared for them, had they come to examine his 
 premises. Nothing that could bring him within the 
 law was ever kept visible. The cask that contained 
 the poteen was seldom a week in the same place of 
 concealment, which was mostly, as we have said, un- 
 der ground. The tobacco was weighed and subdivided 
 into small quantities, which, in addition to what he 
 cari-ied in his pocket, were distributed in various cre- 
 vices and crannies of the house ; sometimes under the 
 thatch, sometimes under a dish on the dresser, but 
 generally in a damp place. 
 
 When they had been about two or three years thus 
 employed, Peter, at the solicitation of the wife, took a 
 small farm. 
 
 " You're stout an' a«ble," said she; '' an' as I can 
 manage the house widout you, wouldn't it be a good 
 plan to take a bit o' ground — nine or ten acres, sup- 
 pose — an' thry your hand at it ? Sure you wor wanst 
 the greatest man in the parish about a farm. Surely 
 that 'ud be dacenter nor to be slungeiii' about, invintin' 
 truth and lies for other people, whin they're at their 
 work,, to make thim laugh, an' you doin' nothin' but 
 Etandin' over thim, wid your hands down to the bot- 
 tom o' your pockets ? Do, Pether, thry it, avick, an' 
 you'll see it 'ill prosper wid us, plase God." 
 
 ** Faix I'm ladin' an asier life, Ellish."
 
 220 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 " But are you ladin' a dacenter or a more becom- 
 iner life?" 
 
 " Why I think, widout doubt, that it's more be- 
 cominer to walk about like a gintleman, nor to be 
 workin' like a slave." 
 
 " Gintleman ! Musha, is it to the fair you're 
 bringin' yourself? Why, you great big bosthoon, isn't 
 it both a sin an' a shame to see you sailin' about 
 among the neighbours, like a shtray turkey, widout a 
 hand's turn to do ? But, any way, take my advice, a 
 villishj — will you, aroon? — an' faix you'll see how 
 rich we'll get, wid a blessin' ?" 
 
 " Ellish, you're a deludher !" 
 
 " Well, an' what suppose ? To be sure I am. 
 Usen't you be followin' me, like a calf afther the 
 finger? — ha, ha, ha! — Will you do my biddin', Pether 
 darlin' ?" 
 
 Peter gave her a shrewd, significant wink, in con- 
 tradiction to what he considered the degrading com- 
 parison she had just made. 
 
 " Ellish you're beside the mark, you beauty; always 
 put the saddle on the right horse, woman alive I 
 Didn't you often an' often swear to me, upon two 
 green ribbons acrass one another, that you liked a red 
 head best, an' that the redder it was, you liked it the 
 betther." 
 
 " An' it was thruth, too ; an' sure, by the same a 
 token, where could I get one half so red as your own ? 
 Faix, I knew what 1 was about ! I wouldn't gire 
 you yet for e'er a young man in the parish, if I was a 
 widow to-morrow. Will you take the land ?" 
 
 " So thin, afther all, if the head hadn't been
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 221 
 
 an me, I wouldn't be a favourite wid you? — ha, 
 ha, ha!" 
 
 " Get out wid you, an' spake sinse. Throth if you 
 don't say aither ay or no, I'll give myself no more 
 bother about it. There we are now wid some guineas 
 together, an' Faix, Pether, you*re vexin' me !" 
 
 " Do you want an answer?" 
 
 " Why, if it's plasin' to your honour, I'd have no 
 objection." 
 
 " Well, will you have my new big coat made agin 
 ShraftV'' 
 
 " Ay will I, in case you do what I say; but if you 
 don't, the sarra stitch of it '11 go to your back this 
 twelvemonth, maybe, if you vex me. Now!" 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you what : my mind's made up — 
 I will take the land; an' I'll show the neighbours 
 what Pether Connell can do yit." 
 
 " Augh ! augh ! marourneen, that you wor ! Throth 
 I'll fry a bit o' the bacon for our dinner to-day, on the 
 head o' that, although I didn't intind to touch it till 
 Sunday. Ay, faix, an' a pair o' stockins, too, along wid 
 the coat; an' somethin' else, that you didn't hear of yitl* 
 
 ELlish, in fact, was a perfect mistress of the 
 science of wheedling ; but as it appears in-stinctive in 
 the sex, this is not to be wondered at. Peter himself 
 was easy, or rather indolent, till properly excited by 
 the influence of adequate motives; but no sooner 
 were the energies that slumbered in him called into 
 activity, than he displayed a firmness of pvirpose, 
 and a perseverance in action, that amply repaid hia 
 exertions. 
 
 * Shrovetide.
 
 222 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 The first thing he did, after taking his little farm, 
 was to prepare for its proper cultivation, and to stock 
 it. His funds were not, however, sufficient for this a* 
 the time. A horse was to be bought, but the last 
 guinea they could spare had been already expended, 
 and tliis purchase was, therefore, out of the question. 
 The US-ages of the small farmers, however, enabled him 
 to remedy this inconvenience. Peter made a bargain 
 with a neighbour, in which he undertook to repay 
 him by an exchange of labour, for the use of his 
 plough and horses in getting down his crop. He 
 engaged to give him, for a stated period in the slack 
 season, so many days' mowing as would cover the 
 expenses of ploughing and harrowing his land. There 
 was, however, a considerable portion of his holding 
 potato-ground: this Peter himself dug with his spade, 
 breaking it as he went along into fine mould. He 
 then sowed the seed — got a hatchet, and selecting the 
 best thorn-bush he could find, cut it down — tied a 
 rope to the trunk, seized the rope, and in this manner 
 harrowed his potato-ground. Thus did he proceed, 
 struggling to overcome difficulties by skill, and substi- 
 tuting for the more efficient modes of husbandry, such 
 rude artificial resources as his want of capital com- 
 pelled him to adopt. 
 
 In the mean time, Ellish, seeing Peter acquitting 
 himself in his undertaking with such credit, deter- 
 mined not to be outdone in her own department. She 
 accordingly conceived the design of extending her 
 business, and widening the sphere of her exertions. 
 This intention, however, she kept secret from Peter, 
 until by putting penny to penny, and shilling to shil-
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 228 
 
 ling, she was able to purchase a load of crockery. 
 Here was a new source of profit opened exclusively by 
 her own address. Peter was astonished when he saw 
 the car unloaded, and the crockery piled in proud ar- 
 ray by Ellish's own hands. 
 
 " I knew," said she, " I'd take a start out o' you. 
 Faix, Pether, you'll see how Pll do, never fear, wid 
 the help o' Heaven ! Pll be off to the market in the 
 momin', plase God, where I'll sell rings round me o' 
 them crocks an' pitchers. An' now, Pether, the sarra 
 one o' me would do this, good or bad, only bekase 
 you're managin' the farm so cleverly. Tady Gorm- 
 ley's goin' to bring home his meal from the mill, and 
 has promised to lave these in the market for me, an' 
 never fear but I'll get some o' the neighbours to bring 
 them home, so that there's car-hire saved. Faix, 
 Pether, there's nothin' like givin' the people sweet 
 words, any way; sure they come chape." 
 
 " Faith, an' I'll back you for the sweet words agin 
 any woman in the three kingdoms, Ellish, you darlin'. 
 But don't you know the proverb, ' sweet words but- 
 ther no parsnips.' " 
 
 " In throth the same proverb's a lyin' one, and 
 2ver was ; but it's not parsnips I'll butther wid 'em, 
 you gommoch." 
 
 " Sowl, you butthered me wid 'em long enough, 
 you deludher — devil a lie in it ; but thin, as you say, 
 sure enough, I was no parsnip — not so soft as that 
 iither, you phanix !" 
 
 " No ? Thin I sildom seen your beautiful head 
 ividout thinkin' of a carrot, an' it's well known they're 
 related — ha, ha, ha! — Behave, Pether — behave, I say
 
 224 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 — Petlier, Petlier — ha, ha, ha ! — let me alone I Katty 
 Hacket, take him away from me — ha, ha, ha I" 
 
 " Will ever you, you shaver wid the tongue that 
 you are? Will ever you, I say? Will ever you make 
 delusion to my head agin — eh ?" 
 
 " Oh, never, never — but let me go, an' me so full 
 o' tickles ! Oh, Pether, avourneen, don't, you'll hurt 
 me, an me the way I'm in — quit, avillish !" 
 
 " Bedad, if you don't let my head alone, Pll — will 
 
 ever you 
 
 ?" 
 
 " Never, never. There now — ha, ha, ha ! — oh, 
 but Pm as wake as wather wid what I laughed. Well 
 now, Pether, didn't I manage bravely — didn't I ?" 
 
 " Wait till we see the profits first, Ellish — croc- 
 kery's very tindher goods." 
 
 *' Ay ! — jist wait, an' Pll engage, Pll turn the penny. 
 The family's risin' wid us" — 
 
 " Very thrue," replied Peter, giving a sly wink at 
 the wife — " no doubt of it." 
 
 " — Risin' wid us — I tell you to have sinse, Pether ; 
 — an' it's our duty to have something for the crathurs 
 when they grow up." 
 
 " Well, that's thruth — sure Pm not sayin' against 
 it.'» 
 
 " I know that; but what I say is, if we hould 
 an we may make money. Every thing, for so far, 
 has thruv wid us, God be praised for it. There's 
 another thing in my mind, that Pll be tellin' you some 
 o' these days." 
 
 " I believe, Ellish, you dhrame about makin' mo- 
 ney." 
 
 " Well, an' 1 might do worse; when Pradhramin*
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 225 
 
 about it, I'm doin' no sin to any one. But, listen, 
 you must keep the house to-morrow while I'm at the 
 market. Won't you, Pether ?" 
 
 " An' who's to open the dhrain in the bottom be- 
 low ?" 
 
 " That can be done the day afther. Won't you, 
 abouchal ?" 
 
 " Ellish, you're a deludher, I tell you. Sweet 
 words ; — sowl, you'd smooth a furze bush wid sweet 
 words. How-an'-ever, I ivill keep the house to- 
 morrow, till we see the great things you'll do wid your 
 crockery." 
 
 Ellish's success was, to say the least of it, quite 
 equal to her expectations. She was certainly an 
 excellent wife, full of acuteness, industry, and enter- 
 prise. Had Peter been married to a woman of a 
 disposition resembling his own, it is probable that he 
 would have sunk into indolence, filth, and poverty. 
 These miseries might have soured their tempers, and 
 driven them into all the low excesses and crimes 
 attendant upon pauperism. Ellish, however, had 
 sufficient spirit to act upon Peter's natural indolence, 
 so as to excite it to the proper pitch. Her mode of 
 operation was judiciously suited to his temper. Play- 
 fulness and kindness w^ere the instruments by which 
 she managed him. She knew that violence, or the 
 assumption of authority, would cause a man who, 
 like him, was stem when provoked, to re-act, and 
 meet her with an assertion of his rights and autho- 
 rity not to be trifled with. This she consequently 
 avoided, not entirely from any train of reasoning on 
 the sul)ject; but from that intuitive penetration which 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE GEOGRAPHY OP 
 
 taught her to know that the plan she had resorted to 
 was best calculated to make him subservient to her 
 own purposes without causing him to feel that he was 
 governed . 
 
 Indeed, every day brought out her natural clever- 
 ness more clearly. Her intercourse with the world 
 afforded her that facility of understanding the tempers 
 and dispositions of others, which can never he ac- 
 quired when it has not been bestowed as a natural 
 gift. In her hands it was a valuable one. By de- 
 grees her house improved in its appearance, both 
 inside and outside. From crockery she proceeded to 
 lierrings, then to salt, in each of which she dealt with 
 surprising success. There was, too, sucli an air of 
 bustle, activity, and good-humour about her that 
 people loved to deal with her. Her appearance was 
 striking, if not grotesque. She was tall and strong, 
 walked rapidly, and when engaged in fair or market 
 disposing of her coarse merchandise, was dressed in a 
 short red petticoat, blue stockings, strong brogues, 
 wore a blue cloak, with the hood turned up over her 
 head, on the top of which was a man's hat fastened 
 by a ribbon under her chin. As she thus stirred 
 about, with a kind word and a joke for every one, her 
 healthy cheek in full bloom, and her blue-grey eye 
 beaming with an expression of fun and good-nature, 
 it would be difficult to conceive a character more 
 adapted for intercourse with a laughter-loving people. 
 In fact, she soon became a favourite, and this not 
 the less that she was as ready to meet her rivals in 
 business with a blow as with a joke. Peter witnessed 
 her success with unfeigned pleasure ; and although
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 227 
 
 every feasible speculation was proposed by her, yet he 
 never felt that he was a mere nonentity when com- 
 pared to his wife. 'Tis true, he was perfectly capable 
 of executing her agricultural plane when she pro- 
 posed them, but his own capacity for making a lucky 
 hit was very limited. Of the two she was certainly 
 the better farmer ; and scarcely an improvement took 
 place in his little holding, which might not be traced 
 to Ellish. 
 
 In the course of a couple of years she bought him a 
 horse, and Peter was enabled to join with a neighbour 
 who had another. Each had a plough and tackle, 
 so that here was a little team made up, the half 
 of which belonged to Peter. By this means they 
 ploughed we k about, until their crops w'ere got 
 down. Peter finding his farm doing well, began to 
 feel a kind of rivalship with his wife — that is to 
 say, she first suggested the principle, and afterwards 
 contrived to make him imagine that it was originally 
 his own. 
 
 " The sarra one o' you, Pether," she exclaimed to 
 him one day, " but's batin' me out an' out. Why, 
 you're the very dickens at the farmin', so you are. 
 Faix, I suppose, if you go an this way much longer, 
 that you'll be thinkin' of another farm, in regard 
 that we have some guineas together. Pether, did you 
 ever think of it, abouchal ?" 
 
 *' To be sure I did, you beauty ; an amn't I in fifty 
 notions to take Harry Neal's land, that jist lies along 
 side of our own." 
 
 " Faix, an' you're right, maybe; but if it's sthrivin' 
 agin me you are, you may give it over : I tell you, 
 q2
 
 228 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 I'll have more money made afore this time twelse- 
 moiith than you will." 
 
 " Arrah, is it jokin' you are? More money? 
 Would you advise me to take Harry's land ? Tell 
 me that first, you phanix, an' thin I'm your man!" 
 
 " Faix, take your own coorse, avourneen. If you 
 get a lase of it at a fair rint, I'll buy another horse, 
 any how. Isn't that doin' the thing dacent?" 
 
 " More power to you, Ellish ! I'll hould you a 
 crown, I pay you the price o' the horse afore this 
 time twelvemonth." 
 
 " Done ! The sarra be off me but done ! — an' 
 here's Barny Dillon an' Katty Hacket to bear wit- 
 ness." 
 
 " Sure enough we will," said Barny, the servant. 
 '* I'll back the misthress any money," replied the 
 maid. 
 
 " Two to one on the masther," said the man. 
 " Whoo ! our side o' the house for ever! Come, 
 Pether, hould up your head, there's money bid for 
 you !" 
 
 " Ellish, I'll fight for you, ancle deep," said Katty 
 — " depind your life an me." 
 
 " In the name o' goodness, thin, it's a bargain," 
 said Ellish ; " an' at the end o' the year, if we're 
 spared, we'll see what we'll see. We'll have among 
 ourselves a little sup o' tay, plase Goodness, an' we'll 
 be comfortable. Now, Barny, go an' draw home 
 thim phaties from the pits while the day's fine ; and, 
 Katty, a colleen, bring in some wather, till we get 
 the pig killed and scalded — it'll hardly have time to 
 be good bacon for the big markets at Christmas. I
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 229 
 
 clon't wish," she continued, " to keep it back from 
 them that we have a thrifle o' money. One always 
 does betther when it's known that they're not strug- 
 ghn'. There's Nelly Cummins, an' her customers is 
 lavin' her, an' dalin' wid me, bekase she's goin' down 
 in business. Ay, an', Petlier, a hagur, it's the way o' 
 the world !" 
 
 " Well but, Ellish, don't you be givin' Nelly Cum- 
 mins the harsh word, or lanin' too heavily upon her, 
 the crathur, merely in regard that she is goin' down. 
 Do you hear, a colleen ?" 
 
 " Indeed I don't do it, Pether ; but you know she 
 has a tongue like a razor at times, and whin it gets 
 loose she'd provoke St. Pether himself. Thin she's 
 takin' to the dhrink, too, the poor misfortunate vaga- 
 boiie •" 
 
 " Well, well, that's no affair o' yours, or mine 
 hither — only don't be risin' ructions and norrations 
 wid her. You threwn a jug at her the last day you 
 war out, an' hot the poor ould Potticary as he was 
 passin'. You see I hard that, though you kept it 
 close from me I — ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! — why you'd split if you had seen the 
 crathur whin he fell i-nto Pether White's brogue- 
 creels, wid his heels up. But what right had she to 
 be sthrivin' to bring away my customers afore my 
 face ? Alley Dogherty was buyin* a crock wid mc, 
 an^ Nelly shouts over to her from where she sot 
 like a prince on her stool, * Alley,' says she, ' here's 
 a betther one for three fardens less, an' another 
 farden 'ill get you a penn'orth o' salt.' An', indeed.
 
 230 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 Alley walks over, manely enough, an' tuck her at her 
 word. Why, flesh an' blood couldn't bear it !'' 
 
 " Indeed, an' you're raal flesh an' blood, Ellish, if 
 that bes thrue." 
 
 " Well, but consarnin' what I mintioned awhile 
 agone — hut I the poor mad crathur, let us have no 
 more discoorse about her — I say, that no one ever 
 thrives so well as when the world sees that they are 
 gettin' an, an' prosperin' ; but if there's not an ap- 
 pearance, how will any one know whether we are 
 prosperin' or not, barrin' they see some sign of it 
 about us ; I mane, in a quiet rasonable way, widout 
 show or extravagance. In the name o' Goodness, 
 thin, let us get the house brushed up, an' the out- 
 houses dashed. A bushel or two of lime 'ill make 
 this as white as an egg widin, an' a very small expinse 
 will get it plastered an' whitewashed widout. Wouldn't 
 you like it, avourneen ? Eh, Pether V 
 
 " To be sure I'd like it. It'll give a respectful 
 look to the house an' place." 
 
 " Ay, an' it'll bring customers, that's the main 
 thing. People always like to come to a snug com- 
 fortable place. An', plase God, I'm thinkin' of 
 another plan that I'll soon mintion." 
 
 " An' what may that be, you skamer ? Why, 
 Ellish, you've ever an' always some skame or other 
 m that head o' yours. For my part, I don't know ho-v 
 you get at them." 
 
 " Well, no matter, acushla, do you only back 
 me ; jist show me how I ought to go an wid them, 
 for nobody can outdo you at sich things, an' I'll
 
 AN IRISH OATH, 231 
 
 engage we'll thrive yit, always wid a blessin' an 
 us." 
 
 "Why, to tell God's thnith, I'd bate the devil 
 himself at plannin' out, an' bringin' a thing to a con- 
 clusion — eh, you deludher?" 
 
 " The sarra doubt of it ; but takin' the other farm 
 was the brightest thought I seen wid you yit. Will 
 you do it, avillish ?" 
 
 " To be sure. Didn't I say it? An' it'll be up 
 wid the lark wid me. Hut, woman, you did'nt see 
 the half o' what's in me, yet." 
 
 " I'll buy you a hat and a pair o' stockins at 
 Christmas." 
 
 " Will yon, Ellish ? Then, by the book, I'll work 
 like a horse." 
 
 *' I didn't intind to tell you, but I had it laid out 
 for you." 
 
 " Faith, you're a beauty, Ellish. What'll we call 
 this young chap that's comin', acushla ?" 
 
 " Now, Pether, none o' your capers. It's time 
 enough when the thing happens to be thinkin' o' that, 
 glory be to God!" 
 
 " Well, you may talk as you plase, but I'll call him 
 Pether." 
 
 " An' how do you know but he'll be a girl, you 
 omadhawn ?" 
 
 " Murdher alive, ay, sure enough ! Faith I did'nt 
 think o' that!" 
 
 " Well, go up now an' spake to Misther Eccles 
 about the land; maybe somebody else 'ud slip in 
 afore us, an' that wouldn't be pleasant. Here's your 
 brave big coat, put it an ; faix, it makes a man of
 
 23U THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 you — gives you a bodagh look entirely : but that*s 
 little to what you'll be yet, wid a blessin' — a Half 
 Sir, any way." 
 
 In fact, Ellish's industry bad already gained a 
 character for both herself and her husband. He got 
 credit for the assiduity and activity to which she 
 trained him : and both were respected for their cle- 
 verness in advancing themselves from so poor a 
 beginning, to the humble state of independence they 
 had then reached. The farm which EUish was so 
 anxious to secure was the property of the gentleman 
 from whom they held the other. Being a man of 
 sense and penetration, he fortunately saw — what, 
 indeed, was generally well known — that Peter and 
 Ellish were rising in the world, and that their eleva- 
 tion was the consequence of their own unceasing 
 efforts to become independent, so that industry is in 
 every possible point of view its own reward. So long 
 as the farm was open to competition, the offers for it 
 multiplied prodigiously, and rose in equal proportion. 
 Persons not worth twenty shillings in the world, 
 offered double the rent which the utmost stretch of 
 ingenuity, even with suitable capital, could pay. 
 New-married couples, with nothing but the strong 
 imaginative hopes peculiar to their country, proposed 
 for it in a most liberal spirit. Men who had been 
 ejected out of their late farms for non-payment of rent, 
 were ready to cultivate this at a rent much above that 
 which, on better land, they were unable to pay. 
 Others, who had been ejected from farm after farm — 
 each of which they undertook as a mere speculation, 
 to furnish them with present subsistence, but without
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 233 
 
 any ultimate expectation of being able to meet their 
 engagements — came forward with the most laudable 
 efforts. This gentleman, howevv,r, was none of those 
 landlords who are so besotted and ignorant of their 
 own interests, as to let their lands simply to the high- 
 est bidders, without taking into consideration their 
 capital, moral character, and habits of industry. He 
 resided at home, knew his tenants personally, took an 
 interest in their successes and difficulties, and in- 
 structed them in the best modes of improving their 
 farms. 
 
 Peter's first interview with him, was not quite 
 satisfactory on either side. The honest man was like a 
 ship without her rudder, when transacting business in 
 the absence of his wife. The fact was, that on seeing 
 the high proposals which were sent in, he became 
 alarmed lest, as he flattered himself that the credit of 
 the transaction should be all his own, the farm might 
 go into the hands of another, and his character for cle- 
 verness suffer with EUish. The landlord was some- 
 what astounded at the rent which a man who bore so 
 high a name for prudence offered him. He knew it 
 was considerably beyond what the land was worth, 
 and he did not wish that any tenant coming upon 
 his estate should have no other prospect than that of 
 gradually receding into insolvency. 
 
 , " I cannot give you any answer now," said he to 
 Peter ; " but if you will call in a day or two I shall 
 let you know my final determination." 
 
 Peter, on coming home, rendered an account of his 
 interview with the landlord to his wife, who no sooner
 
 234 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 heard of the extravagant proposal he made, than she 
 raised her hands and eyes, exclaiming — 
 
 " Why thin, Pether, a lanna, was it "beside your- 
 eelf you wor, to go for to offer a rint that no one 
 could honestly pay ! Why, man alive, it 'ud lave us 
 widout house or home in no time, all out ! Sure 
 Pether, a cushla, where 'ud be the use of us or any 
 pne takin' land, barrin' they could make somethin' 
 by it ? Faix, if the gintleman had sinse, he wouldn't 
 give the same farm to any body at sich a rint ; an' for 
 good rasons too — bekase they could never pay it, an 
 himself 'ud be the sufferer in the long run." 
 
 " Dang me, but you're the long-headedest womaii 
 alive this day, Ellish. Why 1 never wanst wint into 
 the rason o' the thing, at all. But you don't know 
 the offers he got." 
 
 " Don't I ? Why do you think he'd let the Mul- 
 lins, or the Conlans, or the O'Donoghoes, or the 
 Duffy s, upon his land, widout a shillin' in one o' their 
 pockets to stock it, or to begin workin' it properly 
 wid. Hand me my cloak from the pin there, an' 
 get your hat. Katty, avourneen, have an eye to the 
 house till we come back ; an' if Dick Murphy comes 
 here to get tobaccy on score, tell him I can't afford 
 it, till he pays up what he got. Come, Pether, in the 
 name o' goodness— come, a bouchal." 
 
 Ellish, during their short journey to the landlord's, 
 commenced, in her own way, a lecture upon agricul- 
 tural economy, which, though plain and unvarnished, 
 contained excellent and practical sense. She also 
 pointed out to him when to speak and when to be
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 235l 
 
 silent ; told him what rent to offer, and in what 
 manner he should offer it ; but she did all tliis so 
 dexterously and sweetly, that honest Peter thought 
 the new and corrected views which she furnished 
 him with, were altogether the result of his own 
 penetration. 
 
 The landlord was at home when they arrived, and 
 ordered them into the parlour, where he soon made 
 his appearance. 
 
 " Well, Connell," said he, smiling, " are you come 
 to make me a higher offer?" 
 
 " Why thin no, plase your honour," replied Peter 
 looking for confidence to Ellish : " instead o' that, 
 Sir, Ellish here" 
 
 ** Never heed me, a lanna ; tell his honour what 
 you've to say, out o' the face. Go an, acushla." 
 
 *' Why, your honour, to tell the blessed thruth, 
 the dickens a bit o' myself but had a sup in my head 
 when I was wid your honour to-day before." 
 
 Ellish was thunderstruck at this most unexpected 
 apolog}' from Peter ; but the fact was, that the in- 
 structions which she had given him on their way, 
 had completely evaporated from his brain, and he felt 
 himself thrown altogether upon his own powers of 
 invention. Here, however, he was at home ; for it 
 was well known among all his acquaintances, that, 
 however he might be deficient in the management of 
 a family when compared to his wife, he was capable, 
 notwithstanding, of exerting a certain imaginative 
 faculty in a very high degree. Ellish felt that 
 to contradict him on the spot must lessen both 
 him and herself in the opinion of the landlord.
 
 236 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 a circumstance tliat would have given her much 
 pain. 
 
 " Pm sorry to hear that, Connell," said Mr. Eccles; 
 " you bear the character of being strictly sober in 
 your habits. You must have been early at the bottle, 
 too, which makes your apology rather unhappy. Of 
 all- tipplers, he who drinks early is the worst and 
 most incurable." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Sir, but this only happens me 
 wanst a year, your honour." 
 
 " Once a year! But, by the by, you had no ap- 
 pearance of being tipsy, Peter." 
 
 " Tipsy ! Bud-an'-age, your honour, I was never 
 seen tipsy in all my life," said Peter. — *' That's a 
 horse of another colour, Sir, plase your honour." 
 
 The reader must at once perceive that Peter here 
 was only recovering himself from the effects of the 
 injurious impression which his first admission was 
 calculated to produce against him in the mind of his 
 landlord. 
 
 '' Tipsy ! No, no, Sir ; but the rason of it, Sir, 
 was this : it bein' my birthday. Sir, I merely tuck a 
 sup in the mornin', in honour o' the day. It's altoge- 
 ther a lucky day to me. Sir!" 
 
 " Why, to be sure, every man's birthday may, pro- 
 bably, be called such — the gift of existence being, I 
 fear, too much undervalued." 
 
 " Bedad, your honour, I don't mane that, at all." 
 
 '** Then what do you mean, Peter ?" 
 
 " Why, Sir, you see, it's not that I was entirely 
 born on this day, but ^partly, Sh ; I was marrid to 
 Ellish here into the bargain, — one o' the best wives,
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 237 
 
 5ir — however^ I'll say no more, as she's to the fore 
 lerself. But, death alive, Sir, sure when we put 
 30th conclusions together — myself bein' sich a worthy 
 nan, and EUish such a tip-top wife, who could blame 
 ne for smellin' the bottle ? — for divil a much more I 
 lid — about two glasses, Sir — an' so it got up into my 
 lead a little when I was wid your honour to-day 
 Defore." 
 
 " But what is the amount of all this, Peter?" 
 
 " Why Sir, you see only I was as I said. Sir — not 
 ;ipsy, your honour, any way, but seein' things double 
 )r so ; an' that was, I suppose, what made me offer 
 'or the farm double what I intinded. Every body 
 mows. Sir, that the * crathur' gives the big heart to 
 is, any how, your honour." 
 
 " But you know Peter, we entered into no terms 
 ibout it. I, therefore, have neither powei nor incli- 
 lation to hold you to the offer you made." 
 
 " Faith, Sir, you're not the gintleman to do u 
 ihabby turn, nor never was, nor one o' your family, 
 rhere's not in all Europe" — 
 
 EUish, who was a point blank dealer, could endure 
 Peter's mode of transacting business no longer. She 
 cnew that if he once got into the true spirit of apply- 
 ng the oil of flattery to the landlord, he would have 
 ubbed him into a perfect froth ere he quitted him. 
 5he, therefore, took up the thread of the discourse, 
 md finished the compliment with much more delicacy 
 han honest Peter could have displayed. 
 
 " Thrue for you, Pether," she added ; " there is 
 lot a kinder family to the poor, nor betther landlords, 
 n the country they live in. Pether an' myself, your
 
 3^$ THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 honour, on iayin' both our heads together, found that 
 he offered more rint for the land nor any tenant could 
 honestly pay. So, Sir, where's the use of keepin' 
 back God's thruth— Pether, Sir" — 
 
 Peter here trembled from an apprehension that the 
 wife, in accomplishing some object of her own in. 
 reference to the land, was about to undeceive the 
 landlord, touching the lie which he had so barefacedly 
 palmed upon that worthy gentleman for truth. In 
 fact, his anxiety overcame his prudence, and he re- 
 solved to anticipate her. 
 
 "I'd advise you, Sir," said he, with a smile of sig-, 
 nificant good-humour, " to be a little susprcious of 
 her, for, to tell the thruth, she draws the" here he 
 illustrated the simile with his staff—" the long bow; 
 of an odd time ; faith she does. I'd kiss the book 
 on the head of what I tould you, Sir, plase your ho- 
 nour. For the sacret of it is, that I tuck the moisture 
 afore she left her bed." 
 
 " Why, Peter, alanna,'* said Ellish, soothingly, 
 " what's comin' over you, at all, an' me goin' to ex- 
 plain to his honour the outs and ins of our opinion 
 about the land ? Faix, man, we're not thinkin' about 
 you, good or bad." 
 
 " I believe the drop has scarcely left your head 
 yeti Peter," said the landlord. 
 
 " Bud-an'-age, your honour, sure we must have our 
 joke, any how — doesn't she desarve it for takin' the 
 words out o' my mouth ?" 
 
 ** Whisht, a villish ; you're too cute for us all, 
 Pether. There's no use. Sir, as I was sayin',forany 
 one to deny that when they take a farm they do it to
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 239 
 
 make by it, or at the laste to live comfortably an 1%. 
 That's the thruth, your honour, an' it's no use to keep 
 it back from you, Sir." 
 
 " I perfectly agree %vith you," said the landlord. 
 " It is with these motives that a tenant shouhl wish 
 to occupy land; and it is the duty of every landlord 
 who has his own interest truly at heart, to see that 
 his land be not let at such a rent as will preclude 
 the possibility of comfort or independence on the part 
 of his tenantry. He who lets his land above its value, 
 merely because people are foolish enough to offer more 
 for it than it is worth, is as great an enemy to himself 
 is he is to the tenant." 
 
 " It's God's thruth. Sir, an' it's nothin' else but a 
 :omfort to hear sich words comin' from the lips of a 
 ^ntleman that's a landlord himself." 
 
 " Ay, an' a good one, too," said Peter ; " an' kind 
 father for his honour to be what he is. Divil resave 
 the family in all Europe" — 
 
 " Thrue for you, avourneen, an' every one knows 
 that. We wor talkin' it over, Sir, betuxt ourselves, 
 Pether an* me, an' he says very cutely, that, upon 
 second thoughts, he offered more nor we could ho- 
 Qcstly pay out 0' the land ; so — '* 
 
 " Faith, it's as thrue as Gospel, your honour. Says 
 I, *Ellish, you beauty'"— 
 
 " 1 thought," observed Mr. Eccles, " that she 
 sometimes drew the long bow, Peter." 
 
 " Oh, murdher alive. Sir, it was only in regard of 
 her crassin' in an' whippin' the word out 0' my 
 mouth, that I wanted to take a rise out of her. Oh,
 
 240 THE GEOGRAPHY OF I 
 
 bedad, Sir, no ; the crathur's thruth to the back-bone, 
 an' farther if I'd say it." 
 
 *' So, your honour, considherin' every thing, we're 
 willin' to offer thirty shillins an acre for the farm. 
 That rint, Sir, we'll be able to pay, wid the help o' 
 God, for sure we can do notliin' widout his assist- 
 ance, glory be to his name ! You'll get many that'll 
 offer you more, your honour ; but if it 'ud be plasin' 
 to you to considher what manes they have to pay it, I 
 think, Sir, you'd see, out o' your own sinse, that it's 
 not likely people who is gone to the bad, an' has 
 nothin', could stand it out long." 
 
 " I wish to heaven," replied Mr. Eccles, " that 
 every tenant in Ireland possessed your prudence and 
 good sense. Will you permit me to ask, Mrs. Con- 
 nell, what capital you and your husband can com- 
 mand, provided I should let you have it." 
 
 ** Wid every pleasure in life, Sir, for it's but a 
 fair questicJii to put. An' sure, it is to God we owe 
 it, whatever it is, plase your honour. But, Sir, if 
 we get the land, we're able to stock it, an' to crop it 
 -well an' dacently ; an' if your honour would allow us 
 for sartin improvements. Sir, we'd run it into snug 
 fields, by plantin' good hedges, an' gettin' up shelther 
 for the outlyin' cattle in the hard seasons, plase your 
 honour, and you know the farm is very naked and 
 bare of shelter at present," 
 
 *' Sowl, will we. Sir, an' far more nor that, if we 
 get it. I'll undhertake. Sir, to level" — 
 
 " No, Pether, we'll promise no more nor we'll 
 do ; but any thing that his honour will be plased
 
 AN IRISH OA.TH. 241 
 
 to point out to us, if we get fair support, an' that 
 it remains on the farm afther us, we'll be willin' to 
 do it." 
 
 " Willin' !" exclaimed Peter — " faith, whether 
 we're willin' or not, if his honour but says the 
 word" . 
 
 " Mrs. Connell," said their landlord, " say no more. 
 The farm is yours, and you may consider yourselves 
 as my tenants." 
 
 " Many thanks to you, Sir, for the priference. I 
 hope, Sir, you'll not rue what you did in pvin' it to 
 us before them that offered a higher rint. You'll find, 
 Sir, wid the help o' the Almighty, that we'll pay you 
 your rint rigular an' punctual." 
 
 " Why, thin, long life, an' glory, an' benediction 
 to your honour I Faith it's only kind father for you, 
 Sir, to be what you are. The divil resave the family 
 in all Europe"' 
 
 *' Peter, that will do," replied the landlord; " it 
 would be rather hazardous for our family to compete 
 with all Europe. Go home, Peter, and be guided by 
 your wife, who has more sense in her little finger, 
 than ever your family had either in Europe or out of 
 it, although I mean you no offence by going beyond 
 Europe." 
 
 " By all the books that ;?ever wor opened an' 
 shut," replied Peter, with the intuitive quickness of 
 perception peculiar to Irishmen, " an innocenter boy 
 than Andy Connell never was sent acrass the wather. 
 I proved as clear an Alibi for him, as the sun in 
 the firmament; an' }-it, bad luck to the big-wig 
 O'Grady, he should be puttin' in his leek an me afore 
 
 vol.. I. R
 
 242 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 the jury, jist whin I had the poor boy cleared out 
 dacently, an' wid all lionour. An' bedad, now, that 
 we're spakin' about it, I'll tell your honour the whole 
 conclusions of it. You see. Sir, the Agint v/as shot 
 one night; an' above all nights in the year, your 
 honour, a thief of a toothache that I had kep me" ^ 
 
 " Pether, come away, a bouchal : his honour knows 
 as much about it as you do. Come, aroon ; you know 
 we must help to scald an' scrape the pig afore night, 
 an' it's late now." 
 
 " Bedad, Sir, she's a sweet one, this." 
 
 " Be guided by her, Peter, if you're wise : she's a 
 wife you ought to be proud of." 
 
 " Thrue for you. Sir; divil resave the word o' lie 
 in that, any how. Come, EUish; come, you deludher, 
 I'm wid you." 
 
 " God bless your honour. Sir, an' we're oblaged to 
 you for your kindness an' patience wid the likes of us." 
 
 '' I say ditto, your honour. Long life an' glory to 
 you every day your honour rises !" 
 
 Peter, on his way home, entered into a defence of 
 his apology for offering so high a rent to the landlord; 
 but although it possessed both ingenuity and origi- 
 nality, it wa&, we must confess, grossly defective in 
 those principles usually inculcated by our best Ethic 
 writers. 
 
 *' Couldn't you have tould him what we agreed 
 upon goin' up," observed EUish; " but instead o' 
 that, to begin an' tell the gintleman so many lies about 
 your bein' dhrunk, an' this bein' your birth-day, an' 
 
 the day we wor marrid, an', Musha, sich quare 
 
 stories to come into your head !"
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 243 
 
 *^ Why," said Peter, " what harm's in all that, 
 whin he didn't /nrf vie out .?" 
 
 " But why the sarra did you go to say that / was 
 in the custom o' tellin' lies ?" 
 
 ** Faix, bekase I thought you wor goin' to let out 
 all, an' I thought it best to have the first word o' you. 
 What else? — but sure I brought myself off bravely." 
 
 " Well, well, a hudh ; don't be invintin' sich things 
 another time, or you'll bring yourself into a scrape, 
 some way or other." 
 
 " Faix, an' you needn't spake Ellish ; you can let 
 out a nate bounce yourself, whin it's to sarve you. 
 Come now, don't run away wid the story!" 
 
 " Well, if I do, it's in the way o' my business ; 
 whin I'm batin' thim down in the price o' what I'm 
 bu3rin', or gettin' thim to bid up for any thing I'm 
 sellin' : besides, it's to advance ourselves in the world 
 that I do it, a bouchal." 
 
 *' Go an, go an ; faix you're like the new moon, 
 sharp at both co^rners : but what matther, you beauty, 
 we've secured the farm, at any rate, an', by this an' 
 by that, I'll show you tip-top farmin' an it." 
 
 A struggle now commenced between the husband 
 and wife, as to which of them should, in their respec- 
 tive departments, advance themselves with greater 
 rapidity in life. This friendly contest was kept up 
 principally by the address of Ellish, who, as she knew 
 those points in her husband's character most easily 
 wrought upon, felt little difficulty in shaping him to 
 her own purposes. Her great object was to acquire 
 wealth ; and it mostly happens, that when this is the 
 ruling principle in life, there is usually to be found in 
 r2
 
 .244 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 association with it, all those qualities which are hest 
 adapted to secure it. Peter, on findhig that every 
 succ-eeding day brought something to their gains, be- 
 gan to imbibe a portion of that spirit which wholly 
 absorbed EUish. He became worldly; but it was 
 rather the worldliness of habit, than of principle. In 
 the case of Ellish, it proceeded from both ; her mind 
 was apt, vigorous, and conceptive; her body active, her 
 manners bland and insinuating, and her penetration 
 almost intuitive. About the time of their entering 
 upon the second farm, four children had been the 
 fruit of their marriage — two sons and two daughters. 
 These were now new sources of anxiety to their mo- 
 ther, and fresh impulses to her industry. Her igno- 
 rance, and that of her husband, of any kind of educa- 
 tion, she had often, in the course of their business, 
 bitter cause to regret. She now resolved that their 
 children should be well instructed ; and no time was 
 lost in sending them to school, the moment she 
 thought them capable of imbibing the simplest ele- 
 ments of instruction. 
 
 " It's hard to say," she observed to her husband, 
 " how soon they may be useful to us. Who knows, 
 Pether, but we may have a full shop yit, an' they may 
 be able to make up bits of accounts for us, poor 
 things ? Throth, I'd be happy if I wanst seen it." 
 
 " Faix, Ellish," replied Peter, " if we get an as 
 we're doin', it is hard to say. For my own part, if I 
 had got the larnin' in time, I might be a bright boy 
 to-day, no doubt of it — could spake up to the best o' 
 thim. I never wint to school but wanst, an' I remim- 
 ber I threwn the masther into a kiln-pot, an' broke
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 245 
 
 the poor crathiir's arm ; an' from that day to this, I 
 never could be brought a single day to school." 
 
 Peter and Ellish now began to be pointed out as a 
 couple worthy of imitation, by those who knew that 
 perseverance and industry never fail of securing their 
 own reward. Others, however, — that is to say, the 
 lazy, the profligate, and the ignorant — had a ready 
 solution for the secret of their success. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, she's a lucky woman, an' any thing 
 she puts her hand to prospers. Sure she was bom 
 wid a lucky caul an her head ; an', be sure, a hagur, 
 the world will flow in upon thim. There's many a 
 neighbour about thim works their fingers to the 
 stumps, an' yit you see they can't get an : for Ellish, 
 if she'd throw the sweepins of her hearth to the wind, 
 it 'ud come back to her in money. She was horn to 
 it, an'' nothin can keep her from her luck .'"* 
 
 Such are many of the senseless theories that mili- 
 tate against exertion and industry in Ireland, and 
 occasion many to shrink back from the laudable race 
 of honest enterprise, into filth, penury, and crime. 
 It is this idle and envious crew, who, with a natural 
 aversion to domestic industry, become adepts in poli- 
 tics, and active in those illegal combinations and out- 
 rages which place the country below the poorest and 
 most barbarous upon the earth. 
 
 In the mean time Ellish was rapidly advancing in 
 life, while such persons were absurdly speculating 
 upon the cause of her success. Her business was not 
 only increased, but extended. From crockery, her- 
 
 * The doctrine of fatalism is verj' prevalent among the 
 lower orders in Ireland.
 
 246 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 rings, and salt, she advanced gradually to deal in other 
 tranches adapted to her station, and the wants of the 
 people. She bought stockings, and retailed them 
 every market-day. By and by a few pieces of soap 
 might be seen in her windows : starch, blue, potash, 
 and candles, were equally profitable. Pipes were seen 
 stuck across each other, flanked by tape, cakes, chil- 
 dren's books, thimbles, and bread. In fact, she was 
 equally clever and expert in whatever she undertook. 
 The consciousness of this, and her reputation as being 
 " a hard honest woman," encouraged her to get a cask 
 or two of beer, and a few rolls of tobacco. Peter, 
 when she proposed the two last, consented only to sell 
 them still as smuggled goods — suh silentio. With her 
 usual prudence, however, she declined this. 
 
 *' We have gone on that way purty far," she re^ 
 plied, " an' never got a touch,^ thanks to the kindness 
 o' the neighbours that never informed an us; but 
 now, Pether, that we're able, we had betther do every 
 thing above boord. You know the ould say, ' long 
 runs the fox, but he's catched at last;' so let us give 
 up in time, an' get out a little bit o' licence." 
 
 " I don't like that at all," replied Peter; *' I can't 
 warm my heart to the licence. I'll back you in any 
 thing but that. The ganger won't come next or near 
 lis/, he has thried it often, an' never made any thing 
 of it. Dang me, but I'd like to have a bit o' fim 
 wid the gauger, to see if my hand's still ready for 
 practice." 
 
 " Oh, thin, Pether, how can you talk that way, 
 
 asthore? Now if what I'm say in' was left to your- 
 
 * Never suffered by the excisemen. *
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 247 
 
 self wouldn't you be apt to plan it as I'm doin' ?— 
 wouldn't you, acushla ? Throth, I know you're too 
 cute an' sinsible not to do it." 
 
 " Why thin, do you know what, Ellish — although 
 I didn't spake out, upon my faix I was thinkin' of it. 
 Divil a word o' lie in it." 
 
 " Oh, you thief o' the world, an' never to tell it to 
 me. FaLx, Pether, you're a cunnin' shaver, an' as 
 deep as a draw well." 
 
 " Let me alone. Why I tell you if I study an' lay 
 myself down to it, I can conthrive any thing. Whin 
 I was young, many a time my poor father, God be 
 good to him ! said that if there was any possibility of 
 gettin' me to take to larnin', I'd be risin' out o' the 
 ashes every mornin' like a phanix." 
 
 ** But won't you hould to your plan about the 
 licence?" 
 
 " Hould ! To be sure I will. What was I but 
 takin' a rise out o' you. I intinded it this good while* 
 you phanix — faix, I did." 
 
 In this manner did Ellish dupe her own husband 
 into increasing wealth. Their business soon became 
 so extensive, that a larger house was absolutely 
 necessary. To leave that, beneath whose roof she 
 succeeded so well in all her speculations, was a point 
 — be it of prudence or of prejudice — which Ellish 
 could not overcome. Her maxim was, wherever you 
 find yourself doing well, stay there. She contrived, 
 however, to remedy this. To the old house additional 
 apartments vs'cre, from time to time, added, into which 
 their business soon extended. When these again be- 
 came too small, others were also built ; so that in the
 
 248 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 course of about twenty years, their premises were so 
 extensive, that the original shebeen-house constituted 
 a very small portion of Peter's residence. Peter, 
 during Ellish's progress within doors, had not been 
 idle without. For every new room added to the 
 house, he was able to hook in a fresh farm in addition 
 to those he had already occupied. Unexpected suc- 
 cess had fixed his heart as strongly upon the accumu- 
 lation of money, and the pride of rising in the world, 
 as it was possible for a man, to whom they were only 
 adventitious feelings, to experience. The points of 
 view in which he and his wife were contemplated by 
 the little public about them were peculiar, but clearly 
 distinct. The wife was generally esteemed for her 
 talents and incessant application to business ; but she 
 was not so cordially liked as Peter. He, on the other 
 hand, though less esteemed, was more beloved by all 
 their acquaintances than EUish. This might proba- 
 bly 'originate from the more obvious congeniality 
 which existed between Peter's natural disposition, and 
 the national character; for with the latter, Ellish, 
 except good-humour, had little in common. 
 
 The usual remarks upon both were — " she would 
 buy an' sell him" — " 'twas she that made a man of 
 him ; but for all that, Pether's worth a ship-load of 
 her, if she'd give him his own way." That is, if she 
 would permit him to drink with the neighbours, to be 
 idle and extravagant. 
 
 Every year, now that their capital was extending, 
 added more perceptibly to their independence. El- 
 lish's experience in the humbler kinds of business, 
 trained her for a higher line; just as boys at school
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 249 
 
 rise from one form to another. She made no plunges, 
 nor permitted Peter, who was often inclined to jump 
 at conclusions, to make any. Her elevation was gra- 
 dual and cautious ; for her plans were always so sea- 
 sonable and simple, that every new description of 
 business, and every new success, seemed to arise 
 naturally from that which went before it. 
 
 Having once taken out a licence, their house soon 
 became a decent country spirit establishment ; from 
 soap, and candles, and tobacco, she rose into the full 
 sweep of groceries ; and from dealing in Connemara 
 stockings and tape, she proceeded in due time to sell 
 ^voollen and linen drapery. Her crockery was now 
 metamorphosed into delf, pottery, and hardware ; her 
 gingerbread into stout loaves, for as Peter himself 
 grew wheat largely, she seized the opportunity pre- 
 sented by the death of the only good baker in the 
 neiglibourhood, of opening an extensive bakery. 
 
 It may be asked, how two illiterate persons, like 
 Peter and Ellish, could conduct business in which so 
 much calculation was necessary, without suffering 
 severely by their liability to make mistakes. To this 
 we reply — first, that we should have liked to see any 
 person attempting to pass a bad note or a light guinea 
 upon Ellish after nine or ten years' experience ; we 
 should like to have seen a smug clerk taking his pen 
 from behind his ear, and after making his calculation, 
 on inquiring from Ellish if she had reckoned up the 
 amount, compelled to ascertain the error which she 
 pointed out to him. The most remarkable point in 
 her whole character, was the rapid accuracy she dis-
 
 250 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 played in mental calculation, and her uncommon 
 sagacity in detecting bad money. 
 
 There is, however, a still more satisfactory expla^ 
 nation of this circumstance to be given. She had not 
 neglected the education of her children. The eldest 
 was now an intelligent boy, and a smart accountant, 
 who, thanks to his master, had been taught to keep 
 their books by Double Entry, The second was little 
 inferior to him as a clerk, though as a general dealer 
 he was far his superior. The eldest had been princi- 
 pally behind the counter ; whilst the younger in ac- 
 companying his mother in all her transactions and 
 bargain-making, had in a great measure imbibed her 
 address and tact. 
 
 It is certainly a pleasing, and, we think, an inte- 
 resting thing, to contemplate the enterprise of an 
 humble, but active, shrewd woman, enablhig her to 
 rise, step by step, from the lowest state of poverty to 
 a small sense of independence ; from this, by calling 
 fresh powers into action, taking wider views, and fol- 
 lowing them up by increased efforts, until her shebeen 
 becomes a small country public-house ; until her roll of 
 tobacco, and her few pounds of soap and starch, are lost 
 in the well-filled drawers of a grocery shop; and her 
 grey Connemara stockings transformed, by the golden 
 wand of industry, into a country cloth warehouse. 
 To see Peter — from the time when he first harrowed 
 part of his farm with a thorn -bush, and ploughed it 
 by joining his horse to that of a neighbour — adding 
 farm to farm, horse to horse, and cart to cart, until 
 ■we find him a wealthy and extensive agriculturist.
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 251 
 
 The progress of Peter and Ellish was in another 
 point of view a good study for him who wishes to look 
 into human nature, whilst adapting itself to the cir- 
 cumstances through which it passes. When this 
 couple began life, their friends and acquaintances 
 were as poor as themselves ; as they advanced from 
 one gradation to another, and rose up from a lower to 
 a higher state, their former friends, who remained iu 
 their original poverty, found themselves left behind in 
 cordiality and intimacy, as well as in circumstances ; 
 whilst the subjects of our sketch continued to make 
 new friendships of a more respectable stamp, to fill 
 up, as it were, the places held in their good will by 
 their humble, but neglected, intimates. Let not our 
 readers, however, condemn them for this. It was the 
 act of society, and not of Peter and Ellish. On their 
 parts, it was involuntary ; their circumstances raised 
 them, and they were compelled, of coarse, to rise with 
 their circumstances. They were passing through the 
 journey of life, as it were, and those with whom they 
 set out, not having been able to keep up with them, 
 soon lost their companionship, which was given to 
 those with whom they travelled for the time being. 
 Society is always ready to reward the enterprising 
 and industrious by its just honours, whether they 
 are sought or not ; it is so disposed, that every man 
 falls or rises into his proper place in it, and that 
 by the wisdom and harmony of its structure. The 
 rake, who dissipates by profligacy and extravagance 
 that which might have secured him an honourable 
 place in life, is eventually brought to the work-house;
 
 252 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 ^vhilst the active citizen, who realizes an honest in- 
 dependence, is viewed with honour and esteem. 
 
 Peter and ElHsh were now people of consequence 
 in the parish; the former had ceased to do any thing 
 more than superintend the cultivation of his farms; 
 the latter still took an active part in her own business, 
 or rather in the various departments of business which 
 she carried on. Peter might be seen the first man 
 abroad in the morning proceeding to some of his 
 farms mounted upon a good horse, comfortably dressed 
 in top boots, stout corduroy breeches, buff cash- 
 mere waistcoat, and blue broad-cloth coat, to which 
 in winter w as added, a strong frieze great-coat, with 
 a drab velvet collar, and a glazed hat. Ellish was 
 also respectably dressed, but still considerably under 
 her circumstances. Her mode of travelling to fairs 
 or markets w as either upon a common car, covered 
 with a feather bed and quilt, or behind Peter upon a 
 pillion. This last method flattered Peter's vanity very 
 much ; no man could ride on these occasions with a 
 statelier air. He kept himself as erect and stiff as a 
 poker, and brandished the thong of his loaded whip, 
 with the pride of a gentleman farmer. 
 
 'Tis true, he did not always hear the sarcastic re- 
 marks which were passed upon him by those who 
 witnessed his good-natured vanity : 
 
 *' There he goes," some labouring man on the way- 
 side would exclaim^ " a purse-proud bodagh upon our 
 hands. Why, thin, does he forget that we remimber 
 when he kept the shebeen-house, an' sould his smug- 
 gled tobaccy in gits out of his pocket, for fraid o' the
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 253 
 
 ganger ! So\vl, he'd show a blue nose, any way, only 
 for the wife — 'Twas she made a man of him." 
 
 " Faith, an' I, for one, won't hear Pether Connell 
 run down," his companion would reply; " he's a 
 good-hearted, honest man, an' oblagin' enough ; an' 
 for that matter so is the wife, a hard honest woman, 
 that made what they have, an' brought herself an' her 
 husband from nothin' to somethin'." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Tim; in throth they do desarve 
 credit. Still, you see, here's you an' me, an we've both 
 been slavin' ourselves as much as they were, an' yet 
 you see how we are ! However, it's their luck, an' 
 there's no use in begrudgin' it to them." 
 
 When their children were full grown, the mother 
 did not, as might have been supposed, prevent them 
 from making a respectable appearance. With excel- 
 lent judgment, she tempered their dress, circum- 
 stances, and prospects so well together, that the 
 family presented an admirable display of econom)% 
 and a decent sense of independence. From the 
 moment they were able to furnish solid proofs of their 
 ability to give a comfortable dinner occasionally, the 
 priest of the parish began to notice them ; and this 
 new intimacy, warmed by the honour conferred on 
 one side, and by the good dinners on the other, ripened 
 into a strong friendship. For many a long year, 
 neither Peter nor Ellish, God forgive them, ever trou- 
 bled themselves about going to their duty. They 
 soon became, however, persons of too much impor- 
 tance to be damned without an effort made for their 
 salvation. The worthy gentleman accordingly ad- 
 dressed them on the subject, and as the matter was.
 
 254 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 one of perfect indifference to both, tliey had not the 
 slightest hesitation to go to confession — in compli- 
 ment to the priest. We do not blame the priest for 
 this i God forbid that we should quarrel with a man 
 for eating a good dinner. If we ourselves were a 
 priest, it is very probable — nay, from the zest with 
 which we approach a good dinner, it is quite certain, 
 that we would have cultivated honest Peter's ac- 
 quaintance, and drawn him out to the practice of that 
 most social of virtues — hospitality. The salvation of 
 such a man's soul was worth looking after ; and, in- 
 deed, we find a much warmer interest felt, in all 
 churches, for those who are able to give good dinners, 
 than for those poor miserable sinners who can scarcely 
 get even a bad one. 
 
 But besides this, there was another reason for the 
 Rev. Mr. Mulcahy's anxiety to cultivate a friendship 
 with Peter and his wife — which reason consisted in a 
 very laudable determination to bring about a match 
 between his own niece, Miss Granua Mulcahy and 
 Peter's eldest son, Dan. This speculation he had 
 not yet broached to the family, except by broken hints, 
 and jocular allusions to the very flattering proposals 
 that had been made by many substantial young men 
 for Miss Granua. 
 
 In the mean time the wealth of the Connells had 
 accumulated to thousands ; their business in the 
 linen and woollen drapery line was incredible. There 
 was scarcely a gentleman within many miles of them, 
 who did not find it his interest to give them his cus- 
 tom. In the hardware, flour, and baking concerns, 
 they were equally extensive. The report of their
 
 AN IRISH OATH, 255 
 
 wealth had gone far and near, exaggerated, however, 
 as every thing of the kind is certain to be ; but still 
 there were ample grounds for estimating it at a very 
 high amount. 
 
 Their stores were large, and well filled with many 
 a valuable bale ; their cellars well stocked with every 
 description of spirits; and their shop, though not 
 large in proportion to their transactions, was well 
 filled, neat, and tastefully fitted up. There was no 
 show, however — no empty glare to catch the eye ; on 
 the contrary, the whole concern was marked by an 
 air of solid, warm comfort, that was much more indi- 
 cative of wealth and independence, than tawdry em- 
 bellishment would have been. 
 
 " Avourneen," said Ellish, *' the way to deck out 
 your shop is to keep the best of goods. Wanst the 
 people knows that they'll get betther money-worth 
 here than they'll get any where else, they'll come 
 here, whether the shop looks well or ill. Not savin' 
 but every shop ought to be clane an' dacent, for there's 
 rason in all things." 
 
 This, indeed, was another secret of their success* 
 Every article in their shop was of the best descrip- 
 tion, having been selected by Ellish's own eye and 
 hand in the metropolis, or imported directly from the 
 place of its manufacture. Her periodical visits to 
 Dublin gave her great satisfaction ; for it appears tha* 
 those with whom she dealt, having had sufficient dis 
 crimination to appreciate her talents and integrity 
 treated her with marked respect. 
 
 Peter's farm-yard bore much greater evidence of 
 his wealth, than did Ellish's shop. It was certainly
 
 256 THE GEOGRAPHY OP 
 
 surprising to reflect, that by the capacity of two illi- 
 terate persons, who began the world with nothing, a,ll 
 the best and latest improvements in farming were 
 either adopted or anticipated. The farm-yard was 
 upon a great scale ; for Peter cultiyated no less than 
 four hundred acres of land — to such lengths had his 
 enterprise carried him. Threshing machines, large 
 barns, corn-kilns, large stacks, extensive stables, and 
 immense cow-houses, together with the incessant din 
 of active employment perpetually going on — all gave 
 a very high opinion of their great property, and cer- 
 tainly reflected honour upon those whose exertions 
 had created such a scene about them. One would 
 naturally suppose, when the family of the Connells 
 had arrived to such unexpected riches, and found it 
 necessary to conduct a system whose machinery was 
 so complicated and extensive, that Ellish would have 
 fallen back to the simple details of business, from a 
 deficiency of that comprehensive intelligence which is 
 requisite to conduct the higher order of mercantile 
 transactions; especially as her sons were admirably 
 qualified by practice, example, and education, to ease 
 her of a task, which would appear one of too much 
 difficulty for an unlettered farmer's wife. Such a 
 supposition would be injurious to this excellent wo- 
 man. So far from this being the case, she was still 
 the moving spirit, the chief conductor of the establish- 
 ment. Whenever any difficulty arose that required 
 an effort of ingenuity and sagacity, she was able in 
 the homeliest words to disentangle it so happily, that 
 those who heard her wondered that it should at all 
 have appeared to them as a difficulty. She was every
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 257 
 
 where. In Peter's farm-yard her advice Avas as 
 excellent and as useful as in her own shop. On his 
 farms she was the better agriculturist, and she fre- 
 quently set him right in his plans and speculations for 
 the ensuing year. 
 
 She herself was not ignorant of her skill. Many a 
 time has she surveyed the scene about her with an 
 eye in which something like conscious pride might be 
 seen to kindle. On those occasions she usually 
 shook her head, and exclaimed, either in soliloquy, or 
 by wav of dialogue, to some person near her \ 
 
 *' Well, avourneen, all's very right, an' gom' an 
 bravely ; but I only hope that when Vm gone I w on't 
 be missed !" 
 
 *' Missed," Peter would reply, if he happened to 
 hear her; " oh, upon my credit" — he was a man of 
 too much consequence to swear " by this an' by that" 
 now — " upon my credit, Ellish, if you die soon, you'll 
 see the ginteel wife I'll have in your place." 
 
 " Whisht, avourneen ! Although you're but jokin', 
 I don't like to hear it, a villish ! No, indeed ; we 
 wor too long together, Pether, and lived too happily 
 wid one another, for you to have the heart to think of 
 sich a thing '." 
 
 " No, in throth, Ellish, I would be long sarry to 
 do it. It's displasin' to you, achree, an' I won't say 
 it. God spare you to us ! It was you put the bone 
 in us, an' that's what all the country says, big an' 
 little, young an' ould ; an' God he knows it's thruth, 
 and nothin' else." 
 
 " Indeed, no, thin, Pether, it's not altogether thruth; 
 you desarve your full share of it, You backed me 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 well, acushla, in every thing, an' if you had been a 
 dhrinkin', idle, rollikin' vagabone, what 'ud signify 
 all that me, or the likes o' me, could do." 
 
 . " Faith, an' it was you made me what 1 am, El-^ 
 lish ; you tuck the soft side o' me, you beauty ; an* 
 it's well you did, for by this — hem, upon my reputa- 
 tion, if you had gone to cross purposes wid me, you'd 
 find yourself in the wrong box. An', you phanix o' 
 beauty, you managed the childhre, the crathurs, the 
 same way — an' a good way it is, in throth." 
 
 " Pether, wor you ever thinkin' o' Father Mul- 
 cahy's sioeetness to us of late?" 
 
 " No, thin, the sorraone o' me thought of it. Why, 
 Ellish?" 
 
 " Did'nt you obsarve that for the last three or four 
 months he's full of attintions to us ? Every Sunday 
 he brings you up, an' me, if Pel go, to the althar, 
 an' keeps you there by w^ay of showin' you respect. 
 Pether, it's not you, but your money he respects ; an' 
 1 think there ought to be no respect o' persons in the 
 chapel, any how. You're not a bit nearer God by 
 bein' near the althar; for how do we know but 
 the poorest crathur there is nearer to heaven than 
 we are!" 
 
 '' Faith, sure enough, Ellish; but what deepskame 
 are you penethratin' now, you desaver?" 
 
 ' I'd lay my life, you'll have a proposial o' mar- 
 riage from Father Mulcahy, atween our Dan an' Miss 
 Granua. For many a day he's hintin' to us, from 
 time to time, about the great offers she had ; now 
 what's the rason, if she had these great offers, that he 
 didn't take them ?" .
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 259; 
 
 " Bedad, Eilish, you're the greatest head-piece in 
 all Europe. Murdher alive, woman, what a fii>e 
 counsellor you'd make. An' suppose he did offer, 
 Eilish, what 'ud you be sayin' to him ?" 
 
 " Why, that 'ud depind entirely upon what he's 
 able to give her — they say he has money. It 'ud 
 depmd, too, upon whether Dan has any likin' for her ^ 
 or not." 
 
 " He's often wid her, I know ; an' I needn't tell 
 you, EUish, that afore we wor spliced together, I 
 was often wid somebody that I won't mintion. At 
 all evints, he has made Dan put the big O afore the 
 Connell, so that he has him now full namesake to the 
 Counsellor; an', faith, that itself ^ud get him a ivife.'* 
 
 " Well, the best way is to say nothin', an' to hear , 
 nothin', till his Reverence spakes out, an' thin we'll, 
 see what can be done." 
 
 Ellish's sagacity had not misled her. In a few 
 months after>vards Father Mulcahy was asked by 
 young Dan Connell to dine; and as he and honest 
 Eilish were sitting together, in the course of the even- 
 ing, the priest broached the topic as follows :- 
 
 " Mrs. Connell, I think this whiskey is better than 
 my four year old, that I bought at the Protestant 
 
 Bishop of 's auction, although Dan says mine's 
 
 better. Between ourselves, that Dan is a clever, 
 talented young fellow; and if he happens upon a. 
 steady, sensible wife, there is no doubt but he will 
 die a respectable man. But, by the by, Mrs. Con- 
 nell, you've never tried my whiskey ; and, upon my. 
 credit, you must soon, for I know your opinion would 
 decide the question.'* 
 
 s2
 
 260 THE GEOGKAPHY OF 
 
 " Is it worth while to decide it, your Reverence ? 
 I suppose the thruth is, Sir, that both is good enough 
 for any one; an' I think that's as much as" we 
 want." 
 
 Thus far she went, but never alluded to Dan, judi- 
 ciously throwing the onus of introducing that subject 
 upon the priest. 
 
 " Dan says mine's better," observed Father Mul- 
 cahy ; " and I would certainly give a great deal for 
 his opinion upon that or any other subject, except 
 theology." 
 
 " You ought," replied Ellish, " to be a betther 
 judge of whiskey nor either Dan nor me; an' I'll 
 tell you why — you dhrink it in more places, and can 
 make comparishment one wid another ; but Dan an' 
 me is confined mostly to our own, an' of that same 
 we take very little, an' the less the betther for people 
 in business, or indeed for any body." 
 
 " Very true, Mrs. Connell ! But for all that, I 
 won't give up Dan's judgment in any thing within 
 his own line of business, still excepting theology, for 
 which he hasn't the learning." 
 
 " He's a good son, witdout tay olo^y — as good as 
 ever broke the world's bread," said Peter, " glory be 
 to God ! Although, for that matther, he ought to be as 
 well acquainted wid iay-o\ogy as your Reverence^ in 
 regard that he sells more of it nor you do." 
 
 "A good son, they say, Mis. Connell, will make a 
 good husband. I wonder you don't think of settling 
 him in life. It's full time." 
 
 " Father, avourneen, we must lave that wid him- 
 self. I needn't be tellin' you, that it 'ud be hard to
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 261 
 
 find a girl able to bring what any girl that 'ud expect 
 Oan ought to bring." 
 
 This was a staggerer to the priest, who recruited 
 his ingenuity by drinking Peter's health, and Ellish's. 
 
 " Have you nobody in your eye for him, Mrs. 
 Connell?" 
 
 " Faith, I'll engage she has," replied Peter, with 
 a ludicrous grin — " I'll venture for to say she has 
 ihat.'' 
 
 " Very right, Mrs. Connell ; it's all fair. Might 
 one ask who she is ; for, to tell you the truth, Dan is 
 a favourite of mine, and I must make it a point to see 
 him well settled." 
 
 " Why, your Reverence," replied Peter again, "jist 
 the one you mintioned." 
 
 " Who ?■ I ? Why I mentioned nobody.''^ 
 
 " An' thaVs the very one she has in her eye for 
 him, plase your Reverence — ha, ha, ha ! What's the 
 world widout a joke, Docthor, beggin' your pardon for 
 makin' so free wid you?" 
 
 "Peter, you're still a wag," replied the priest; 
 " but, seriously, Mrs. Connell, have you selected any 
 female of respectable connexions^ as a likely person 
 to be a wife for Dan ?" 
 
 " Indeed no, your Reverence ; I have not. Where 
 could I pitch upon a girl — barrin' a Protestant, an' 
 that 'ud never do — who has a fortune to meet what 
 Dan's to get .?" 
 
 The priest moved his chair a little, and drank their 
 healths a second time. 
 
 *' But you know, Mrs. Connell, tW'Dan needn't 
 care so much about fortune, if he gotfa girl ofrespeci^
 
 262 THE GEOGRAPHY OP 
 
 able conntxions. He has an independence him- 
 self." 
 
 " Thrue for you, father ; but what right would 
 any girl have to expect to be supported by the hard 
 . arnin' of me an' my husband, widout bringin' some- 
 thin' forrid herself? You know, Sir, that the fortune 
 always goes wid the wife ; but am I to fortune off my 
 son to a girl that has nothin' ? If my son, plase your 
 Reverence, hadn't a coat to his back, or a guinea in 
 his pocket — as, God be praised, he has both — but, 
 supposin' he hadn't, what right would he have to 
 expect a girl wid a handsome fortune to marry him ? 
 There's Paddy Neil, your sarvant-boy; now, if Paddy, 
 who's an honest man's son, axed your neice, wouldn't 
 you be apt to lose your timper?" 
 
 '' I beg your pardon, Mrs. Connell, I think your 
 'fire's rather hot — allow me to draw back a little. 
 Mrs. Connell, your health again! — Mr. C. your fire 
 side !" 
 
 " Thank you, Docthor ; but faith I think you ought 
 hardly to dhrink the same fire-side, bekase it appears 
 to be rather hot for your Reverence, at the present 
 time— ha, ha, ha ! Jokin' still, Docthor, we must 
 be. Well, what harm I I wish we may never do 
 worse!" 
 
 " And what fortune would you expect with a girl 
 of genteel connexions — a girl that's accomplished, 
 we'll say in music, plain work, and Irish, vernacularly ? 
 — hem ! What fortune would you be expecting with 
 such a girl ?" 
 
 - " Why, Docthor, a hagur, the only music I'd wish 
 ,for my son's wife is a good timper ; an' that's what
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 253 
 
 their music-masthers can't tache thim. The plain 
 work, although I don't know what you mane by it, 
 sounds well enough; an' as to Idish^ whick-ivhack- 
 ularly, if you mane our own ould tongue, he may get 
 thousands that can spake it whackinly^ an' nothin 
 else." 
 
 " You're a wealthy woman, certainly, Mrs. Con- 
 nell, and what's more, I'm not at all surprised at it. 
 Your health, once more, and long life to you ! Sup- 
 pose, however, that Dan got a fitting wife, what would 
 you expect as a proper portion ? I have a reason for 
 asking." 
 
 " Dan, plase your Reverence, will get four thou- 
 sand to begin the world wid ; an', as he's to expect 
 none but a Catholic, I suppose if he gets the fourth 
 part of that, it's as much as he ought to look for." 
 
 " A thousand pounds I — hut tut ! The woman's 
 beside herself. Why look about you, and try where 
 you can Ifind 'a Catholi-c girl with a thousand pounds 
 fortune, except in a gentleman's family, where Dan 
 could never think of going." 
 
 " That's thrue, any how, your Reverence," ob- 
 served Peter. — " A thousand pounds ! Ellish, you 
 needn't look for it. Where is it to be had out of 
 a gintleman's family, as his Reverence says, thrue 
 enough." 
 
 " An' now, Docthor," said Ellish, " what 'ud you 
 think a girl ought to brin^ a young man like Dan, 
 that's to have four thousand pounds?" 
 
 " I don't think any Catholic girl of his own rank 
 in the county, could get more than a couple of hun- 
 dred."
 
 264 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 " That's one shillin' to every pound he has,'* re- 
 plied Eliish, almost instantaneously. '* But, Father, 
 you may as well spake out at wanst," she continued, 
 for she was too quick and direct in all her dealings to 
 be annoyed by circumlocution ; " you're desairous of 
 a match between Dan an' Miss Granua?" 
 
 " Exactly," said the priest; "and what is more, I 
 believe they are fond of each other. I know Dan is 
 attached to her, for he told me so. But, now that 
 we have mentioned her, I say that there is not a more 
 accomplished girl of her persuasion in the parish we 
 sit in. She can play on the bag-pipes better than 
 any other piper in the province, for I taught her my- 
 self ; and I tell you that in a respectable man's wife 
 a knowledge of music is a desirable thing. It's hard 
 to tell, Mrs. Connell, how they may rise in the world, 
 and get into fashionable company, so that accomplish- 
 ments, you persave, are good. She can make a shirt 
 and wash it, and she can write Irish, As for dancing, 
 I only wish you'd see her at a hornpipe. All these 
 things put together, along with her genteel connex- 
 ions, and the prospect of what I may be able to lave 
 her — I say your son may do worse." 
 
 " It's not what you'd lave her. Sir, but what you'd 
 give her in the first place, that I'd like to hear. Spake 
 up, vour Reverence, an' let us know how far you will 
 go.'' 
 
 " I'm afeard, Sir," said Peter, *' if it goes to a 
 clane bargain atween yees, that Eliish will make you 
 bid up for Dan. Be sharp. Sir, or you'll have no 
 chance; faix, you won't." 
 
 " But, Mrs. Connell," replied the priest, " before
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 265 
 
 I spake up, consider her accomplishments. I'll un- 
 dertake to say, that the best bred girl in Dublin 
 cannot perform music in such style, or on such an 
 instrument as the one she uses. Let us contemplate 
 Dan and her after marriage, in an elegant house, and 
 full business, the dinner over, and they gone up to 
 the drawing-room. Think how agreeable and grace- 
 ful it would be for Mrs. Daniel O'Connell to repair to 
 the sofa, among a few respectable friends, and, taking 
 up her bag-pipes, set her elbow a-going, until the 
 drone gives two or three broken groans, and the 
 chanter a squeak or two, like a child in the cholic, or 
 a cat that you had trampled on by accident. Then 
 comes the real ould Irish music, that warms the heart. 
 Dan looks upon her graceful position, until the tears 
 of love, taste, and admiration are coming down his 
 cheeks. By and by, the toe of him moves : here 
 another foot is going ; and, in no time, there is a 
 hearty dance, with a light heart and a good con- 
 science. You or I, perhaps, drop in to see them, and, 
 of course, we partake of the enjoyment." 
 
 " Divil a pleasanter," said Peter : " I tell you, Pd 
 like it well; an', for my own part, if the deludher 
 here has no objection, /'m not goin' to spoil sport." 
 
 EUish looked hard at the priest ; her keen blue ey-e 
 glittered with a sparkling light, that gave decided 
 proofs of her sagacity being intensely excited. 
 
 " All that you've said," she replied, " is very fine; 
 but in regard o' the bag-pipes, an' Miss Granua Mul- 
 cahy's squeezin' the music out o' thim — why, if it 
 plased God to bring my son to the staff an' bag — a. 
 common beggar — indeed, in that case, MissGranua.'s
 
 266 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 bag-pipes might sarve both o' thim, an' help, maybe, 
 to get them a night's lodgin' or so ; but until that 
 time comes, if you respect your niece, you'll burn 
 her bagpies, dhrone, chanther, an' all. If you are 
 for a match, which I doubt, spake out, as I said, and 
 say what fortune you'll pay down on the nail wid 
 her, otherwise we're losin' our time, an' that's a loss 
 one can't make up." 
 
 The priest, who thought he could have bantered 
 Ellish into an alliance, without pledging himself to 
 pay any specific fortune, found that it was necessary 
 for him to treat the matter seriously, if he expected 
 to succeed. He was certainly anxious for the match ; 
 and as he really wished to see his niece — who, in truth, 
 was an excellent girl, and handsome — well settled, he 
 resolved to make a stretch and secure Dan if possible. 
 
 " Mrs. Connell," said he, '^ 1 will be brief with 
 you. The most I can give her is three hundred 
 pounds, and even that by struggling and borrowing. 
 I will undertake to pay it as you say — on the nail ! 
 for I am really anxious that my niece should be con- 
 nected with so worthy and industrious a family. What 
 do you say?" 
 
 " Pm willin' enough,'"' replied Peter. " It's not 
 asy to get that wid a Catholic girl." 
 
 " There's some thruth in what you say, aroon, 
 sure enough," observed Ellish; **an' if his Reverence 
 puts another hundhre to it, why, in the name of good- 
 ness, let them go together. If you don't choose that, 
 Docthor, never breathe the subject to me agin. Dan's 
 not an ould man yit, an' has time enough to get wives 
 galore.''^
 
 AN IRISH OATH. '^W 
 
 •• Come," replied the priest, " there's my hand, 
 it*s a bargain ; although I must say there's no remov- 
 ing you from your point. I icilL give four hundred, 
 hook or crook; but I'll have sad scrambling to get it 
 together. Still I'll make it good." 
 
 " Down on the nail ?" inquired Ellish. 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! Down on the nail," replied the priest. 
 
 " Well, in the name o' Goodness, a bargain be it," 
 said Peter ; " but, upon my credit, Ellish, I won't 
 have the bag-pipes burnt, any how. Faith, I must 
 hear an odd tune, now an' thin, when I call to see the 
 childhre." 
 
 " Pether, acushla, have sinse. Would you wish to 
 see your daughter-in-law playin' upon the bag-pipes, 
 when she ought to be mindin' her business, or at- 
 tendin' her childhre ? No, your Reverence, the pipes 
 must be laid aside. I'll have no piperly connexion 
 for a son of mine." 
 
 The priest consented to this, although Peter con- 
 ceded it with great reluctance. Further preliminaries 
 were agreed upon, and the evening passed pleasantly, 
 until it became necessar}' for Mr. ^lulcahy to bid 
 them good night. 
 
 When they were gone, Peter and Ellish talked 
 over the matter between themselves in the following 
 dialogue : 
 
 " The fortune's a small one," said Ellish to her 
 husband; "an' I suppose you wondher that I con- 
 sinted to take so little." 
 
 " Sure enough, I wondhered at it," replied Peter: 
 " but, for my own part, I'd give my son to her wid- 
 out a penny o' fortune, in ordher to be connected vrid
 
 268 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 the priest ; an' besides, she's a fine, handsome, good 
 girl — ay, an' his fill of a wife, if she had but the shift 
 to her back." 
 
 " Four hundhre wid a priest's niece, Pether, is 
 before double the money wid any other. Don't you 
 know, that when they set up for themselves, he can 
 bring the custom of the whole parish to them ? It's 
 unknown the number o' ways he can sarve them in. 
 Sure, at stations an' weddins, wakes, marriages, and 
 funerals, they'll all be proud to let the priest know 
 that they purchased whatever they wanted from his 
 niece an' her husband. Betther ! — faix, four hundhre 
 from Amis worth three times as much from another." 
 
 " Glory to you, Ellish ! — bright an' cute for ever ! 
 Why, I'd back you for a woman that could buy an' 
 sell Europe, aginst the world. Now, isn't it odd that 
 I never think of these long-headed skames ?" 
 
 " Ay do you, often enough, Pether; but you keep 
 them to yourself, abouchal." 
 
 " Faith, I'm close, no doubt of it; an' — but there's 
 no use in sayin' any more about it — you said what- 
 somever came into my own head consarnin' it. Faith, 
 you did, you phanix." 
 
 In a short time the marriage took place. Dan, 
 under the advice of his mother, purchased a piece of 
 ground most advantageously located, as the site of a 
 mill, whereon an excellent one was built ; and as a 
 good mill had been long a desideratum in the country, 
 his success was far beyond his expectations. Ever}' 
 speculation, in fact, which Ellish touched, prospered. 
 Fortune seemed to take delight, either in accomplish- 
 ing, or anticipating her wishes. At least, such was
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 269 
 
 the general opinioD, although nothing could possibly 
 be more erroneous than to attribute her success to 
 mere chance. The secret of all might be ascribed to 
 her good sense, and her exact knowledge of the pre- 
 cise moment when to take the tide of fortune at its 
 flow. Her son, in addition to the mill, opened an 
 extensive mercantile establishment in the next town, 
 where he had ample cause to bless the instructions of 
 his mother, and her foresight in calculating upon the 
 advantage of being married to the priest's niece. 
 
 Soon after his marriage, the person who had for 
 many years kept the head Inn of the next town died, 
 and the establishment was advertised for sale. ElHsh 
 was immediately in action. Here was an opportunity 
 of establishing the second son in a situation which 
 had enabled the late proprietor of it to die nearly the 
 richest man in the parish. A few days, therefore, 
 before that specified for the sale, she took her feather- 
 bed car, and had an internew with the executors of 
 the late proprietor. Her character was known, her 
 judgment and integrity duly estimated, and, perhaps, 
 what was the weightiest argument in her favour, her 
 purse was forthcoming to complete the offer she had 
 made. After some private conversation between the 
 executors, her proposal was accepted, and before she 
 returned home, the head Inn, together with all its 
 fixtures and furniture, was her propertv. 
 
 The second son, who was called after his father, 
 received the intelligence with delight. One of liis 
 sisters was, at his mother's suggestion, appointed to 
 conduct the house-keeping department, and keep the
 
 210 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 bar, a duty for which she was pretty well qualified by 
 her experience at home. 
 
 " I will paint it in great style," said Peter the 
 Younger. " It must be a head Inn no longer; I'll 
 call it a Hotel, for that's the whole fashion." 
 
 " It wants little, avourneen," said his mother ; ** it 
 was well kep : some pain tin' an' other improvements 
 it does want, but don't be extravagant. Have it 
 clane an' dacent, but, above all things, comfortable, 
 an' the attindance good. That's what'll carry you, 
 an — not a flourish o' paintin' outside, an' dirt, an' 
 confusion, an' bad attindance widin. Considher, 
 Pether darlin', that the man who owned it last, fea- , 
 thered his nest well in it, but never called it a Hotill. 
 Let it appear on the outside jist as your ould cus- 
 tomers used to see it ; but improve it widin as much 
 as you can, widout bein' lavish an it, or takin' up 
 the place wid nonsense." 
 
 " At all evints, I'll have a picture of the Liberator 
 over the door, an' ' O'Connell' written under it. It's 
 both our names, and besides it will be ' killin' two 
 birds with one stone.' " 
 
 "No avourneen. Let me advise you, if you wish 
 to prosper in life, to keep yourself out of party-work. 
 It only stands betune you an' your business ; an' its 
 surely wiser for you to mind your own affairs than 
 the affairs of the nation. There's rason in every 
 thing. No man in trade has a right, widout com- 
 mittin' a sin, to neglect his family for politics or 
 parties. There's Jack Cummins that was doin' well 
 in his groceries, till he began to make speeches, an*
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 211 
 
 get up public meetins, an' write petitions , an' now 
 he has nothin' to throuble him but poUtics, for his 
 business is gone. Every one has hbcrty to think as 
 they plase. We can't expect Protestants to think as 
 we do, nor Protestants can't suppose that we ought to 
 think as they'd wish ; an' for that same rason, we 
 shoukl make allowance on both sides, an' not be like 
 many we know, that have their mhuls up, expectin* 
 they don't know what, instead of workin' for them- 
 selves an' their families as they ought to do. Pether, 
 won't you give that up, a villish?" 
 
 " I believe you're right, mother. I didn't see it 
 before in the light you've placed it in." 
 
 " Then, Pether, darlin', lose no time in gettin' into 
 your place — you an' Alley; an' faix, if you don't 
 both manage it cleverly, I'll never spake to yees." 
 
 Here was a second son settled, and nothing re- 
 mained but to dispose of their two daughters in mar- 
 riage to the best and most advantageous offers. This, 
 in consequence of their large fortunes, was not a mat- 
 ter of much difficulty. The eldest. Alley, who 
 assisted her brother to conduct the Inn, became the 
 wife of an extensive grazier, who lived in another 
 county. The younger, Mary, was joined to Father 
 Mulcahy's nephew, not altogether to the satisfaction 
 of the mother, who feared that two establishments of 
 the same kind, in the same parish, supported by the 
 same patronage, must thrive at the expense of each 
 other. xVs it was something of a love-match, how- 
 ever, she ultimately consented. 
 
 " Avourneen," said she, " the parish is big enough, 
 an* has customers enough to support them both ; an'
 
 272 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 1*11 engage his Reverence will do what he can for 
 both o' them." 
 
 In the mean time, neither she nor her husband was 
 dependent upon their children. Peter still kept the 
 agricultural department in operation ; and although 
 the shop and warehouse were transferred to Mr. Mul- 
 cahy, in right of his wife, yet it was under the condi- 
 tion of paying a yearly sum to Mrs. Connell and her 
 husband, ostensibly as a provision, but really as a 
 spur to their exertions. A provision they could not 
 want, for their wealth still amounted to thousands, 
 independently of the large annual profits arising out 
 of their farms. 
 
 For some time after the marriage of her youngest 
 daughter, Mrs. Connell took a very active part in her 
 son-in-law's affairs. He possessed neither experience, 
 nor any knowledge of business whatsoever, though he 
 was not deficient in education, nor in capacity to ac- 
 quire both. This pleased Mrs. Connell very much, 
 who set herself to the task of instructing him in the 
 principles of commercial life, and in the best methods 
 of transacting business. 
 
 " The first rules," said she to him, '' for you to 
 obsarve is these : tell truth ; be sober ; be punctual ; 
 rise early ; persavere ; avoid extravagance ; keep your 
 word; an' watch your health. Next : don't be proud; 
 give no offince; talk sweetly; be ready to oblage, 
 when you can do it widout inconvanience, but don't 
 put yourself or your business out o' your ways to sarve 
 any body. 
 
 " Thirdly : keep an appearance of substance an' 
 comfort about your place, but don't go beyant your
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 273 
 
 rnanes in doin' it ; when you make a bargain, think 
 uhat correcther them you dale wid bears, an' whether 
 or not you found them honest before, if you ever had 
 business wid them. 
 
 " When you buy a thing, appear to know your own 
 mind, an' don't be huramin' an' hawin', an' higglin', 
 an' Ion gin' as if your teeth wor watherin' afther it ; 
 but be manly, downright, an' quick ; they'll then see 
 that you know your business, an' they won't be keep- 
 in' off an' an, but will close wid you at wanst. 
 
 " Never drink at bargain makin' ; an' never pay 
 m.oney in a public-house if you can help it ; if you 
 must do it, go into an inn, or a house that you know 
 to be dacent. 
 
 "Never stay out late in a fair or market; don't 
 make a poor mouth; on the other hand, don't bf»a£t 
 of your wealth ; keep no low company; don't be mh- 
 bin' yourself aginst your betthers, bat keep wid your 
 aquils. File your loose papers an' accounts ; an' keep 
 your books up to the day. Never put off any thing 
 that can be done, when it ought to be done. Go early 
 to bed; but be the last up at night, and the first in 
 the momin', an' there's no fear o' you." 
 
 Having now settled all her children in comfort and 
 independence, with each a prospect of rising still 
 higher in the w orld, Mrs. Connell felt Aat the prin- 
 cipal duties devolving upon her had been discharged. 
 It was but reasonable, she thought, that, after the tofl 
 of a busv life, her husband and her^lf should relax a 
 little, and enjoy with lighter minds the ease for which 
 they had laboured so long and unremittingly. 
 
 vol.. 1. T
 
 2lf4 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 " Do you know what I'm thinkin' of, Pether ?" 
 said she, one summer evening ni their farm-yard. 
 
 " Know, is it ?" replied Peter — " some long-headed 
 plan that none of us 'ud ever think of, but that will 
 stare us in the face the moment you mintion it. What 
 is it, you ould sprig o* beauty?" 
 
 " Why, to get a snug jauntin'-car for you an' me. 
 I'd like to see you comfortable in your ould days, 
 Pether. You're gettin' stiff, a hagur, an' will be good 
 for nothin', by an' by." 
 
 '* Stiff! Arrah, by this an' by — my reputation, 
 
 I'm younger nor e'er a one o' my sons yet, you 
 
 eh?" said Peter, pausing — "Faith then I dunna that. 
 Upon my credit, I think, on second thoughts, that a 
 car 'ud be a mighty comfortable thing for me. Faith 
 I do, an' for you, too, EUish." 
 
 " The common car," she continued, " is slow an' 
 throublesome, an' joults the life out o' me." 
 
 " By my reputation, you're not the same woman 
 since you began to use it, that you wor before at all. 
 Why, it'll shorten your life. The pillion's dacent 
 enough ; but the jauntin'-car ! — faix, it's what 'ud 
 make a fresh woman o' you — divil a lie in it." 
 
 " You're not puttin' in a word for yourself now 
 Pether ?" 
 
 " To be sure I am, an' for both of us. I'd surely 
 be proud to see yourself an' myself sittin' in our glory 
 upon our own jauntin'-car. Sure we can afford it, an' 
 ought to have it too. Bud-an'-ager ! what's the rason 
 I didn't think of it long ago ?" 
 
 "Maybe you did, acushla; but you forgot it.
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 27a 
 
 Wasn't that the way wid you, Pether? Tell the 
 thruth." 
 
 *' Why, thin, bad luck to the lie in it, since you 
 must know. About this time twelve months — no, 
 faix, Tm wrong, it was afore Dan's marriage — I had 
 thoughts o' spakin' to you about it, but somehow 
 it left my head. Upon my word, I'm in arnest, 
 Ellish." 
 
 " Well, avick, make your mind asy ; I'll have one 
 from Dublin in less nor a fortnight, I can thin go 
 about of an odd time, an' see how Dan an' Pether's 
 comin' an. It'll be a pleasure to me to advise an* 
 direct thim, sure, as far an' as well as I can. I only 
 hope God will enable thim to do as much for their 
 childher, as he enabled us to do for them, glory be to 
 his name !" 
 
 Peter's eye rested upon her as she spoke : a slight 
 shade passed over his face, but it was the symptom of 
 deep feeling and affection, whose current had run 
 smooth and unbroken during the whole life they had 
 spent together. 
 
 *' Ellish," said he, in a tone of voice that strongly 
 expressed what he felt, " you wor one o' the best 
 wives that ever the Almighty gev to mortual man. 
 You wor, avourneen — you wor, you wor !'' 
 
 " I intind, too, to begin an' make my sowl a little,'* 
 she continued ; " we had so much to do, Pether, 
 aroon, that, indeed, we hadn't time to think of it all 
 along ; but now, that every thing else is settled, we 
 ought to think about ihat, an' make the most of our 
 time while we can." 
 
 " Upon my conscience, I've strong notions mvself 
 T 2
 
 216 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 o' the same tiling," replied Peter : " An I'll back you 
 in that, as well as in every thing else. Never fear, if 
 we pull together, but we'll bring up the lost time. 
 Faith, we will I Sowl, if you set about it, let me see 
 them that 'ud prevint your goin' to heaven !" 
 
 " Did Paddy Donovan get the bay filly's foot ased, 
 Pether ?" 
 
 " He's gone down wid her to the forge : the poor 
 crathur was very lame to-day." 
 
 " That's right ; an' let Andy Murtagh bring down 
 the sacks from Drumdough early to-morrow. That 
 whate ought to go to the market on Thursday, an' 
 the other stacks ought to be thrashed out offhand." 
 
 " Well, well ; so it will be all done. Tare alive ! 
 if myself knows how you' re able to keep an eye on 
 every thing. Come in, an' let us have our tay^ 
 
 For a few months after this, Ellish was perfectly in 
 her element. The jaunting-car was procured; and 
 her spirits seemed to be quite elevated. She paid 
 regular visits to both her sonsj looked closely into 
 their manner of conducting business, examined their 
 premises, and subjected every fixture and improve- 
 ment made or introduced without her sanction, to the 
 most rigorous scrutiny. In fact, what, between Peter's 
 farm, her daughter's shop, and the establishments of 
 her sons, she never found herself more completely 
 encumbered with business. She had intended " to 
 make her soul," but her time was so fully absorbed 
 by the affairs of those in whom she felt so strong an 
 interest, that she really forgot the spiritual resolution 
 in the warmth of her secular pursuits. 
 
 One evening, about this time, a horse belonging to
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 277 
 
 Peter happened to fall into a ditch, from wiiich lie 
 ^vas extricated with much difficulty by the labourers. 
 Ellish, who thought it necessary to attend, had been 
 standing for some time directing them how to pro- 
 ceed ; her dress was rather thin, and the hour, which 
 was about twilight, chilly, for it was the middle of 
 autumn. Upon returning home she found herself 
 cold, and inclined to shiver. At first she thought but 
 little of these symptoms ; for having never had a sin- 
 gle day's sickness, she was scarcely competent to 
 know that they were frequently the forerunners of 
 very dangerous and fatal maladies. She complained, 
 however, of slight illness, and went to bed without 
 taking any thing calculated to check what she felt. 
 Her sufferings during the night vvere dreadful : high 
 fever had set in with a fury that threatened to sweep 
 the powers of life like a wreck before it. The next 
 morning the family, on looking into her state more 
 closely, found it necessary to send instantly for a 
 physician. 
 
 On arriving, he pronounced her to be in a dangerous 
 pleurisy, from which, in consequence of her plethoric 
 habit, he expressed but faint hopes of her recovery. 
 This was melancholy intelligence to her sons and 
 daughters ; but to Peter, whose faithful wife she had 
 been for thirty years, it was a dreadful communication 
 indeed. 
 
 "No hopes, Docthor!" he exclaimed, with a be- 
 wildered air: " did you say no hopes. Sir? — Oh! no, 
 you didn't — you couldn't say that there's no hopes!" 
 
 " The hopes of her recovery, Mr. Connell, are but 
 elender."
 
 278 THE OEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 " Docthor, I'm a rich man, thanks be to God an* 
 
 to " he hesitated, cast back a rapid and troubled 
 
 look towards the bed whereon she lay, then proceeded 
 — " no matther, I'm a rich man : but if you can 
 spare her to me, I'll divide what I'm worth in this 
 world wid you : I will, Sir ; an' if that won't do, I'll 
 give up my last shillin' to save her, an' thin I'd beg 
 my bit an' sup through the counthry, only let me 
 have her wid me." 
 
 " As far as my skill goes," said the doctor, " I 
 shall, of course, exert it to save her ; but there are 
 some diseases which we are almost always able to 
 pronounce fatal at first sight. This, I fear, is one of 
 them. Still I do not bid you despair — there is, I 
 trust, a shadow of hope." 
 
 " The blessin' o' the Almighty be upon you. Sir, 
 for that word ! The best blessin' o' the heavenly 
 Father rest upon you an' yours for it!" 
 
 " I shall return in the course of the day," continued 
 the physician ; " and as you feel the dread of her loss 
 so powerfully, I will bring two other medical gentle- 
 men of skill with me.''' 
 
 " Heavens reward you for that. Sir ! The heavens 
 above reward you an' them for it ! Payment I — och, 
 that signifies but little ; but you an' them 'ill be well 
 paid. Oh, Docthor, achora, thry an' save her! — Och, 
 thry an' save her !" 
 
 " Keep her easy," replied the doctor, " and let my 
 directions be faithfully followed. In the mean time, 
 Mr. Connell, be a man, and display proper fortitude 
 under a dispensation which is common to all men in 
 your state."
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 279 
 
 To talk of resignation to Peter was an abuse of 
 words. The poor man had no more perception of the 
 consolations arising from a knowledge of religion than 
 a child. His heart sank -within him, for the prop on 
 which his affections had rested was suddenly struck 
 down from under them. 
 
 Poor Ellish was in a dreadfui state. Her malady 
 seized her in the very midst of her worldlymindedness; 
 and the curi'ent of her usual thoughts, when stopped 
 by the aberrations of intellect peculiar to her illness, 
 bubbled up, during the temporary returns of rear^on, 
 with a stronger relish of the world. It was utterly 
 impossible for a woman like her, whose habits of 
 thought, and the tendency of whose affections, had 
 been all directed towards the acquisition of wealth, to 
 wrench them for ever and at once from the objects 
 on which they were fixed. This, at any time, would 
 have been to her a difficult victory to achieve ; but 
 now, when stunned by the stroke of disease, and con- 
 fused by the pangs of severe suffering, tortured by a 
 feverish pulse and a burning brain, to expect that she 
 could experience the calm hopes of religion, or feel 
 the soothing power of Christian sorrow, was utter 
 folly. 'Tis true, her life had been a harmless one : 
 her example, as an industrious and enterprising mem- 
 ber of society, was worthy of imitation. She was an 
 excellent mother, a good neighbour, and an admirable 
 wife ; but the duties arising out of these different re- 
 lations of life, were all made subservient to, and mixed 
 up with, her great principle of advancing herself in 
 the world, whilst that which is to come never engaged 
 one moment's serious consideration.
 
 280 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 When Father Mulcahy came to administer the rites 
 of the church to Ellish, he found her in a state of in- 
 coherency. Occasional gleams of reason broke out 
 through the cloud that obscured her intellect, but 
 they carried with them the marks of a mind knit in- 
 dissolubly to wealth and aggrandizement. The same 
 tenour of thought, and the same broken fragments of 
 ambitious speculation, floated in rapid confusion 
 through the tempests of delirium which swept with 
 awful darkness over her spirit. 
 
 " Mrs. Connell," said he, *' can you collect your- 
 self? Strive to compose your mind, so far as to be 
 able to receive the aids of religion." 
 
 " Oh, oh !— my blood's boilin' ! Is that— is that 
 Father Mulcahy ?" 
 
 " It is, dear : strive now to keep your mind calm, 
 till you prepare yourself for judgment." 
 
 " Keep up his head, Paddy — keep up his bead, or 
 he'll be smothered undher the wather an' the sludge. 
 Here, Mike, take this rope : pull, man, pull — manim 
 an diowol ! — pull, or the horse will be lost ! Oh, my 
 head! — I'm boilin' — I'm bumin' I" 
 
 " Mrs. Connell, let me entreat you to remember 
 that you are on the point of death, and should raise 
 your heart to God, for the pardon and remission of 
 your sins." _ 
 
 " Oh I Father dear, I neglected that, but I intinded 
 
 — I intinded Where's Pether? — ^bring, bring — 
 
 Pether to me I" 
 
 " Turn your thoughts to God now, my dear. Are 
 you clear enough in your mind for confession?" 
 
 ** I am, Father; I am avourneen. Come, come
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 281 
 
 here, Pether! Pethcr, Pm goin' to lave you, asthore 
 machree ! 1 could part wid them all but — but yuu.^* 
 
 " Mrs. Connelly for heaven's sake" 
 
 "Is this— is this— Father Mulcahy ? Oh ! Pm 
 ill— ill !"— 
 
 " It is, dear — it is. , Compose yourself, and con- 
 fess your sins." 
 
 *' Where's Mary ? She'll neglect — neglect to lay 
 
 in a stock o' linen, although I — I Oh, Father, 
 
 avourneen! won't you pity me? Pm sick — oh, I'm 
 very sick!" 
 
 *' You are, dear — you are, God help you, very sick, 
 but you'll be better soon. Could you confess, dear? 
 — do you think you could?" 
 
 " Oh, this pain — this pain ! — it's killhi' me ! — 
 Pether — Pether, a suillish machree* have you des — 
 have you desarted me?" 
 
 The priest, conjecturing that if Peter made his ap- 
 pearance she might feel soothed, and perhaps suffi- 
 ciently composed to confess, called him' in from the 
 next room. 
 
 " Here's Peter," said the priest, presenting him to 
 her view — " Here's Peter, dear." 
 
 " Oh ! what a load is on me ! — this pain — this pain 
 — is killin' me — won't you bring me Pether ? Oh, 
 what will I do ? Who's there ?" 
 
 The mental pangs of poor Peter were, perhaps, 
 equal in intensity to those which she suffered physi- 
 cally. 
 
 " EUish,'* said he, in smothered sobs — " Ellish, 
 
 * The light of my heart.
 
 282 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 acushla machree, sure I'm "wid you here; liere Pm 
 sittin' on the bed wid you, achora machree." 
 
 " Catch my hand, thin. Ah, Pether ! won't you 
 pity your EUish? — Won't you pity me — won't you 
 pity me? Oh! this pain — this pain— is kilUn' me!'* 
 
 "It is, it is, my heart's dehght — it's kiUin' us both. 
 Oh, Ellish, Ellish ! I wish I was dead sooner nor see 
 you in this agony. I ever loved you! — I ever an' 
 always loved you, avourneen dheelish ; — ^but now I 
 would give my heart's best blood, if it 'ud save you. 
 Here's Father Mulcahy come." 
 
 " About the mon — about the money — Pether — 
 
 what do you intind Oh! my blood — my blood's 
 
 a-fire ! — Mother o' heaven ! — Oh ! this pain is — is 
 takin' me from all — all ! — Rise me up !" 
 
 " Here, my darlin' — treasure o' my heart — here — 
 I'm puttin' your head upon my breast — upon my 
 breast, Ellish, a hagur. Marciful Virgin — Father, 
 dear," said Peter, bursting into bitter tears — " her 
 head's like fire ! Oh ! Ellish, Ellish, Ellish !— but 
 my heart's brakin' to feel this ! Have marcy on her, 
 sweet God^have marcy on her ! Bear witness, Fa- 
 ther of heaven — bear witness, an' hear the vow of a- 
 brakin' heart. I here solemnly promise, before God, 
 to make, if I'm spared life an' health to do it, a Sta- 
 tion on my bare feet to Lough Derg, if it plases you, 
 sweet Father o' pity, to spare her to me this day ! 
 Oh ! but the hand o' God, Father dear, is terrible ! — 
 feel her brow! — Oh ! but it's terrible !" 
 
 " liis terrible," said the priest, " and terribly is it 
 laid upon her, poor woman ! Peter do not let this 
 scene be lost. Remember it."
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 28'(i 
 
 " Oh, Father dear, can I ever forget it ? — can I 
 ever forget seein' my darlin' in sich agony ?" 
 
 " Pether," said the sick woman, " will you get the 
 car ready for to-mor — to-morrow — till I look at that 
 piece o' land that Dan bought, before he — he closes 
 the bargain ?" 
 
 " Father jewel !" said Peter, "can't you get the 
 world banished out of her heart ? Oh, I'd give a.\\ 
 I'm worth to see that heart fixed upon God ! I could 
 bear to part wid her, for she must die some time; but 
 to go wid this world's thoughts an' timptations ragin* 
 strong in her heart — mockin' God, an' hope, an' re- 
 ligion, an' every thing ! — oh ! that I can't bear ♦ 
 Sweet Jasus, change her heart ! — Queen o' heaven, 
 have pity on her, an' save her !" 
 
 The husband wept with great sorrow as he uttered 
 these words. ^ 
 
 " Neither reasoning nor admonition can avail her," 
 replied the priest, " she is so incoherent that no train 
 of thought is continued for a single minute in her 
 mind. I will, however, address her again. Mrs. 
 Connell, will you make a struggle to pay attention to 
 me for a few minutes ? Are you not afraid to meet 
 God ? You are about to die ! — prepare yourself for 
 judgment." 
 
 *' Oh, Father dear! 1 can't — I can't — I mn af — 
 afraid — Hooh ! — hooh ! — God/ You must do some- 
 thin' for — for me ! I ne-ver done any thing for my- 
 self." 
 
 " Glory be to God ! that she has that much sinse, 
 any way," exclaimed the husband. " Father, a hagur, 
 I trust my vow was heard."
 
 284 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 " Well, my dear — listen to me," continued the 
 priest — " can you not make the best confession pos- 
 sible ? Could you calm yourself for it?" 
 
 " Pether, avick machree — Pether," — 
 
 " Ellish, avourneen, I'm here! — my darlin', I am 
 your vick machree, an' ever was. Oh, Father ! my 
 heart's brakin' ! I cant bear to part wid her. Father 
 of heaven, pity us this day of throuble !" 
 
 " Be near me, Pether; stay wid me — I'm very 
 lonely. Is this you, keepin' my head up?" 
 
 " It is, it is ! I'll never lave you till— till"— 
 
 " Is the carman come from Dublin wid — wid the 
 broad-cloth?" 
 
 " Father of heaven! she's gone back again !" ex- 
 claimed the husband. " Father, jewel ! have you 
 no prayers that you'd read for her ? You wor or- 
 dained for these things, an' comin' from you, they'll 
 have more strinth. Can you do nothin' to save my 
 darlin'?" 
 
 " My prayers will not be wanting," said the priest: 
 but I am watching for an interval of sufficient calm- 
 ness, to hear her confession ; and I very much fear 
 that she will pass in darkness. At all events, I will 
 anoint her by and by. In the mean time, we must 
 persevere a little longer - she may become easier, for 
 it often happens that reason gets clear imm.ediately 
 before death. 
 
 Peter sobbed aloud, and wiped away the tears that 
 streamed from his cheeks. At this moment her 
 daughter and son-in law stole in, to ascertain how she 
 ■was, and whether the rites of the church had in any 
 degree soothed or composed her.
 
 AN JKISH OATH. 285 
 
 " Come ill, Denis," said the priest to his nephew, 
 " you may both come in. Mrs. Mulcahy, speak to 
 your mother : let us try every remedy that might pos- 
 sibly bring her to a sense of her awful state." 
 
 " Is she raving still?" inquired the daughter, 
 whose eyes were red with weeping. 
 
 The priest shook his head ; — " Ah, she is — she is I 
 and I fear she will scarcely recover her reason before 
 the judgment of heaven opens upon her!" 
 
 " Oh thin may the Mother of Glory forbid that!" 
 exclaimed her daughter — " any thing at all but that ! 
 Can you do nothin' for her, uncle?" 
 
 " I'm doing all I can for her, Mary," replied the 
 priest; '^ I'm watching a calm moment to get her 
 confession, if possible." 
 
 The sick woman had fallen into a momentary 
 silence, during which she caught the bed-clothes 
 like a child, and felt them, and seemed to handle 
 their texture, but with such an air of vacancy as 
 clearly manifested that no corresponding association 
 existed in her mind. 
 
 The action was immediately understood by all pre- 
 sent. Her daughter again burst into tears; and 
 Peter, now almost choked with grief, pressing the sick 
 woman to his heart, kissed her burning lips. 
 
 "Father jewel," said the daughter," there it is, 
 and I feared it— the sign, uncle — the sign ! — don't 
 you see her gropin' the clothes ? Oh, mother, darlin', 
 darlin ! — are we goin' to lose you foi ever?" 
 
 " EUish, acushla oge machrce ! Ellish, Ellish — • 
 won't you spake one word to me afore you go ? — 
 Won't you take one farewell of me — of me, arooii.
 
 286 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 asthore, before you depart from us for ever!" ex- 
 claimed her husband. 
 
 " Feeling the bed-clothes," said the priest, " is 
 not always a sign of death ; I have known many to 
 recover after it." 
 
 " Husht," said Peter—" husht ! — Mary — Mary ! 
 Come here — hould your tongues ! Oh, its 'past — it's 
 past ! — it's all past, an' gone — all hope's over I Hea- 
 venly Father !" 
 
 The daughter, in a paroxysm of wild grief, clasped 
 her mother's recumbent body in her arms, and kissed 
 her lips with a vehemence almost frantic. " You 
 won't go, my darlin' — is it from your own Mary that 
 you'd go ? Mary, that you loved best of all your 
 diildhre! — Mary, that you always said, an' every 
 body said, was your own image ! — Oh, you won't go 
 without one word, to say you know her !" 
 
 " For heaven's sake," said Father Mulcahy, " what 
 do you mean ? — are you mad ?" 
 
 '* Oh ! uncle dear ! don't you hear ? — don't you 
 hear ? — listen, an' sure you will — all hope's gone now 
 — gone — gone ! The dead rattle ! — listen ! — the dead 
 rattle's in her throat !" 
 
 The priest bent his ear a moment, and distinctly 
 heard the gurgling noise produced by the phlegm, 
 which is termed, with wild poetical accurac}^, by the 
 peasantry — the " dead rattle," because it is the im- 
 mediate and certain forerunner of death. 
 
 " True," said the priest — " too true ; the last sha- 
 dow of hope is gone. We must now make as much oi 
 the time as possible. Leave the room for a few mi- 
 nutes, till I anoint her. I will then call you in."
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 287 
 
 They accordingly withdrew, but in about fifteen or 
 twenty minutes he once more summoned them to the 
 bed of the dying woman. 
 
 " Come in," said he, " I have anointed her — come 
 in, and kneel down till we offer up a Rosary to the 
 Blessed Virgin, under the hope that she may inter- 
 cede with God for her, and cause her to pass out of 
 life happily. She was calling for you, Peter, in your 
 absence; you had better stay with her." 
 
 *' I will," said Peter, in a broken voice, " I'll stay 
 no where else." 
 
 " An' Pll kneel at the bed-side," said the daughter. 
 *' She was the kind mother to me, and to us all ; but 
 to me in particular. 'Twas with me she took her 
 choice to live, when they war all striving for her. 
 Oh," said she, taking her mother's hand between 
 hers, and kneeling down to kiss it, " a Vahr dheelish !* 
 did we ever think to see you departing from us this 
 way ! snapped away without a minute's warning ! If 
 it was a long sickness, that you'd be calm and sin- 
 sible in ; but to be hurried away into eternity, and 
 your mind dark ! Oh, Vahr dheelish, my heart is 
 broke to see you this way !" 
 
 " Becalm," said the priest — " be quiet till I open 
 the Rosar}\" 
 
 He then offered up the usual prayers which precede 
 its repetition, and after having concluded them, com- 
 menced what is properly called the Rosary itself, 
 which consists of fifteen Decades, each Decade con- 
 taining the Hail Mary repeated ten times, and the 
 Lord's prayer once. In this manner the Decade 
 * Sweet mother I
 
 288 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 goes round from one to another, until, as we have 
 said above, it is repeated fifteen times ; or, in all the 
 Ave Marias one hundred and sixty-five times, with- 
 out variation. From the indistinct utterance, elevated 
 voice, and rapid manner in which it is pronounced, it 
 certainly is wild, and strongly impressed with the 
 character of a mystic rite, or incantation, rather than 
 with that of a calm and humbled spirit, bending down 
 in sorrow before its offended God. 
 
 When the priest repeated the first part, he paused 
 for the response ; neither the husband nor daughter, 
 however, could find utterance. 
 
 " Denis," said he, to his nephew, " do you take up 
 the next." 
 
 His nephew complied ; and with much difficulty 
 Peter and his daughter were able to join in it, repeat- 
 ing here and there a word or two, as well as their 
 grief and sobbings would permit them. 
 
 The heart must indeed have been an unfeeling one, 
 to which a scene like this would not have been deeply 
 touching and impressive. The poor dying woman 
 reclined with her head upon her husband's bosom ; 
 her daughter knelt at the bed-side, with her mother's 
 hand pressed against her lips, she herself convulsed 
 with sorrow — the priest was in the attitude of earnest 
 supplication, having the stole about his neck, his 
 face and arms raised towards heaven — the son-in-law 
 was bent over a chair, with his face buried in his 
 hands Nothing could exceed the deep, the powerful 
 expression of entreaty, which marked every tone and 
 motion of the parties, especially those of the husband 
 and daughter. They poured an energy into the few
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 289 
 
 w orris wliicli they found voice to utter, and displayed 
 such a concentration of the faculties of the soul in 
 their wild unregulated attitudes, and streaming- ujd- 
 turned eyes, as would seem to imply that their own 
 salvation depended upon that of the heloved object 
 before them. Their words, too, were accompanied by 
 such expressive tokens of their attachment to her, 
 that the character of prayer was heightened by the 
 force of the affection which they bore her. When 
 Peter, for instance, could command himself- to utter 
 a word, he pressed his dying wife to his bosom, and 
 raised his eyes to heaven in a manner that would melt 
 any human heart; and the daughter, on joining 
 occasionally in the response, pressed her mother's 
 hand to her heart, and kissed it with er lips, con- 
 scious that the awful state of her paren**; had rendered 
 more necessary the performance of the two tendcrest 
 duties connected with a child's obedience — prayer 
 .and affection. 
 
 When the son-in-law had finished his Decade, a 
 pause followed, for there was none now to proceed but 
 her husband or her daughter. 
 
 " Mary, dear," said the priest, " be a woman; 
 don't let your love for your mother prevent you from 
 performing a higher duty. Go on with the prayer — 
 you see she is passing fast." 
 
 " I'll tr)', uncle," she replied—" I'll try ; but— 
 hut — it's hard, hard, upon me." 
 
 She commenced, and b'y an uncommon effort so 
 far subdued her grief, as to render her words intelli- 
 gible. Her eyes, streaming with tears, were fixed 
 with a mixture of wildness, sorrow, and devotedness, 
 
 TOL. I. u
 
 290 TriE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 upon the countenance of her mother, until she had 
 completed her Decade. 
 
 Another pause ensued. It was now necessary, 
 according to the order and form of the Prayer, that 
 Peter should commence, and offer up his supplica- 
 tions for the happy passage from life to eternity of 
 her who had been his inward idol during a long 
 period. Peter knew nothing about sentiment, or the 
 philosophy of sorrow ; but he loved his wife with the 
 undivided power of a heart in which nature had im- 
 planted her strongest affections. He knew, too, that 
 his wife had loved him with a strength of heart 
 equal to his own. He loved her, and she deserved 
 his love. 
 
 The pause, when the prayer had gone romid to 
 him, was long : those who were present at length 
 turned their eyes towards him, and the priest, now 
 deeply affected, cleared his voice, and simply said, 
 *' Peter," to remind him that it was his duty to pro- 
 ceed vvith the Rosary. 
 
 Peter, however, instead of uttering the prayer, 
 burst out into a tide of irrepressible sorrow. — " Oh !" 
 said he, enfolding her in his arms, and pressing his 
 lips to hers : " Ellish, ahagur machree ! sure when I 
 think of all the goodness, an' kindness, an' tendher- 
 ness that you showed me — whin I think of your smiles 
 upon me, whin you wanted me to do the right, an' 
 the innocent plans you made out, to benefit me an* 
 mine !— Oh ! where was your harsh word, a villish ? 
 — where was your cowld brow, or your bad tongue ? 
 Nothin' but goodness — nothin' but kindness, an' love, 
 an' wisdom, ever flowed from these lips ! An' now,
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 291 
 
 darlin,' pulse o' my broken heart! these same lips can't 
 spake to me — these eyes don't know me — these hands 
 don't feel me — nor your ears doesn't hear me !" 
 
 " Is — is — it you /" replied his wife, feebly — " is 
 it — YOU? — come — come near me — my heart — my 
 heart says it misses ?/o?*— come near me !" 
 
 Peter again pressed her in an embrace, and in 
 doing so, unconsciously received the parting breath 
 of a wife whose prudence and affection had saved 
 him from poverty, and, probably, from such licentious 
 crimes as latter years and the progress of modern 
 events have multiplied in this ill-fated country. 
 
 The priest, on turning round to rebuke Peter for 
 not proceeding with the prayer, was the first who 
 discovered that she had died ; for the grief of her 
 husband was too violent to permit him to notice any 
 thing with much accuracy. 
 
 " Peter," said he, " I beg your pardon ; let me 
 take the trouble of supporting her for a few minutes, 
 after which I must talk to you seriously — very seri* 
 ously." 
 
 The firm, authoritative tone in which the priest 
 spoke, together with Peter's consciousness that he 
 had acted wrongly by neglecting to join in the Ro- 
 sary, induced him to retire from the bed with a 
 rebuked air. The priest immediately laid back the 
 head of Mrs. Connell on the pillow, and composed 
 the features of her lifeless face with his own hands. 
 Until this moment none of them, except himself, 
 knew that she was dead. 
 
 " Now," continued he, " all her cares, and hopes, 
 and speculations, touching this world are over — so is 
 u 2
 
 292 
 
 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 her pain ; her blood will soon be cold enough, and 
 her head Yvill ache no more. She is dead. Grief is 
 therefore natural ; but let it be the grief of a man, 
 Peter. Indeed, it is less painful to look upon her 
 now, than when she suffered such excessive agony. 
 Mrs. Mulcahy, hear me ! Oh, it's in vain ! Well, 
 well, it is but natural ; for it was an unexpected and 
 a painful death!" 
 
 The cries of her husband and daughter soon gave 
 intimation to her servants that her pangs were over. 
 From the servants it immediately went to the neigh- 
 bours, and thus did the circle widen until it reached 
 the furthest ends of the parish. In a short time, also, 
 the mournful sounds of the church-bell, in slov/ and 
 measured strokes, gave additional notice that a Chris- 
 tian soul had passed into eternity. 
 
 It is in such scenes as these that the Roman Ca- 
 tholic clergy knit themselves so strongly into the 
 affections of the people. All men are naturally dis- 
 posed to feel the offices of kindness and friendship 
 more deeply, when tendered at the bed of death or of 
 sickness, than under any other circumstances. Both 
 the sick-bed and the house of death are necessarily 
 the sphere of a priest's duty, and to render them that 
 justice which we will ever render them, when and 
 wheresoever it may be due, we freely grant that many 
 shining, nay, noble, instances of Christian virtue are 
 displayed by them on such occasions. 
 
 When the violence of grief produced by Ellish's 
 death had subsided, the priest, after giving them suit- 
 able exhortations to bear the affliction which had just 
 befallen them with patience, told Peter, that as God,
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 293 
 
 through the great industry and persevering exertions 
 of her who had then departed to another world, liad 
 blessed him abundantly with wealth and substance, it 
 was, considering the little time v/hich had been al- 
 lowed her to repent in a satisfactory manner for her 
 transgressions, his bounden and solemn duty to set 
 aside a suitable portion of that wealth for the delivery 
 of her soul from purgatory, where, he trusted, in the 
 mercy of God, it was permitted to remain. 
 
 " Indeed, your Reverence," replied Peter, " it 
 wasn't necessary to mintion it, considherin' the way 
 she was cut oft' from among us, widout even time to 
 confess." 
 
 " But blessed be God," said the daughter, " she 
 received the ointment at any rate, and that of itself 
 would get her to purgatory." 
 
 " jind I can answer for her," said Peter, " that 
 she intended J as soon as she'd get every thing pro- 
 perly settled for thechildhre, to make her sowl." 
 
 " Ah ! good intentions !" said the priest. " Did 
 you never hear that the floor of hell is paved with 
 good intentions ? I, however, have forewarned you 
 of your duty, and must now leave the guilt or the 
 merit of relieving her departed spirit, upon you and 
 the other members of her family, who are all bound 
 to leave nothing undone that may bring her from pain 
 and fire, to peace and happiness." 
 
 " Och I och ! asthore, asthore ! you're lyin' there 
 — an', oh, Ellish, avourneen, could you think that I 
 ■ — / — would spare money — trash — to bring you to 
 glory wid the angels o' heaven ! No, no, Father 
 dear. It's good, an' kind, an' thoughtful of you to
 
 294 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 put it into my head; but I didn't intind to neglect or 
 forget it. Oh, how will I live wantin' her, Father ? 
 When I rise in the mornin', a villish, where'll be 
 your smile and your voice? We won't hear your 
 step, nor see you as we used to do, movin' pleasantly 
 about the place. No — you're gone, avourneen-^ 
 gone — an' we'll see you and hear you no more !" 
 
 His grief was once more about to burst lorth, but 
 the priest led him out of the room, kindly chid him 
 for the weakness of his immoderate sorrow, and after 
 making arrangements about the celebration of mass 
 for the dead, pressed his hand, and bade the family 
 farewell. 
 
 The death of Ellish excited considerable surprise, 
 and much conversation in the neighbourhood. Every 
 point of her character was discussed freely, and the 
 comparisons instituted between her and Peter were 
 any thing but flattering to the intellect of her husband. 
 " An' so Ellish is whipped off, Larry," said a neigh- 
 bour to one of Peter's labouring men. Faix, an' the 
 best feather in their wing is gone." 
 
 " Ay, sure enough, Risthard, you may say that. It 
 was her cleverness made them what they are. She 
 was the best manager in the three kingdoms." 
 
 '' Ah, she was the woman could make a bargain. 
 I only hope she hasn't brought the luck o' the family 
 away wid her !" 
 
 " Why, man alive, she made the sons and daugh- 
 ters as clever as herself — put them up to every thing. 
 Indeed, it's quare to think of how that one woman 
 brought them an, an' ris them to what they are !" 
 " They shouldn't forget themselves as they're
 
 AN IRISH OATH, 295 
 
 doin', thin ; tor betune you an' me, they're as proud 
 as Turks, an' God he sees it ill becomes them — sits 
 very badly on them itself, when everybody knows that 
 ■iheii' father, an' mGtlier begim uhe w-orid wici a bottle 
 of private whiskey an' half a pound of smuggled to- 
 baccy." 
 
 " Poor Pether will break his heart, any way. Oh, 
 man, but she was the good wife. I'm livin' wid them 
 goin' an seven year, an' never hard a cross word from 
 the one to the other. It's she that had the sweet 
 tongue all out, an' did manage him ; but, afther all, 
 he was worth the full o' the Royal George of her. 
 Many a time, when some poor crathur 'ud come to 
 ax whiskey on score to put over* some o' their friends, 
 or for a weddin', or a christenin', maybe, an' when 
 the wife 'ud refuse it, Pether 'ud send what whiskey 
 they wanted afther them, widout lettin' her know any 
 thing about it. An', indeed, he never lost any thing 
 by that ; for if they wor to sell their cow, he should 
 be ped, in regard of the kindly way he gave it to 
 ihem." 
 
 " Well, we'll see how they'll manage now that she's 
 gone : but Pether an' the youngest daughther, Maiy, 
 is to be pitied." 
 
 " The sarra much ; barrin' that they'll miss her at 
 first from about the place. You see she has left 
 them above the world, an' full of it. Wealth an' 
 substance enough may they thank her for ; an' that's 
 ver}' good comfort for sorrow, Risthard." 
 
 • * To put over— the corpse of a friend. That is to be drunk 
 at the wake and funeral.
 
 296 THE GEOGRAPHY OP 
 
 Faith, sure enough, Larry. There's no lie in 
 that, any way !" 
 
 '* Awouh ! Lie ! I have you about it." 
 Such was the view T;hich liad been taken of their 
 respective characters through hfe. Yet notwithstand- 
 ing that the hearts of her acquaintances never warmed 
 to her — to use a significant expression current among 
 the peasantry — as they did to Peter, still she was 
 respected almost involuntarily for the indefatigable 
 perseverance with winch she pushed forward her own 
 interests through life. Her funeral was accordingly a 
 large one ; and the conversation which took place at 
 it, turning, as it necessarily did, upon her extraordi- 
 nary talents and industry, was highly to the credit of 
 her memory and virtues. Indeed, the attendance of 
 many respectable persons of all creeds and opinions, 
 gave ample proof that the qualities she possessed had 
 secured for her general respect and admiration. 
 
 Poor Peter, who was an object of great compassion, 
 felt himself completely crushed by the death of his 
 faithful partner. The reader knows that he had 
 hitherto been a sober, and, owing to EUish's prudent 
 control, an industrous man. To thought or reflection 
 he was not, however, accustomed ; he had, besides, 
 never received any education ; if his morals were cor- 
 rect, it was because a life of active employment kept 
 him engaged in pursuits which repressed immorality, 
 and separated him from those whose society and 
 influence might have been prejudicial to him. He 
 had scarcely known calamity, and when it occurred 
 he was prepared for it neither by experience, nor a 
 correct view of moral duty. On the morning of his
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 297 
 
 Avife's funeral, such was his utter prostration both of 
 rnind and body, that even his own sons, in order to 
 resist the singular state of collapse into which he had 
 sunk, urged him to take some spirits. He was com- 
 pletely passive in their hands, and complied. This 
 had the desired effect, and he found himself able to 
 attend the funeral. When the friends of Ellish, alter 
 the interment, assembled, as is usual, to drink and 
 talk together, Peter, who could scarcely join in the 
 conversation, swallowed glass after glass of punch 
 with great rapidity. In the mean time, the talk be- 
 came louder and more animated; the punch, of 
 course, began to work, and as they sat long, it was 
 curious to observe the singular blending of mirth and 
 sorrow, singing and weeping, laughter and tears which 
 characterised this remarkable scene. Peter, after 
 about two hours hard drinking, was not an exception 
 to the influence of this trait of national manners. 
 His heart having been deeply agitated, was the more 
 easily brought under the effects of contending emo- 
 tions. He was naturally mirthful, and when intoxi- 
 cation had stimulated the current of his wonted hu- 
 mour, the influence of this and his recent sorrow, pro- 
 duced such an anomalous commixture of fun and dis- 
 consolation as could seldom, out of Ireland, be seen 
 checkering the mind of one individual. 
 
 It was in the midst of this extraordinary din that 
 his voice was heard commanding silence in its loudest 
 and best humoured key : 
 
 " Houldyer tongues," said he; *' bad win to yees, 
 don't you hear me wantin' to sing. Whist wid yees. 
 Hem— och— ' Rise up' — Why, thin, Phil Callaghan,
 
 298 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 you might tlirate me wid more dacency, if you had 
 gumption in you ; I'm sure no one has a betther right 
 to sing first in this company nor myself ; an' what's 
 • more, I ivill sing first. Hould your tongues ! Hem !" 
 He accordingly commenced a popular song, the air 
 of which, though simple, was touchingly mournful. 
 
 " Och, rise Tip, Willy Reilly, an' come alongst wid me, 
 I'm goiii' for to go wid you, and lave this coun-ter-ee ; 
 I'm goin' to lave my father, his castles and free lands — 
 An' away wint Willy Reilly^ an' his own Colleen Bawii . 
 
 " Och, they wint o'er hills an' mountains, and vallies that was 
 
 fair. 
 An' fled, before her father, as you may shortly hear ; 
 Her father followed afther wid a well-chosen armed baud, 
 Och, an' taken was poor Reilly, an' his own Colleen Eawn." 
 
 The simple pathos of the tune, the affection implied 
 hy the words, and probably the misfortune of Willy 
 Reilly, all overcame him. He finished the second 
 verse with difficulty, and on attempting to commence 
 a third he burst into tears. 
 
 " Colleen bawn ! (fair, or fair-haired, girl) — Col- 
 leen bawn !" he exclaimed; " she's lyin' low that was 
 my colleen bawn ! Oh, will yees hould j'^our tongues, 
 an' let me think of what has happened me ? She's 
 gone : Mary, avourneen, isn't she gone from us ? I'm 
 alone, an' I'll be always lonely. Who have I now to 
 comfort me ? I know I have good childhre, neigh- 
 bours ; but none o' them, all of them, if they wor ten 
 times as many, isn't aquil to her that's in the grave. 
 Her hands won't be about me — there was tindherness 
 in their very touch. An', of a Sunday morniii', how
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 299 
 
 she'd tie an my handkerchy, for I never could rightly 
 tie it an myself, the knot Avas ever an' alwavs too 
 many for me; but, och, och, she'd tie it an so snug 
 an' purty wid her own hands, that I didn't look the 
 same man I The same song was her favourite. 
 Here's your healths ; an' sure it's the first time ever 
 we uor together that she wasn't wid us : but now, 
 avillish, you're voise is gone — you're silent an' lonely 
 in the grave ; an' why shouldn't I be sacry for the 
 wife o' my heart that never angered me ? "Why 
 shouldn't I ? Ay, IVIary, asthore machree, good right 
 you have to cry afther her ; she was the kind mother 
 to you ; her heart was fixed in you ; there's her 
 fatures an your face ; her very eyes, an' fair hair, too, 
 an' I'll love you, achora, ten times more nor ever, 
 for her sake. Another favourite song of hers, God 
 rest her, was * Brian O'Lynn.' Throth an' I'll sing 
 it, so I will, for if she was livin' she'd like it. 
 
 " Och, Brian O'Lynn, he had milk an' male, 
 A two-higged porringer wantin' a tail." 
 
 Och, ray head's through other ! The sana one o* 
 me, I bleeve, hut's out o' the words, or, as they say, 
 there's a hole in the ballad. Send round the punch 
 will yees ? By the hole o' my coat, Parra Gastha, 
 I'll whale you widin an inch of your life, if you don't 
 dhrink. Send round the Punch, Dan; an' give us 
 \ song, Parra Gastha. Arrah, Paddy, do you re- 
 [nimber — ha, ha, ha — upon my credit, I'll never 
 forget it, the fun we had catchin' Father Soolaghan's 
 aorse, the day he gave his shirt to the sick man in the
 
 300 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 ditch. The Lord rest his sowl in glory — ha, ha, ha — 
 I'll never forget it. Paddy, the song, you thief?" 
 
 " No, but tell them about that, Misther Connell." 
 
 " Throth, an' I will; but don't be Mistherin me. 
 Faith, this is the height o' good punch. You see — 
 ha, ha, ha ! You see, it was one hard summer afore 
 I was marrid to Ellish — mavourneen, that you wor, 
 asthore ! Och, och, are we parted at last ? Upon 
 my sowl, my heart's breakin' breakin', {iveeps) ; an' 
 no wondher ! But as I was sayin' — all your healths ! 
 faith, it is tip-top punch that — the poor man fell sick 
 of a faver, an' sure enough, when it was known what 
 ailed him, the neighbours built a little shed on the 
 roadside for him, in regard that every one was afeard 
 to let him into their place. Howsomever — ha, ha, 
 ha — Father Soolaghan was one day ridin' past upon 
 his horse, an' seein' the crathur lyin' undher the shed, 
 an a wishp o' sthraw, he pulls bridle, an' puts the 
 spake an the poor sthranger. So, begad, it came 
 out, that the neighbours were very kind to him, an' 
 used to hand over whatsomever they thought best for 
 him from the back o' the ditch, as well as they could. 
 
 " ' My poor fellow,' said the priest, * you're badly 
 off'for linen.' 
 
 '" ' Thrue for you, Sii%' said the sick man, ' I never 
 longed for any thing so much in my life, as I do for a 
 clane shirt an' a glass o' whiskey.' 
 
 " * The devil a glass o' whiskey I have about me, 
 but you shall have the clane shirt, you poor compas- 
 sionate crathur,' said the priest, stretchin' his neck 
 up an' down, to make sure there was no one comin' 
 on the road — ha, ha, ha !
 
 A.N IRISH OATH. 301 
 
 " Well an' good — ' I have tliree shirts,' says his 
 Reverence, ' but I have only one o' them an me, an' 
 that you shall have.' 
 
 " So the priest peels himself on the spot, an' lays 
 his black coat and waistcoat afore him acrass the 
 saddle, thin takin' off his shirt, he threwn it acrass 
 the ditch to the sick man. Whether it was the 
 white shirt, or the black coat danglin' about the 
 horse's neck, the divil a one o' myself can say, but 
 any way, the baste tuck fright, an' made oif wid Father 
 Soolaghan, in the state I'm tellin' yees, upon his 
 back — ha, ha, ha I 
 
 " Parra Gastha, here, an' I war goin' up at the 
 time to do a little in the distillin' way for Tom Dug- 
 gan of Aidinasamlagh, an' seen what was goin' an. 
 So off we set, an' we splittin' our sides laughin' — 
 ha, ha, ha — at the figure the priest cut. However, 
 we could do no good, an' he never could pull up the 
 horse, till he came full flight to his own house, oppo- 
 site the pound there below, and the whole town in 
 convulsions when they seen him. We gather up his 
 clothes, an' brought them home to him, an' a good 
 piece o' fun we had wid him, for he loved the joke as 
 well as any man. Well, he was the good an' charitable 
 man, the same Father Soolaghan ; but so simple that 
 he got himself into fifty scrapes, God rest him ! Och, 
 och, she's lyin* low that often laughed at that, an' 
 I'm here — ay, 1 have no one, no one that 'ud show mc 
 sich a warm heart as she would, (weeps.) How- 
 ever, God's will be done. I'll sing yees a song she 
 liked :
 
 BG2 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 Och, Brian O'Lynn, he had milk an' male, 
 A two-lugged porringer wantin' a tail.' 
 
 Musha, I'm out agin — ha, ha, ha ! Why, I b'lieve 
 there's pishthrogues an me, or I'd remimber it. Bud- 
 an-age, dhrink all of yees. Lie in to the liquor, I 
 say ; don't spare it. Here, Mike, send us up another 
 gallon. Faith, we'll make a night of it. 
 
 ' Och, three madens a milkin' did go, 
 
 An' three maidens a milkin' did go ; 
 
 An' the winds they blew high, 
 
 An' the Avinds they blew low, 
 
 An' they dashed their milkin' pails to an' fro.' 
 
 All your healths, childhre! Neighbours, all your 
 healths ! don't spare what's before yees. It's long 
 since I tuck a jorum myself an — come, I say, plase 
 God, we'll often meet this way, so we will. Faith, 
 I'll take a sup from this forrid, wid a blessin'. 
 Dhrink, I say, dhrink !" 
 
 By the time he had arrived at this pitch, he was 
 able to engross no great portion either of the conver- 
 sation or attention. Almost every one present had 
 his songs, his sorrows, his laughter, or his anecdotes, 
 as well as himself. Every voice was loud, and every 
 tongue busy. Intricate and entangled was the talk, 
 which, on the present occasion, presented a union of 
 all the extremes which the lights and shadows of 
 the Irish character alone could exhibit under such a 
 Calamity as that which brought the friends of the 
 deceased together.
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 303 
 
 Peter literally fulfilled his promise of taking a 
 jorum in future. He was now his own master; and 
 as he felt the loss of his wife deeply, he unhappily 
 had recourse to the bottle, to bury the recollection 
 of a woman, whose death left a chasm in his heart, 
 which he thought nothing but the whiskey could fill 
 
 up- 
 
 His transition from a life of perfect sobriety to one 
 of habitual, nay, of daily intoxication, was immediate. 
 He could not bear to be sober ; and his extraordinary 
 bursts of affliction, even in his cups, were often calcu- 
 lated to draw tears from the eyes of those who wit- 
 nessed them. He usually went out in the morning 
 with a flask of whiskey in his pocket, and sat down to 
 weep behind a ditch — where,, however, after having 
 emptied his flask, he might be heard at a great dis- 
 tance, singing the songs which Ellish in her life-time 
 was accustomed to love. In fact, he was generally 
 pitied; his simplicity of character, and his benevolence 
 of heart, which was now exercised without fear of re^ 
 sponsibility, made hinvisore a favourite than he ever 
 had been. His former habits of industry were thrown 
 aside; as he said himself, he hadn't heart to work; 
 his farms were neglected, and but for his son-in-law, 
 would have gone to ruin. Peter himself was sensible 
 of this. 
 
 " Take them," said he, " into j^our own hands, 
 Denis; for me, I'm not able to do any thing more at 
 them ; she that kep me up is gone, an' I'm broken 
 down. Take them — take them into your own hands. 
 Give me my bed, bit, an' sup, an' that's all I want." 
 
 Six months produced an incredible change in his
 
 304 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 appearance. Intemperance, Avhilst it shattered his 
 strong frame, kept him in frequent exuberance of 
 spirits; but the secret gi'ief preyed on him within. 
 Artificial excitement kills, but it never cures; and 
 Peter, in the midst of his mirth and jollity, was wast- 
 ing aAvay into a shadow. His children, seeing him go 
 down the hill of life so rapidly, consulted among each 
 other on the best means of winning him back to 
 sobriety. This was a difficult task, for his powers of 
 bearing liquor were almost prodigious. He has often 
 been known to drink so many as twenty-five, and 
 sometimes thirty tumblers of punch, Avithout being 
 taken off his legs, or rendered incapable of walking 
 about. His friends, on considering who was most 
 likely to recall him to a more becoming life, resolved 
 to apply to his landlord — the gentleman whom we 
 have already introduced to our readers. He entered 
 warmly into their plan, and it was settled, that Peter 
 should be sent for, and induced, if possible, to take an 
 oath against liquor. Early the following day a liveried 
 servant came down to inform him that his master 
 xvished to speak with him. 
 
 " To be sure," said Peter; " divil resave the man 
 in all Europe Pd do more for than the same gin tie- 
 man, if it was only on account of the regard he had 
 for her that's gone. Come, Pll go wid you in a 
 minute." 
 
 He accordingly returned with the flask in his hand, 
 saying, " I never thravel dout a pocket-pistol, John. 
 The times, you see, is not overly safe, an' the best 
 wav is to be prepared ! — ha, ha, ha ! Och, och ! It 
 houlds three half-pints.".
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 305 
 
 " I tliink," observed the servant, " 30U Imd better 
 not taste that till after your return." 
 
 " Come away, man," said Peter; " we'll talk upon 
 it as we go along : I couldn't do readily widout it. 
 You hard that I Tost Ellish ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied the servant, " and I was very sorry 
 to hear it.'' 
 
 " Did you attind the berrin ?" 
 
 " No, but my master did," replied the man ; " for, 
 indeed, his respect for your wife was very great, Mr, 
 Connell." 
 
 This was before ten o'clock in the forenoon, and 
 about one in the afternoon, a stout countryman was 
 seen approaching the gentleman's house, with another 
 man bent round his neck, where he hung precisely as 
 a calf hangs round the shoulders of a butcher, when 
 he is carr}ing it to his stall. 
 
 *' Good heavens !" said the owner of the mansion 
 to his lady, " what has happened John Smith, my 
 dear? Is he dead?" 
 
 " Dead !" said his lady, going in much alarm to 
 the drawing-room window : " I protest I fear so, 
 Frank. He is evidently dead! For God's sak« go 
 down and see what has befallen him." 
 
 Her husband went hastily to the hall-door, '\vhere 
 he met Peter with his burden. 
 
 " In the name of heaven, what has happened, Con- 
 nell "^ — what is the matter with John ? Is he living 
 or dead ?" 
 
 First, plase your honour, as I have him on my 
 shouldhers, will you tell me where his bed is?" re- 
 plied Peter. " I may as well lave him snug, as my 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 
 
 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 hand's in, poor fellow. The divil's bad head he has, 
 your honour. Faith, it's a burnin' shame, so it is, aa* 
 nothin' else — to be able to bear so little !" 
 
 The lady, children, and servants, were now all as- 
 sembled about the dead footman, who hung, in the 
 mean time, very quietly round Peter's neck. 
 
 *' Gracious heaven ! Connell, is the man dead?" 
 she inquired. 
 
 "Faith, thin, he is, Ma'am, for a while; but, upon 
 my credit, it's a burnin' shame, so it is," 
 
 " The man is drunk, my dear," said her husband 
 — " he's only drunk." 
 
 " a burnin' shame, so it is — to be able to bear 
 
 no more nor about six glasses, an' the whiskey good, 
 too. Will you ordher one o' thim to show me his bed. 
 Ma'am, if you plase," continued Peter, " while he's 
 an me? It 'ill save throuble." 
 
 " Connell is right," observed his landlord. — " Gal- 
 lagher, show him John's bed-room." 
 
 Peter accordingly followed another servant, who 
 pointed out his bed, and assisted to place the van- 
 quished footman in a somewhat easier jDosition than 
 that in which Peter had carried him. 
 
 " Connell," said his landlord, when he returned, 
 " how did this happen?" 
 
 " Faith, thin it's a burnin' shame," said Connell, 
 " to be able only to bear" 
 
 " But hoio did it happen? for he has been hitherto 
 a perfectly sober man." 
 
 " Faix, plase your honour, asy enough," replied 
 Peter ; •" he begun to lecthur me about dhrinkin', so, 
 says I, ' come an' sit down behind the hedge here, an'
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 307 
 
 we'll talk it over between us;' so we went in, the two 
 of us, a-back o' the ditch — an' he began to advise me 
 agin dhrink, an' I began to tell him about her that's 
 gone, Sir. Well, well ! och, och ! no matther ! — So, 
 Sir, one story an' one pull from the bottle, brought on 
 another, for divil a glass we had at all, Sir. Faix, 
 he's a tindher hearted boy, anyhow; for as myself 
 begun to let the tears down, whin the bottle was near 
 out, divil resave the morsel of him but cried afther 
 poor Ellish, as if she had been his mother. Faix, he 
 did ! An' it won't be the last sup we'll have together, 
 plase goodness ! But the best of it was, Sir, that the 
 dhrunker he got, he abused me the more for dhrinkin'. 
 Oh, thin, but he's the pious boy whin he gets a sup 
 in his head ! Faix, it's a pity ever he'd be sober, he 
 talks so much scripthur an' devotion in his liquor !" 
 
 *' Connell," said the landlord, " I am exceedingly 
 sorry to hear that you have taken so openly and in- 
 veterately to drink as you have done, ever since the 
 death of your admirable wife. This, in fact, was what 
 occasioned me to send for you. Come into the par- 
 lour. Don't go, my dear, perhaps your influence may 
 also be necessary. Gallagher, look to Smith, and see 
 that every attention is paid him, until he recovers the 
 effects of his intoxication." 
 
 He then entered the parlour, where the following 
 dialogue took place between him and Peter : — 
 
 " Connell, I am really grieved to hear that you have 
 become latterly so incorrigible a drinker ; I sent for 
 you to-day, with the hope of being able to induce you 
 to give it up." 
 
 " Faix, your honour, it's jist what I'd expect from
 
 308 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 your father's son — kindness, an' dacency, an' devo- 
 tion, wor always among yees. Divil resavc the 
 family in all Europe I'd do so much for as the tame 
 family." 
 
 The gentleman and lady looked at each other, and 
 smiled. They knew that Peter's blarney was no 
 omen of their success in the laudable design they 
 contemplated. 
 
 *' I thank you, Peter, for your good opinion ; but 
 in the mean time, allow me to ask, what can you 
 propose to yourself by drinking so incessantly as you 
 do ?" 
 
 " What do I propose to myself by dhrinkin', is it ? 
 Why thin to banish grief, your honour. Surely you'll 
 allow that no man has rason to complain who's able 
 to banish the thief for two shillin's a day. I reckon 
 the whiskey at first cost, so that it doesn't come to 
 more nor that, at the very outside." 
 
 " That is taknig a commercial view^ of affliction, 
 Connell ; but you must promise me to give up drink- 
 ing." 
 
 " Why thin upon my credit, your honour astonishes 
 me. Is it to give up banishin' grief? I have a regard 
 for you, Sir, for many a dalins we had together ; tbut 
 for all that, faix, I'd be miserable for no man, barrin' 
 for her that's gone. If I'd be so to oblage any one, 
 I'd do it for your family ; for divil resave the family 
 in all Europe" 
 
 " Easy, Connell — I am not to be palmed off in that 
 manner; I really have a respect for the character 
 which you bore, and wish you to recover it once more. 
 Consider that you are disgracing yourself and your
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 309 
 
 cliildven by drinking so excessively from day to day — 
 indeed, I am told almost from hour to hour." 
 
 " Augh ! don't believe the half o' what you hear, 
 Sir. Faith, somebody has been dhrawin' your honour 
 out ! Why I'm never dhnink. Sir ; faith, I'm not." 
 
 " You will destroy your health, Connell, as well as 
 your character ; besides, you are not to be told that it 
 is a sin, a crime against God, and an evil example to 
 society." 
 
 " Show me the man, plase your honour, that ever 
 seen me incapable. That's the proof o' the thing." 
 
 *' But why do you drink at all ? It is not neces- 
 sary." 
 
 ^'^ An' do you never taste a dhrop yourself, Sir, 
 plase your honour? I'll be bound you do, Sir, raise 
 your little finger of an odd time, as svell as another. 
 Eh, Ma'am ? That's comin' close to his honour ! 
 An' faix, small blame to him, an' a weeshy sup o' the 
 wine to the misthress herself, to correct the tindher- 
 ness of her dilicate appetite." 
 
 " Peter, this bantering must not pass ; I think I 
 have a claim upon your respect and deference. I 
 have uniformly been your friend, and the friend of 
 your children and family, but more especially of your 
 late, excellent, and exemplary wife." 
 
 " Before God an' man, I acknowledge that. Sir — 
 I do — I do. But, Sir, to spake sarious — it's thnith. 
 Ma'am, downright — to spake sarious, my heart's 
 broke, an' every day it's brakin' more an' more. 
 She's gone. Sir, that used to manage me ; an' now I 
 can't turn myself to any thing, barrin' the dhriiik — 
 God help me!"
 
 310 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 " I honour you, Connell, for the attachment which 
 you bear towards the memory of your wife, but I 
 utterly condemn the manner in which you display it. 
 To become a drunkard is to disgrace her memory. 
 You know it was a character she detested." 
 
 " I know it all, Sir, an' that you have thruth an' 
 rason on your side; but. Sir, you never lost [a wife 
 that you loved ; an' long may you be so, I pray the 
 heavenly Father this day ! Maybe if you did, Sir, 
 plase your honour, that, wid your heart sinkin' like a 
 stone widin you^ you'd thry whether or not somelhing 
 couldn't rise it. Sir, only for the dhrink I'd be 
 dead." 
 
 ** There I totally differ from you, Connell. The 
 drink only prolongs your grief, by adding to it the 
 depression of spirits which it always produces. Had 
 you not become a drinker, you would long before this 
 have been once more a cheerful, active, and indus- 
 trious man. Your sorrow would have Avorn away 
 gradually, and nothing but an agreeable melancholy 
 —an affectionate remembrance of your excellent wife 
 — would have remained. Look at other men." 
 
 *' But where's the man. Sir, had sicli a wife to 
 grieve for as she was? Don't be hard on me, Sir. 
 I'm not a dhrunkard. It's thrue I dhrink a "reat 
 
 o 
 
 dale; but thin I can bear a great dale, so that I'm 
 never incapable." 
 
 " Connell," said the lady, " you will break clown 
 your constitution, and bring yourself to an earlier 
 death than you would otherwise meet." 
 
 " I care very little, indeed, how soon I was dead, 
 not mukin' you, Ma'am, an ill answer."
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 311 
 
 " Oh fie, Connell, for you, a sensible man and a 
 Christian, to talk in such a manner I" 
 
 " Throth, thin, I don't, Ma'am. Slic's gone, an' 
 I'd be glad to folly her as soon as I could. Yes, 
 asthore, you're departed from me I an' now I'm gone 
 asthray — out o' the right, an' out o' the good! Oh, 
 Ma'am," he proceeded, whilst the tears rolled fast 
 down his cheeks, " if you knew her — her last words 
 too — Oh, she was — she was — but whcre's the use o' 
 savin' what she was? — I beg your pardon, Ma'am, — 
 your honour, Sir, 'ill forgive my want o' manners : 
 sure I know it's bad breedin', but I can't help it." 
 
 *' Well, promise," said his landlord, " to give up 
 drink. Indeed, I wish you would take an oath against 
 it : you are a conscientious man, and I know would 
 !keep it, otherwise I should not propose it, for I dis- 
 countenance such oaths generally. Will you promise 
 me this, Connell ?" 
 
 " I'll promise to think of it, your honour, — aginst 
 takin' a sartin quantity, at any rate." 
 
 " If you refuse it, I'll think you arc unmindfiil of the 
 good feeling which we have ever shown your family." 
 
 " What? — do you think. Sir, I'm ungrateful to 
 you? That's a sore cut, Sir, to make a villain o* me, 
 W^here's the book? — I'll swear this minute. Have 
 you a Bible, Ma'am? — I'll show you that I'm not 
 mane, any way." 
 
 '' No, Connell, you shall not do it rashly; you 
 must be cool and composed : but go home, and turn 
 it in your mind," she replied; " and remember, that 
 it is the request of me and my husband, for your o\mi 
 good."
 
 312 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 " Neither must you swear before me," said his land- 
 lord, " ])ut before Mr. Mulculiy, who, as it is an oath 
 connected with your moral conduct, is the best person 
 to be present. It must be voluntary, however. Now, 
 good bye, Conncll, and think of what we said; but 
 take care never to carry liome any of my servants in the 
 same plight in which you put John Smith to-day." 
 
 " Faix thin. Sir, he had no business, wid your lio- 
 iiour's livery upon his back, to begin lecthurin' me 
 agin dhrinkin', as he did. We may all do very well. 
 Sir, till the timptation crasses us — but that's what 
 thrics us. It thried him, but he didn't stayul it — fai.Y 
 he didn't I — ha, ha, ha I Good mornin' Sir — God 
 bless you. Ma'am' Divil resave the family in all 
 Europe" 
 
 "Good morning, Connell— -good morning I — Pray 
 remember what we said." 
 
 Peter, however, could not relinquish the whiskey. 
 His sons, daughters, friends, and neighbours, all as- 
 sailed him, but with no success. He cither ban- 
 tered them in his usual way, or reverted to his loss, 
 and sank into sorrow. This last was the condition 
 jn which they found him most intractable; for a man 
 is never considered to be in a state that admits of 
 reasoning or argument, when he is known to be 
 pressed by strong gushes of personal feeling. A j)lan 
 at length struck Father Mulcahy, which he resolved 
 to put into immediate execution. 
 
 " Peter," said he, " if you do not abandon drink, I 
 shall stop the masses which Pm offering up for the 
 repose of your wife's soul, and I will also return you 
 the money I received for saying them."
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 313 
 
 This was perhaps the only point on which Peter 
 was accessible. He felt staggered at such an unex- 
 pected intimation, and was for some time silent. 
 
 '' You will then feel," added the priest, " that 
 your drunkenness is prolonging the sufferings of your 
 %vife, and that she is as much concerned in your being 
 sober, as you are yourself." 
 
 " I ivill give in," replied Peter; " I didn't see the 
 thing in that light. No — I will not be dhrunk ; but 
 if I swear aginst it, you must allow me a rasonable 
 share every day, an' Pll not go beyant it, of coorse. 
 The thruth is, Pd die soon if I gev it up altogether." 
 
 " We have certainly no objection against that," 
 said the priest, " provided you keep within what 
 would not injure your health, or make you tipsy. 
 Your drunkenness is not only sinful but disreputable; 
 besides, you must not throw a slur upon the character 
 of your children, who hold respectable and rising 
 situations in the world." 
 
 ** No," said Peter, in a kind of soliloquy, " Pd lay 
 down my life, avourneen, sooner nor Pd cause you a 
 minute's sufferin'. Father IMulcahy, go an wid the 
 masses. Pll get an oath drawn up, an' whin it's 
 done, Pll swear to it. I know a man that'll do it 
 for me." 
 
 The priest then departed, quite satisfied with hav- 
 ing accomplished his object; and Peter, in the course 
 of that evening, directed his steps to the house of the 
 village schoolmaster, for the purpose of getting him to 
 " draw up" the intended oath. 
 
 " Misther 'Flaherty," said he, " Pm comin' to ax 
 a requist of you, an' I hope you' 11 grant it to me. I
 
 314 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 brought down a sup in this flask, an' while we're 
 takin' it, we can talk over what I want." 
 
 " If it be any thing widin the circumference of my 
 power, set it down, Misther Connell, as already 
 operated upon. I'd drop a pen to no man at keepin' 
 Books by Double Enthry, which is the Italian method 
 invinted by Pope Gregory the Great. The Three 
 Sets bear a theological ratio to the three states of a 
 thrue Christian. * The Waste-book,' says Pope 
 Gregory, ' is this world, the Journal is purgatory, an' 
 the Ledger is heaven. Or it may be comparetl,' he 
 says, in the priface of the work, ' to the three states 
 of the Catholic church — the church Militant, the 
 church Suffering, and the church Triumphant.' The 
 larnin' of that man was beyant the reach of credibi- 
 lity." 
 
 " Arra, have you a small glass, Masther? You 
 see, Misther O'Flaherty, it's consarnin' purgatory, 
 this that I want to talk about." 
 
 " Nancy, get us a glass — oh, here it is ! Thin if 
 it be, it's a wrong enthry in the Journal." 
 
 " Here's your health, Masther ! — Not forgettin' 
 yoLi, Mrs. O'Flaherty. No, indeed, thin it's not in 
 the Journal, but an oath I'm goin' to take aginst 
 liquor." 
 
 " Nothin' is asier to post than it is. We must 
 enter it undher the head of — let me see ! — it must go 
 in the spirit account, undher the head of Profit an' 
 Loss. Your good health, Mr. Connell ! — Nancy, I 
 dhrink to your improvement in imperturbability ! 
 Yes, it must be enthered undher the" 
 
 " Faix, undher the rose, I think," observed Peter : ,
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 315 
 
 " dont' you know the smack of it ? You see since I 
 tuck to it, I like the smell o' what I used to squeeze 
 out o' the barley myself, long ago. Misther O'Fla- 
 herty, I only want you to dhraw up an oath aginst 
 liquor for me ; but it's not for the books, good or bad. 
 I promised to Father ^Mulcahy, that I'd do it. It's 
 legardin' my poor Ellish's sowl in purgatory." 
 
 " Nancy, hand me a slate an' cutter. Faith, the 
 same's a provident resolution ; but how is it an' pur- 
 gatory concatenated?" 
 
 " The priest, you see, won't go an wid the masses 
 for her till I take the oath." 
 
 " That's but wake logic, if you ped him for thim," 
 
 " Faix, an* I did — an' well, too; — but about the 
 oath ? Have you the pencil ?" 
 
 " I have; jist lave the thing to me." 
 
 " Asy, IMasther — you don't undherstand it yit. Put 
 down two tumblers for me at home." 
 
 " How is that, Misther Connell ? — It's mysterious, 
 if you're about to swear a{jinst liquor !" 
 
 " I am. Put do\Nai, as I said, two tumblers for me 
 at home. — Are they down ?" 
 
 *' They are down ; but" • 
 
 " Asy ! — very good ! Put down two more for me 
 at Dan's. Let me see ! — two more behind the garden. 
 Well!— put down one at Father Mulcahy's ; — two 
 more at Frank. Can-oil's, of Kilclay. How many's 
 that?" 
 
 "Nine!!!" 
 
 " Very good. Now put down one wid ould Bartic 
 Gorman, of Nurchasy; an' two over wid Michael 
 Morris, of Cargah. How many have you now ?"
 
 316 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 ** Twelve in all ! I ! ! But, Misther Connell, there's 
 a demonstration badly wanted here : I must confiss I 
 was always bright, but at present I'm as dark as Nox. 
 I'd thank you for a taste of explanation." 
 " Asy, man alive ! Is there twelve in all ?" 
 " Twelve in all : I've calculated them.' 
 " Well, we'll hould to that. Och, och ! — I'm sure, 
 avourncen, afore I'd let you suffer one minute's pain, 
 I'd not scruple to take an oath aginst liquor, any 
 way. He may go an wid the masses now for you, as 
 soon as he likes ! Mr. 'Flaherty, will you put that 
 down on paper, an' I'll swear to it, wid a blessin', to- 
 morrow." 
 
 *• But what object do you wish to effectuate by this?" 
 
 " You see, Masther, I dhrink one day wid another 
 
 from a score to two dozen tumblers, an' I want to 
 
 swear to no more nor twelve in the twenty- four 
 
 hours." 
 
 " Why there's intelligibility in that ! — Wid great 
 pleasure, Mr. Connell, I'll indite it. Katty, tare me 
 d lafe out o' Brian Murphy's copy there." 
 
 " You see, Masther, it's for Ellish's sake I'm doin' 
 this. State that in the oath." 
 
 " I know it ; an' well she desarved that specimen 
 of abstinence from you, Misther Connell. Thank 
 you! — your health agin! an' God grant you grace an' 
 fortitude to go through wid the same oath ! — An' so 
 he will, or I'm grievously mistaken in you." 
 
 «OATH AGAINST LIQUOR, 
 
 made bv me, Cornelius O' Flaherty, Philomath, on behalf of 
 Misther Pether 0' Connell, of the Cross-roads, Merchant, on one
 
 ..i*:^^ ■ X. 
 
 311 
 
 t-i;;.-. : 
 si : r' ^ 
 
 t.-T 
 
 ^' I — : 
 
 I 
 
 Wit. 
 Caniteliiis O' 3 
 
 s it ^mds. FfafficGod 
 
 **Daoeiit! WliTldootir 
 ncaDy wiUatbtAi bd Fd Ibt.
 
 318 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 both grammar and arithmetic, aginst any that ever 
 was drawn up by a lawyer — ay, by Counsellor 
 0*Connell himself ! — but faith, I'd not face him at a 
 Vow, for all that ; he's the greatest man at a Vow in 
 the three kingdoms." 
 
 " I'll tell you what I'm thinkin', Masther — as my 
 hand's in, mightn't I as well take another wid an ould 
 frind o' mine, Andy Cavanagh, of Lisbuy ? He's a 
 dacent ould residenther, an' likes it. It'll make the 
 baker's, or the long dozen." 
 
 " Why, it's not a bad thought ; but won't thirteen 
 get into your head ?" 
 
 " No, nor three more to the back o' that. I only 
 begin to get hearty about seventeen ; so that the long 
 dozen, afther all, is best; for God he knows, I've a 
 regard for Andy Cavanagh this many a year, an' I 
 w^ouldn't wish to lave him out." 
 
 " Very well — I'll add it up to the other part of the 
 oath. 
 
 Octavo — One ditto out of respect for dacent Andy 
 Cavanagh of Lisbuy 1 
 
 Now I must make the total amount thirteen, an' all 
 will be right." 
 
 " Masther, have you a prayer-book widin ? — bekase 
 if you have, I may as well swear it here, an' you can 
 witness it." - 
 
 " Katty, hand over the Spiritual Exercises — a 
 book aquil to the Bible itself for piety an' devotion." 
 
 ** Sure they say, Masther, any book that the name 
 o' God's in, is good for an oath. Now, wid the help
 
 AX IRISH OATH. 319 
 
 o' goodness, repate the words afore me, an' I'll sware 
 thini." 
 
 O'Flalierty hemmed two or three times, and com- 
 plied with Peter's wishes, who followed him in the 
 words until the oath was "oncluded. He then kissed 
 the book, and expressed himself much at ease, as 
 well, he said, upon the account of EUish's soul, as for 
 the sake of his children. 
 
 For some time after this, his oath was the stand- 
 ing jest of the neighbourhood : even to this day, Peter 
 Connell's oath against liquor is a proverb in that part 
 of the country. Immediately after he had sworn, no 
 one could ever perceive that he violated it in the 
 slightest degree ; but there could be no doubt as to 
 his literally fulfilling it. A day never passed in which 
 he did not punctually pay a friendly visit to those 
 whose names were dotted down, with whom he sat, 
 pulled out his flask, and drank his quantum. In the 
 mean time the poor man was breaking down rapidly ; 
 so much so, that his appearance generally excited 
 pity, if not sorrow, among his neighbours. His cha- 
 racter became simpler every day, and his intellect 
 e\4dently more exhausted. The inoffensive humour, 
 for which he had been noted, was also completely on 
 the wane ; his eye was dim_, his step feeble, but the 
 benevolence of his heart never failed him. Many acts 
 of his private generosity are well known, and still 
 remembered with gratitude. 
 
 In proportion as the strength of his mind and con- 
 stitution ^diminished, so did his capacity for bearing 
 liquor. When he first bound himself by the oath 
 not to CKceed the long dozen, such was his vigour,
 
 320 THE GEOGRAPHY QV 
 
 that tlie effects of thirteen tumblers coulti scarcely be 
 perceived on him. This state of health, however, did 
 not last. As he wore away, the influence of so much 
 liquor was becoming stronger, until at length he 
 found that it was more than he could bear, that he 
 frequently confounded the names of the men, and the 
 number of tumblers mentioned in the oath, and some- 
 times took, in his route, persons and places not to be 
 found in it at all. This gTieved him, and he resolved 
 to wait upon O'Flaherty, for the purpose of having 
 some means devised of guiding him during his pota- 
 tions. 
 
 " Masther," said he, " we must thry an' make this 
 oath somethin' plainer. You see, whin I get con- 
 fused, I'm not able to remimber things as I ought. 
 Sometimes, instid o' one tumbler, I take two at the 
 wrong place ; an' sarra bit o' me but called in an' had 
 three wid ould Jack Rogers, that isn't in it at all. 
 On another day I had a couple wid honest Barny 
 Casey, an my way acrass to Bartle Gorman's. I'm 
 not what I was, Masther, ahagur; so I'd thank 
 you to dhraw it out more clearer, if you can, nor it 
 was." 
 
 " I see, Mr. Connell ; I comprehend wid the great- 
 est ase in life, the very plan for it. We must reduce 
 the oath to Geography, for I'm at home there, bein' 
 a Surveyor myself I'll lay down a map o' the 
 parish, an' draw the houses of your friends at their 
 proper places, so that you'll never be out o'your lati- 
 tude at all.'-" 
 
 " Faix, I doubt that^ Masther ! — ha, ha, ha I'* 
 replied Peter ; " I'm afeard I will, of an odd time, for
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 321 
 
 I'm not able to caiTv what I used to do ; but no 
 matther : thry what you can do for me this time, any 
 how. I think I could bear the long dozen still, if 1 
 didn t make mistakes." 
 
 O'Flaherty accordingly set himself to work ; and 
 as his knowledge, not only of the parish, but of every 
 person and house in it, was accurate, he soon had 
 a tolerably correct skeleton map of it drawn for Peter's 
 use. 
 
 " Now," said he, " lend me your ears." 
 
 " Faix, I'll do no sich thing," replied Peter — " I 
 know a thrick worth two of it. Lend you my ears, 
 inagh ! — catch me at it ! You have a bigger pair of 
 your own nor I have — ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 " Weil, in other words, pay attintion. Now, see . 
 this dot — that's your own house." 
 
 " Put a crass there," said Peter, " an thin TU 
 know it's the Crass-roads." 
 
 " Upon my reputation, you're right; an' that's 
 what I call a good specimen of ingenuity. I'll take 
 the hint from that, an' we'll make it a Hieroglyphical 
 as well as a Geographical oath. Well, there's a crass, 
 wid two tumblers. Is that clear :" 
 
 *' It is, it is! Go an." 
 
 " Now here we draw aline to your son Dan's. Let 
 me see; he keeps a mill, an' sells cloth. Very good. 
 I'll dhraw a mill-wheel an' a yard-wand. There's two 
 tumblers. Will you know that ?" 
 
 " I see it : go an', nothin' can be clearer. So far I 
 can't go asthray." 
 
 " Well, what next ? Two behind your own garden* 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 THE GEOGRAPHY OP 
 
 What metaphor for the garden ? Let me see ! — 
 let me cogitate ! A dragon ■ — the Hesperides ! 
 That's beyant you. A bit of a hedge will do, an' a 
 gate." 
 
 *' Don't put a gate in, it's not lucky. You know 
 when a man takes to dhrink, they say he's goin' a 
 grey gate, or a black gate, or a bad gate. Put that 
 out, an' make the hedge longer, an' it'll do — wid the 
 two tumblers, though." 
 
 " They're down. One at the Reverend Father 
 Mulcahy's, How will we thranslate the priest?" 
 
 " Faix, I doubt that will be a dijficquilt business." 
 
 *' Upon my reputation, I agree wid you in that, 
 espicially whin he repates Latin. However, we'll see. 
 He writes P. P. afther his name ; — pee-pee is what 
 we call the turkeys wid. What 'ud you think o' two 
 turkeys?" 
 
 " The priest would like them roasted, but I couldn't 
 undherstand that.- No; put down the sign o the 
 horsewhip, or the cudgel ; for he's handy, an argues 
 well wid both ?" 
 
 " Good ! I'll put down the horsewhip first, an' the 
 cudgel along side of it ; then the tumbler, an' there 
 'ill be the sign o' the priest." 
 
 " Ay do, Masther, an' faix the priest 'ill be com- 
 plate — there can be no mistakin' him thin. Divil a 
 one but that's a good thought !" 
 
 " There, it is in black an' white. Who comes 
 next? Frank Carroll. He's a farmer. Pll put 
 down a spade an' a harrow. Well, that's done — two 
 tumblers."
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 323 
 
 " I won't mistake that aither. It's clear enough,'* 
 
 " Bartle Gorman's of Nurchasey. Bartle's a little 
 lame, an' uses a staif wid a cross on the end that he 
 houlds in his hand. I'll put dov/n a staff wid across 
 ou it." 
 
 " Would there be no danger of me mistakin' that 
 for the priest's cudgel ?" 
 
 *' Not the slightest. I'll pledge my knowledge of 
 geography, they're two very different weapons." 
 
 " Well, put it down— I'll know it " 
 
 " Michael Morris of Cargah. What for him ? 
 Michael's a pig-driver. I'll put down a pig. You'll 
 comprehend that ?" 
 
 " I ought ; for many a pig I sould him in my day. 
 Put down the pig; an' if you could put two black 
 spots upon his back, I'd know it to be one I sould 
 him about four years agone — the fattest ever was in 
 the country — it had to be brought home on a car, for 
 it wasn't able to walk wid fat." 
 
 " Very good ; the spots are on it. The last is 
 Andy Cavanagh of Lisbuy. Now, do you see that 
 Fve drawn a line from place to pla^e, so that you 
 have nothing to do only to keep to it as you go. What 
 for Andy?" 
 
 Andy I Let me see — Andy ! Pooh ! What's 
 come over me that I've nothing for Andy? Ay! I 
 have it. He's a horse-jockey : put down a grey mare 
 I sould him about five years agone." 
 
 " I'll put down a horse ; but I can't make a grey 
 mare wid black ink." 
 
 " Well, make a mare of her, any wav." 
 t2
 
 324 
 
 THK GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 " Faith, an' that same puzzles me. Stop, I have 
 it; I'll put a foal along wid her." 
 
 *' As good as the bank. God bless you, Misther 
 O'Flaherty. 1 think this'll keep me from mistakes. 
 An' now, if you'll slip up to me afther dusk, I'll send 
 you down a couple of bottles and a flitch. Sure you 
 desarve more for the throuble you tuck." 
 
 Many of our readers, particularly of our English
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 325 
 
 readers, will be somewliat startled to hear, that ex- 
 cept the change of names and places, there is actually 
 little exaggeration in the form of this oath ; so just is 
 the observation, that the romance of truth frequently- 
 far exceeds that of fiction. 
 
 Peter had, however, over-rated his own strength in 
 supposing that he could bear the long dozen in fu- 
 ture ; ere many months passed, he was scarcely able 
 to reach the half of that number without s'nking into 
 intoxication. AVhilst in this state, he v;as in the 
 habit of going to the grave-yard in which his wife lay- 
 buried, where he sat, and wept like a child, sang her 
 favourite songs, or knelt and offered up his prayers 
 for the repose of her so'il. None ever mocked him 
 for this; on the contrary, there was always some, 
 kind person to assist him home. And as he stag- 
 gered on, instead of sneers and ridicule, one might 
 hear such expressions as these : — 
 
 *' Poor Pether ! he's nearly off; an' a dacent, kind 
 neighbour he ever was. The death of the wife broke 
 his heart — he never ris his head since." 
 
 " Ay poor man ! God pity him ! He'll soon be 
 sleepin' beside her, beyant there, where she's lyin'. 
 It was never known of Pether Connell that he offinded 
 man, woman, or child, since he was born, barrin' the 
 gangers, bad luck to thim, afore he was marrid — but 
 that was no offince. Sowl, he was their match, any 
 how. When he an' the wife's gone, they v,^on't lave 
 their likes behind them. The sons are hodaghs — - 
 gintlemen, now ; an' it's nothiu' but dinners an* 
 company. Ahagur, that wasn't the way their hard- 
 workin' father an' mother made the money that
 
 326 THE GEOGRAPHY OF 
 
 they're houldin' their heads up wid such consequence 
 upon." 
 
 The children, however, did not give Peter up as 
 hopeless. Father Mulcahy, too, once more assailed 
 him on his weak side. One morning, when he was 
 sober, nervous, and depressed, the priest arrived, and 
 finding him at home, addressed him as follows : 
 
 " Peter, I'm sorry, and vexed, and angry, this 
 morning; and you are the cause of it." 
 
 " How is that, your Reverence?" said Peter. 
 " God help me," he added, " don't be hard an me. 
 Sir, for Pm to be pitied. Don't be hard on me, for 
 the short time Pll be here. I know it won't be long 
 — Pll be wid her soon. Asthore machree, we'll be 
 together, I hope, afore long — an', oh ! if it was the 
 will o' God, I would be glad it was afore night I" 
 
 The poor, shattered, heart-broken creature, wept 
 bitterly ; for he felt somewhat sensible of the justice 
 of the reproof which he expected from the priest, as 
 well as undiminished sorrow for his wife. 
 
 " Pm not going to be hard on you," said the good- 
 natured priest ; " I only called to tell you a dream 
 that your son Dan had last night about you and his 
 mother." 
 
 " About Ellish ! Oh, for heaven's sake, what about 
 her. Father, avourneen?'* 
 
 " She appeared to him, last night," replied Father 
 Mulcahy, " and told him that your drinking kept her 
 out of happiness." 
 
 " Queen of heaven !" exclaimed Peter, deeply 
 affected, "is that true? Oh," said he, dropping on 
 his knees, *' Father, ahagur machree, pardon me-^
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 321 
 
 oh, forgive me ! I now promise, solemnly and seri- 
 ously, to drink neither m the house nor out of it, for 
 the time to come, not one drop at all, good, bad, or 
 indifferent, of either whiskey, wine, or punch — 
 barrin' one glass. Are you now satisfied? an' do 
 you think she'll get to happiness ?" 
 
 " All will be well, I trust," said the priest. *' I 
 shall mention this to Dan and the rest, and depend 
 upon it, they, too, will be happy to hear it." 
 
 " Here's what Mr. O'Flaherty an' myself made 
 up," said Peter : " burn it. Father; take it out of my 
 sight, for it's now no use to me." 
 
 " What is this at all ?" said Mr. Mulcahy, looking 
 into it. '' Is it an oath?" 
 
 " It's the Joggraphy of one I swore sometime ago ; 
 but it's now out of date — I'm done wid it." 
 
 The priest could not avoid smiling when he perused 
 it, and on getting from Peter's lips an explanation of 
 the Hieroglyphics, he laughed heartily at the ingeni- 
 ous shifts they had made to guide his memory. 
 
 Peter, for some time after this, confined himself to 
 one glass, as he had promised ; but he felt such de- 
 pression and feebleness, that he ventured slowly, and 
 by degrees, to enlarge the " glass" from which he 
 drank. His impression touching the happiness of 
 his wife was, that as he had for several months 
 strictly observed his promise, she had probably during 
 that period gone to heaven. He then began to exer- 
 cise his ingenuity gradually, as we have said, by 
 using, from time to time, a glass larger than the pre- 
 ceding one ; thus receding from the spirit of his vow- 
 to the letter, and increasing the quantity of his drink
 
 328 THE GEOGRAPHY OP 
 
 irom a small glass to the most capacious tumbler he 
 could find. The manner in which he drank this was 
 highly illustrative of the customs which prevail on 
 this subject in Ireland. He remembered, that in 
 making the vow, he used the words, " neither in the 
 house nor out of it ;" but in order to get over this 
 dilemma, he usually stood with one foot outside the 
 threshold, and the other in the house, keeping himself 
 in that position which would render it difficult to 
 determhie whether he was either out or in. At other 
 times, when he haj^pened to be up stairs, he usualiy 
 thrust one half of his person out of the window, with 
 the same ludicrous intention of keeping the letter of 
 his vow. 
 
 Many a smile this adroitness of his occasioned to 
 the lookers-on; but further ridicule was checked by 
 his wo-begone and afflicted look. He was now a 
 mere skeleton, feeble and tottering. 
 
 One night in the depth of winter he went into the 
 town where his two sons resided ; he had been ill in 
 mind and body during the day, and he fancied that 
 change of scene and society might benefit him. His 
 daughter and son-in-law, in consequence of his illness, 
 watched him so closely, that he could not succeed in 
 getting his usual " glass." This offended him, and 
 he escaped without their knowledge to the son who 
 kept the Inn. On arriving there, he went up stairs, 
 and by a douceur to the waiter, got a large tumbler 
 filled with spirits. The lingering influences of a con- 
 science that generally felt strongly on the side of 
 moral duty, though poorly instructed, prompted him 
 to drink it in the usual manner, by keeping one-half
 
 AN IRISH OATH. 329 
 
 of his body, as nearly as he could guess, out of the 
 window, that it might be said he drank it neither in 
 nor out of the house. He had scarcely finished his 
 draught, however, when he lost his balance, and was 
 precipitated upon the pavement. The crash of his 
 fall was heard in the bar, and his son, who had just 
 come in, ran, along with several others, to ascertain 
 what had happened. They found him, however, only 
 severely stunned. He w^as immediately brought in, 
 and medical aid sent for ; but, though he recovered 
 from the immediate effects of the fall, the shock it 
 gave to his broken constitution, and his excessive 
 grief, carried him off iri a few months afterwards. He 
 expired in the arms of his son and daughter, and 
 amidst the tears of those who knew his simplicity of 
 character, his goodness of heart, and his attachment 
 to the wife by whose death that heart had been 
 broken. 
 
 Such was the melancholy end of the honest and 
 warm-hearted Peter Connell, who, unhappily, was not 
 a solitary instance of a man driven to habits of in- 
 toxication and neglect of business, by the force of 
 sorrow, which time and a well-regulated mind might 
 otherwise have overcome. We have held him up, on 
 the one hand, as an example worthy of imitation in 
 that industry and steadiness which, under the direc- 
 tion of his wife, raised him from poverty to indepen- 
 dence and wealth; and, on the other, as a man resort- 
 ing to the use of spirituous liquors that he might be 
 enabled to support affliction — a course which, so far 
 from having sustained him under it, shattered his
 
 330 
 
 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 constitution, shortened his life, and destroyed his 
 happiness. In conclusion, we wish our countrymen 
 of Peter's class would imitate him in his better quali- 
 ties, and try to avoid hk failings.
 
 AN ESSAY ON IRISH SWEARING.
 
 AN ESSAY ON IRISH SWEARING. 
 
 No pen can do justice to the extravagance and frolic 
 inseparable from the character of the Irish people ; 
 nor has any system of philosophy been discovered 
 that can Mith moral fitness be applied to them. 
 Phrenology fails to explain it, for according to the 
 most capital surveys hitherto made and reported or. , 
 it appears that, inasmuch as the moral and intellectual 
 organs of Irishmen predominate over the physical and 
 sensual, the people ought therefore to be ranked at 
 the very tip top of morality. We \vould warn the 
 phrenologists, however, not to be too sanguine in 
 drawing inferences from an examination of Paddy's 
 head. Heaven only knows the scenes in which it is 
 engaged, and the protuberances created by a long life 
 of hard fighting. Many an organ and developcment 
 is brought out on it by the cudgel that never would 
 have a])peared had nature been left to herself. 
 
 Drinlving, fighting, and swearing, are the three 
 great characteristics of every people. Paddy's love of 
 fighting and of whiskey has been long proverbial; and
 
 334 AN ESSAY 0> 
 
 of his tact in swearing much has also been said. But 
 there is one department of oath-making in which he 
 stands unrivalled and unapproachable ; I mean the 
 alibi. There is where he shines, where his oath, in- 
 stead of being a mere matter of fact or opinion, rises 
 up into the dignity of epic narrative, containing within 
 itself all the complexity of machinery, harmony of 
 parts, and fertility of invention, by which your true 
 epic should be characterised. 
 
 The Englishman, whom we will call the historian 
 in swearing, will depose to the truth of this or that 
 fact, but there the line is drawn : he swears his oath 
 so far as he knows, and stands still. " I'm sure, for 
 my part, I don't know ; I've said all I knows about 
 it," and beyond this his besotted intellect goeth not. 
 
 The Scotchman, on the other hand, who is the 
 metaphysician in swearing, sometimes borders on 
 equivocation. He decidedly goes further than the 
 Englishman, not because he has less honesty, but 
 more prudence. He will assent to, or deny a propo- 
 sition ; for the Englishman's " 1 don't know," and 
 the Scotchman's " I dinna ken," are two very distinct 
 assertions when properly understood. The former 
 stands out a monument of dulness, an insuperable 
 barrier against inquiry, ingenuity, and fancy ; but the 
 latter frequently stretches itself so as to embrace 
 hypothetically a particular opinion. 
 
 But Paddy!— Put him forward to prove an alibi 
 for his fourteenth or fifteenth cousin, and you will be 
 gratified by the pomp, pride, and circumstance of true 
 swearing. Every oath with him is an epic — pure 
 poetry, abounding with humour, pathos, and the
 
 IRISH SWEARING. 335 
 
 highest order of invention and talent. He is not at 
 ease, it is true, under facts ; there is something too 
 common-place in dealing with them, which his genius 
 scorns. But his flights — his flights are beautiful ; and 
 his episodes admirable and happy. In fact, he is an 
 improvisatore at oath-taking; with this difierence, that 
 his extempore oaths possess all the ease and correct- 
 ness of labour and design. 
 
 He is not, however, altogether averse to facts ; but 
 like your true poet, he veils, changes, and modifies 
 them with such skill, that they possess all the merit 
 and graces of fiction. Ifhe happen to make an as- 
 sertion incompatible with the plan of the piece, his 
 genius acquires fresh energy, enables him to widen 
 the design, and to create new machinery, with such 
 happiness of adaptation, that what appeared out of 
 proportion or character, is made in his hands to 
 contribute to the general strength and beauty of the 
 oath. 
 
 'Tis true, there is nothing perfect under the sun ; 
 but if there were, it would certainly be Paddy at an 
 alibi. Some flaws, no doubt, occur ; some slight in- 
 accuracies may be noticed by a critical eye ; an occa- 
 sional anachronism stands out, and a mistake or so in 
 geography; but let it be recollected that Paddy's alibi 
 is but a human production ; let us not judge him by 
 harsher rules than those^ which we apply to Homer, 
 Yirgil, or Shakspeare. 
 
 *' Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus," is allowed 
 on all hands. Virgil made Dido and ^neas contem- 
 porary, though they were not so ; and Shakspeare, by 
 the creative power of his genius, changed an inland
 
 335 AN ESSAY ON 
 
 town into a sea-port. Come, come, have bowels. 
 Let epic swearing be treated with the same courtesy 
 shown to epic poetry, that is, if both are the produc- 
 tion of a rare genius. I maintain, that when Paddy 
 commits a blemish he is too harshly admonished for 
 it. When he soars out of sight here, as occasionally 
 happens, does he not frequently alight somewhere 
 about Sidney Bay, much against his own inclination? 
 And if he puts forth a hasty production, is he not com- 
 pelled for the space of seven or fourteen years to re- 
 vise his oath ? But, indeed, few works of fiction are 
 properly encouraged in Ireland. 
 
 It would be unpardonable in ns, however, to over- 
 look the beneficial efiects of Paddy's peculiar genius 
 in swearing alibis. Some persons, who display their 
 own egregious ignorance of morality, may be disposed 
 to think that it tends to lessen the obligation of an 
 oath, by inducing a habit among the people of swear- 
 ing to what is not true. We look upon such persons 
 as very dangerous to Ireland and to the repeal of the 
 Union; and we request them not to push their prin- 
 ciples too far in the disturbed parts of the country. 
 Could society hold together a single day, if nothing 
 but truth were spoken ? Would not law and law-yers 
 soon become obsolete, if nothing but truth were sworn ? 
 What would become of parliament if truth alone were 
 uttered there ? Its annual proceedings might be dis- 
 patched in a month. Fiction is the basis of society, 
 the bond of commercial prosperity, the channel of 
 communication between nation and nation, and not 
 imfrequently the interpreter between a man and his 
 own conscience.
 
 IRISH SWEARING. OOt 
 
 For these, and many other reasons which we could 
 adduce, we say with Paddy, ^ long life to fiction I' 
 When associated with swearing, it shines in its 
 brightest colours. What, for instance, is calculated 
 to produce the best and purest of the moral virtues so 
 beautifully, as the swearing an alibi? Here are for- 
 titude and a love of freedom resisting oppression ; for 
 it is well known that all law is oppression in Ireland. 
 
 There is compassion for the peculiar state of the 
 poor boy, who, perhaps, only burned a family in their 
 beds ; benevolence to prompt the generous effort in 
 his behalf; disinterestedness to run the risk of be- 
 coming an involuntary absentee ; fortitude in encoun- 
 tering a host of brazen-faced lawyers ; patience under 
 the unsparing gripe of a cross-examiner; perseverance 
 in conducting the oath to its close against a host of 
 difficulties; and friendship, which bottoms and crowns 
 them all. 
 
 Paddy's merits, however, touching the alibi, rest 
 not here. Fiction on these occasions only teaches 
 him how to perform a duty. It may be, that he is 
 under the obligation of a previous oath not to give 
 evidence again ^t certain of his friends and associates. 
 Now could any ttiing in the whole circle of religion or 
 ethics be conceived that renders the epic style of 
 swearing so incumbent upon Paddy? There is a kind 
 of moral fitness in all things ; for where the necessity 
 of invention exists, it is consolatory to retiect that the 
 ability to invent is bestowed along with it. 
 
 Next to the alibi come Paddy's powers in sustain- 
 ing a ci OSS-examination. Many persons think that 
 this is his forte; but we cannot yield to such an 
 
 VOL. I. z
 
 338 AN ESSAY ON 
 
 opinion, nor compromise his originality of conception 
 in the scope and plan of an alibi. It is marked by a 
 minuteness of touch, and a peculiarity of expression 
 which give it every appearance of real life. The cir- 
 cumstances are so well imagined, the groups so natu- 
 rally disposed, the colouring so finished, and the back- 
 ground in such fine perspective, that the whole picture 
 presents you with such keeping and vraisemblance, 
 as could be accomplished only by the genius of a 
 master. 
 
 In point of interest, however, we must admit, that 
 his ability in a cross-examination ranks next to his 
 skill in planning an alibi. There is, in the former, a 
 versatility of talent that keeps him always ready; a 
 happiness of retort, generally disastrous to the wit ox 
 the most established cross-examiner; an apparent 
 simplicity, which is quite as impenetrable as the law- 
 yer's assurance; a vis comica, which puts the court in 
 tears ; and an originality of son-ow, that often convulses 
 it with laughter. His resources, when he is pressed, 
 are inexhaustible; and the address wdth which he 
 contrives to gain time, that he may suit his reply to 
 the object of his evidence, is beyond all praise. And 
 yet his appearance when he mounts the table is any- 
 thing but prepossessing ; a sheepish look, and a loose- 
 jointed frame of body, wrapped in a frieze great-coat, 
 do not promise much. Nay, there is often a rueful 
 blank expression in his visage, which might lead a 
 stranger to anticipate nothing but blunders and dul- 
 ness. This, however, is hypocrisy of the first water. 
 Just observe the tact with which he places his cau- 
 been upon the table, his kippeen across it, and the ex-
 
 IRISH SWEARING. 339 
 
 perienced air with which he pulls up the waistbands 
 of his breeches, absolutely girding his loins for battle. 
 'Tis true his blue eye has at present nothing remark- 
 able in it, except a drop or two of the native ; but 
 that is not remarkable. 
 
 When the direct examination has been concluded, 
 nothing can be finer than the simplicity with which 
 he turns round to the lawyer, who is to cross-examine 
 him. Yet, as if conscious that firmness and caution 
 are his main guards, he again pidls up his waistbands 
 with a more vigorous hitch, looks shyly into the very 
 eyes of his opponent, and awaits the first blow. 
 
 The question at length comes; and Paddy, after 
 having raised the collar of his big coat on his shoulder, 
 and twisted up the shoulder along with it, directly 
 puts the query back to the lawyer, without altering a 
 syllable of it, for the purpose of ascertaining more 
 accurately whether that is the precise question that 
 has been put to him; for Paddy is conscientious. 
 Then is the science displayed on both sides. The one, 
 a veteran, trained in all the technicalities of legal 
 puzzles, irony, blarney, sarcasm, impudence, stock 
 jokes, quirks, rigmarolery, brow-beating, ridicule, and 
 subtilty ; the other a poor peasant, relying only upon 
 the justice of a good cause and the gifts of nature ; 
 without either experience or learning, and with no- 
 thing but his native modesty to meet the forensic 
 efirontery of his antagonist. 
 
 Our readers will perceive that the odds are a thou- 
 sand to one against Paddy ; yet, when he replies to a^ 
 hackneyed genius at cross-examination, how does kl 
 happen that he uniformly elicits those roars of laugh* 
 "z2
 
 340 AN ESSAY ON 
 
 ter which rise in the court, and convulse it from the 
 judge to the crier? In this laugh, which is usually 
 at the expense of the cross-examiner, Paddy himself 
 always joins, so that the counsel has the double satis- 
 faction of being made not only the j'est of the judge 
 and his brother lawyers, but of the ragged witness 
 whom he attempted to make ridiculous. 
 
 It is not impossible that this merry mode of dis- 
 pensing justice may somewhat encourage Paddy in 
 that independence of mind which relishes not the idea 
 of being altogether bound by oaths that are too often 
 administered with a jocular spirit. To many of the 
 uninitiated Irish an oath is a solemn, to some, an 
 awful thing. Of this wholesome reverence for its 
 sanction, two or three testimonies given in a court of 
 justice usually cure them. The indifferent, business- 
 like manner in which the oaths are put, the sing-song 
 tone of voice, the rapid utterance of the words, give to 
 this solemn act an appearance of excellent burlesque, 
 which ultimately renders the whole proceedings re- 
 markable for the absence of truth and reality ; but, at 
 the same time, gives them unquestionable merit as a 
 dramatic representation, abounding with fiction, well 
 related, and ably acted. 
 
 Thumb-kissing is another feature in Paddy's adroit- 
 ness too important to be passed over in silence. Here 
 his tact shines out again ! It would be impossible 
 for Iiim in many cases to meet the perplexities of a 
 cross-examination so cleverly as he does, if he did not 
 believe that he had, by kissing his thumb instead of 
 the book, actually taken no oath, and consequently 
 given to himself a wider range of action. We must
 
 IRISH SWEARING. 341 
 
 admit, however, that this very circumstance involves 
 him in difficulties which are sometimes peculiarly 
 embarrassing. Taking every thing into consideration, 
 the prospect of freedom for his sixth cousin, the con- 
 sciousness of having kissed his thumb, or the consol- 
 ing reflection that he swore only on a Law Bible, it 
 must be granted, that the opportunities presented by 
 a cross-examination are well calculated to display his 
 ■wit, humour, and fertility of invention. He is accord- 
 ingly great in it ; but still we maintain, that his execu- 
 tion of an alihi is his ablest performance, comprising, 
 as it does, both the conception and construction of the 
 work. 
 
 Both the oaths and imprecations of the Irish dis- 
 play, like those who use them, indications of great 
 cruelty and great humour. Many of the form.er ex- 
 hibit that ingenuity which comes out when Paddy is 
 on his cross-examination in a court of justice. Every 
 people, it is true, have resorted to the habit of muti- 
 lating or changing in their oaths the letters which 
 form the Creator's name; but w'e question if any have 
 surpassed the Irish in the cleverness with which they 
 accomplish it. Mock oaths are habitual to Irishmen 
 in ordinary conversation ; but the use of any or all of 
 them is not considered to constitute an oath: on the 
 contrary, they are in the mouths of many who would 
 not, except upon a very solemn occasion indeed, swear 
 by the name of the Deity in its proper form. 
 
 The ingenuity of their mock oaths is sufficient to 
 occasion much perplexity to any one disposed to con- 
 sider it in connexion with the character and moral 
 feelings of the people. AVhether to note it as a reluc*
 
 342 AN ESSAY ON 
 
 tance on their part to incur the guilt of an oath, or as 
 a proof of habitual tact in evading it by artifice, is 
 manifestly a difficulty hard to be overcome. We are 
 decidedly inclined to the former; for although there 
 is much laxit)' of principle among Irishmen, naturally 
 to be expected from men whose moral state has been 
 neglected by the legislature, and deteriorated by poli- 
 tical and religious asperity, acting upon quick passions 
 and badly regulated minds — yet we know that they 
 possess, after all, a strong, but vague undirected sense 
 of devotional feeling and reverence, which are asso- 
 ciated with great crimes, and awfully dark shades of 
 character. This explains one chief cause of the sym- 
 pathy which is felt in Ireland for criminals, from 
 whom the law exacts the fatal penalty of death ; and 
 it also accounts, independently of the existence of any 
 illegal association, for the terrible retribution inflicted 
 upon those who come forward to prosecute them. It 
 is not in Ireland with criminals as in other countries, 
 where the character of a murderer or incendiary is 
 notoriously bad, as resulting from a life of gradual 
 profligacy and villany. Far from it. In Ireland you 
 will find those crimes perpetrated by men who are good 
 fathers, good husbands, good sons, and good neigh- 
 bours — by men who would share their last morsel or 
 their last shilling with a fellow-creature in distress — 
 who would generously lose their lives for a man who 
 had obliged them, provided he had not incurred their 
 enmity — and who would protect a defenceless stranger 
 as far as lay in their power. 
 
 There are some mock oaths among Irishmen svhich 
 must have had their origin amongst those whose
 
 IRISH SWEARING. 343 
 
 habits of thought were much more elevated than 
 could be supposed to characterise the lower orders. 
 " By the powers of death" is never now used as we 
 have written it; but tlie ludicrous travestie of itj 
 " by the powdhers o' delf," is quite common. Of 
 this and other mock oaths it may be right to observe, 
 that those who swear by them are in general ignorant 
 of their proper origin. There are some, however, of 
 this description whose original form is well known. 
 One of these Paddy displays considerable ingenuity in 
 using. " By the cross" can scarcely be classed under 
 the mock oaths ; but the manner in which it is 
 pressed into asseverations is amusing. When Paddy 
 is affirming a truth he swears " by the crass" simply, 
 and this with him is an oath of considerable obliga- 
 tion. He generally, in order to render it more im- 
 pressive, accompanies it with suitable action, that is, 
 he places the forefinger of each hand across, that he 
 may assail you through tvvo senses instead of one. 
 On the contrary, when he intends to hoax you by 
 asserting what is not true, he ingeniously multiplies 
 the oath, and swears " by the five crasses," that is by 
 his own five fingers, placing at the same time his four 
 fingers and his thumbs across each other in a most 
 impressive and vehement manner. Don't believe him 
 then — the knave is lying as fast as possible, and with 
 no remorse. " By the cras« o' Christ" is an oath of 
 much solemnity, and seldom used in a falsehood. 
 Paddy also often places two bits of straws across, and 
 sometimes two sticks, upon which he swears with 
 an appearance of great heat and sincerity — sed cavefo. 
 Irishmen generally consider iron as a sacred metal.
 
 344 AN ESSAY ON 
 
 In the interior of the country, the thieves (but few in 
 number) are frequently averse to stealing it. Why it 
 possesses this hold upon their affections, it is difl&cult 
 to say, but it is certain that they rank it among their 
 sacred things; consider that to find it is lucky, and 
 nail it over their doors when found in the convenient 
 shape of a horse-shoe. It is also used as a medium 
 of asserting truth. We believe, however, that the 
 sanction it imposes is not very strong. " By this 
 blessed iron !" — " by this blessed an' holy iron !" are 
 oaths of an inferior grade ; but if the circumstance on 
 which they are founded be a matter of indifference, 
 they seldom depart from truth in using them. 
 
 We have said in our First Series of these " Traits 
 and Stories," that Paddy, when engaged in a fight, 
 is never at a loss for a weapon, and we may also 
 affirm, that he is never at a loss for an oath. When 
 relating a narrative, or some other circumstance of 
 his own invention, if contradicted, he will corroborate 
 it, in order to sustain his credit or produce the proper 
 impression, by an abrupt oath upon the first object he 
 can seize. " Arrah, nonsense ! by this pipe in my 
 hand, it's as thnie as" — and then, before he com- 
 pletes the illustration, he goes on with a fine specimen 
 ■of equivocation — "by the stool I'm sittin' an, it is ; 
 an' what more would you have from me barrin' I take 
 my book oath of it ?" Thus does he, under the mask 
 of an insinuation, induce you to believe that he has 
 actually sworn it, whereas the oath is always left 
 undefined and incomplete. 
 
 Sometimes he is exceedingly comprehensive in his 
 adjurations, and swears upon a magnificent scale ; as,
 
 IRISH SWEARING. 345 
 
 for instance,—" By the contints of all the books that 
 ever wor opened an' shut, it's as tlirue as the sun to 
 the dial." This certainly leaves " the five crasses" 
 immeasurably behind. However, be cautious, and 
 not too confident in taking so sweeping and learned 
 an oath upon trust, notwithstanding its imposmg 
 effect. We grant, indeed, that an oath which com- 
 prehends within its scope all the learned libraries of 
 Europe, including even the Alexandrian of old, is not 
 only an erudite one, but establishes in a high deeree 
 the taste of the swearer, and displays on his part an 
 unconmion grasp of intellect. Still we recommend 
 you, whenever you hear an alleged fact substantiated 
 by it, to set your ear as sharply as possible ; for, after 
 all, it is more than probable that every book by which 
 he has sworn might be contained in a nutshell. The 
 secret may be briefly explained: — Paddy is in the 
 habit of substituting the word Tiever for ever. " By 
 all the books that never wor opened or shut," the 
 reader perceives, is only a flourish of trumpets — a 
 mere delusion of the enemy. 
 
 In fact, Paddy has oaths rising gradually from the 
 lying ludicrous, to the superstitious solemn, each of 
 which finely illustrates the nature of the subject to 
 which it is applied. When he swears " By the con- 
 tints o' Moll Kelly's Primer," or " By the piper that 
 played afore Moses," you are, perhaps as strongly 
 inclined to believe him as when he draws upon a 
 more serious oath ; that is, you almost regret the 
 thing is not the gospel that Paddy asserts it to be. In 
 the former sense, the humorous narrative which calls 
 forth the laughable burlesque of " By the pi])er o'
 
 346 AN ESSAY ON 
 
 Moses," is usually the richest lie in the whole range 
 of fiction. 
 
 Paddy is, in his ejaculatory, as well as in all his 
 other mock oaths, a kind of smuggler in morality, 
 imposing as often as he can upon his own conscience, 
 and upon those who exercise spiritual authority over 
 him. Perhaps more of his oaths are blood-stained 
 than would be found among the inhabitants of all 
 Christendom put together. 
 
 Paddy's oaths in his amours are generaLy rich 
 specimens of humorous knavery and cunning. It 
 occasionally happens — but for the honour of our vir- 
 tuous countrywomen, we say but rarely — that by the 
 honey of his flattering and delusive tongue, he suc- 
 ceeds in placing some unsuspecting girl's reputation 
 in rather a hazardous predicament. When the priest 
 comes to investigate the affair, and to cause him to 
 make compensation to the innocent creature who 
 suffered by his blandishments, it is almost uniformly 
 ascertained that, in order to satisfy her scruples as to 
 the honesty of his promises, he had sworn marriage 
 to her on a hook of ballads ! ! ! In other cases blank 
 books have been used for the same purpose. 
 
 If, however, you wish to pin Paddy up in a comer, 
 get him a Relic, a Catholic prayer-book, or a Douay 
 Bible to swear upon. Here is where the fox — not- 
 withstanding all his turnings and windings upon 
 heretic Bibles, books of ballads, or mock oaths — is 
 caught at last. The strongest principle in him is 
 superstition. It may be found as the prime mover in 
 his best and worst actions. An atrocious man, who 
 is superstitious, will perform many good and chari-
 
 IRISH SWEARING. 347 
 
 table actions, with a hope that their merit in the sight 
 of God may cancel the guilt of his crimes. On the 
 other hand, a good man, who is superstitiously the 
 slave of his religious opinions, will lend himself to 
 those illegal combinations, whose object is, by keep- 
 ing ready a system of organized opposition to an 
 heretical government, to fulfil, if a political crisis 
 should render it practicable, the absurd prophecies of 
 Pastorini and Columbkil. Although the prophecies 
 of the former would appear to be out of date to a 
 rational reader, yet Paddy, who can see farther into 
 prophecy than any rational reader, honestly believes 
 that Pastorini has left for those who are superstitiously 
 given, suffirient range of expectation in several parts 
 of his work. 
 
 We might enumerate many other oaths in frequent 
 use among the peasantry ; but as our object is not to 
 detail them at full length, we trust that those already 
 specified may be considered sufficient to enable our 
 readers to get a fuller insight into their character, and 
 their moral influence upon the people. 
 
 The next thing which occurs to us in connexion 
 with the present subject, is cursing ; and here again 
 Paddy holds the first place. His imprecations are 
 often full, bitter, and intense. Indeed, there is more 
 poetry and epigrammatic point in them, than in those 
 of any other country in the world. 
 
 We find it a difficult thing to enumerate the Irish 
 curses, so as to do justice to a subject so varied and so 
 liable to be shifted and improved by the fertile genius 
 of those who send them abroad. Indeed to reduce 
 them into order and method would be a task of
 
 348 AN ESSAY ON 
 
 considerable difficulty. Every occasion, and every 
 fit of passion, frequently produce a new curse, perhaps 
 equal in bitterness to any that has gone before it. 
 
 Many of the Irish imprecations are difficult to be 
 understood, having their origin in some historical 
 event, or in poetical metaphors that require a consi- 
 derable process of reasoning to explain them. Of this 
 two-fold class is that general one, " the curse of 
 Cromwell on you !" which means, may you sufi'er all 
 that a tyrant like Cromwell would inflict ! and " the 
 curse o' the crows upon you!" which is probably an 
 allusion to the Danish invasion — a raven being the 
 symbol of Denmark; or it may be tantamount to 
 " may you rot on the hills, that the crows may feed 
 upon your carcase !" Perhaps it may thus be under- 
 stood to imprecate death upon you or some member 
 of your house — alluding to the superstition of rooks 
 hovering over the habitations of the sick, when the 
 malady with which they are afflicted is known to be 
 fatal. Indeed, the latter must certainly be the mean- 
 ing of It, as is evident from the proverb of " die, an' 
 give the crow a puddin'." 
 
 " Hell's cure to you! — the devil's luck to you ! — 
 high hanging to you ! — hard feeding to you ! — a short 
 coorse to you !" are all pretty intense, and generally 
 used under provocation and passion. In these cases 
 the curses just mentioned are directed immediately 
 to theoifensive object, and there certainly is no want 
 of the malus animus to give them energy. It would 
 be easy to multiply the imprecations belonging to this 
 class among the peasantry, but the task is rather 
 unpleasant. There are a few, however, vvhich in
 
 IRISH SWEARING. 349 
 
 consequence of their ingenuity we cannot pass over : 
 they are, in sooth, studies for the swearer. *' May 
 you never die till you see your own funeral !" is a 
 very beautiful specimen of the periphrasis : it simply 
 means, may you be hanged; for he who is hanged is 
 humorously said to be favoured with a view of that 
 sombre spectacle, by which they mean the croWd that 
 attends an execution. To the same purpose is, " May 
 you die wid a caper in your heel!" — " May you die 
 in your i3umps!" — " May your last dance be a horn- 
 pipe on the air!" These are air emblematic of 
 hanging, and are uttered sometimes in jest, and occa- 
 sionally in earnest. '* May the grass grow before 
 your door !" is highly imaginative and poetical. 
 Nothing, indeed, can present the mind with a stronger 
 or more picturesque emblem of desolation and ruin. 
 Its malignity is terrible. 
 
 There are also mock imprecations, as well as mock 
 oaths. Of this character are, " The devil go with 
 you and sixpence, an' thin you'll want neither money 
 nor company !" This humorous and considerate 
 curse is generally confined to the female sex. When 
 Paddy happens to be in a romping mood, and teases 
 his sweetheart too much, she usually utters it with a 
 countenance combating with smiles and frowns, whilst 
 she stands in the act of pinning up her dishevelled 
 hair; her cheek, particularly the one next Paddy, 
 deepened into a becoming blush. 
 
 " Bad scran to you !" is another form seldom used 
 in anger: it is the same as " Hard feeding to you!" 
 " Bad win' to you !" is " 111 health to you I" it is 
 nearly the same as " Consumiu' (consumption) to
 
 350 AN ESSAY ON 
 
 you!" Two other imprecations come under this 
 head, which we will class together, because they are 
 counterparts of each other, with this difference, that 
 one of them is the most subtilely and intensely wither- 
 ing in its purport that can well be conceived. The 
 one is that common curse, " Bad 'cess to you !" that 
 is, bad success to you : we may identify it with " hard 
 fortune to you!" The other is a keen one, indeed — 
 " sioeet bad look to you !" Now whether we con- 
 sider the epithet sweet as bitterly ironical, or deem it 
 as a wish that prosperity may harden the heart to the 
 accomplishment of future damnation, as in the case of 
 Dives, we must in either sense grant that it is an 
 oath of powerful hatred and venom. Occasionally 
 the curse of " bad luck to you !" produces an admir- 
 able retort, which is pretty common. When one 
 man applies it to another, he is answered with 
 *' Good look to you thin ; but may neither of thim 
 eve?' hapjoen.'^^ 
 
 " Six eggs to you, an' half-a-dozen o' thim rotten !" 
 like " the devil go with you an' sixpence !" is ano- 
 ther of those pleasantries which mostly occur in the 
 good-humoured badinage between the sexes. It im- 
 pHes disappointment. 
 
 There is a species of imprecation prevalent among 
 Irishmen which we may term neutral. It is ended by 
 the word bit, and merely results from a habit of swear- 
 ing where there is no malignity of purpose. An Irish- 
 man, when corroborating an assertion, however true 
 or false, will often say, " bad luck to the bit but it is ;" 
 — " divil fire the bit but it's thruth!"— " damn the 
 bit but it is !" and so on. In this form the mind is
 
 IRISH SWEARING. 351 
 
 hot moved, nor the passions excited ; it is therefore 
 probably the most insipid of all their innprecations. 
 
 Some of the most dreadful maledictions are to be 
 heard among the confirmed mendicants of Ireland. 
 The wit, the gall, and the poetry of these are uncom- 
 mon. '* May you melt off the earth like snow off the 
 ditch!" is one of a high order, and intense malignity; 
 but it is not exclusively confined to mendicants, al- 
 though they form that class among which it is most 
 prevalent. Nearly related to this is, " May you melt 
 like butther before a summer sun 1" These are, in- 
 deed, essentially poetical : they present the mind with 
 appropriate imagery, and exhibit a comparison per- 
 fectly just and striking. The former we think un- 
 rivalled. 
 
 Some of the Irish imprecations would appear to 
 have come down to us from the Ordeals. Of this 
 class, probably, are the following : " May this be 
 poison to me !" — " May I be roasted on red-hot 
 iron !" Others of them, from their boldness of meta- 
 phor, seem to be of Oriental descent. One expression, 
 indeed, is strikingly so. When a deep offence is 
 offered to an Irishman, under such peculiar circum- 
 stances that he cannot immediately retaliate, he 
 usually replies to his enemy — " You'll sup sorrow 
 for this !" — " You'll curse the day it happened !" — 
 " I'll make you rub your heels together !" All these 
 figurative denunciations are used for the purpose of 
 intimating the pain and agony he will compel his 
 enemy to suffer. 
 
 We cannot omit a form of imprecation for good, 
 which is also habitual among the peasantry of Ireland.
 
 352 AN ESSAY ON 
 
 It is certainly harmless, and argues benevolence of 
 heart. We mean such expressions as the following ; 
 " Salvation to me ! — May I never do harm ! — May I 
 never do an ill turn ! — May I never sin !" Tnese are 
 generally used by men who are blameless and peace- 
 able in their lives — simple and well-disposed in their 
 intercourse wdth the world. 
 
 At the head of those Irish imprecations which are 
 dreaded by the people, the Excommunication, of 
 course, holds the first and most formidable place. In 
 the eyes of every man of sense it is as absurd as it is 
 wicked and contemptible; but to the ignorant and 
 superstitious, who look upon it as any thing but a 
 hrutum fulmen, it is terrible indeed. 
 
 Next in order are the curses of pilgrims, mendi 
 cants, and idiots. Of those also Paddy entertains a 
 wholesome dread ; a circumstance which the pilgrim 
 and mendicant turn with great judgment to their own 
 account. Many a legend and anecdote do such 
 chroniclers relate, when the family, with whom they 
 rest for the night, are all seated around the winter 
 hearth. These are often illustrative of the baneful 
 effects of the poor man's curse. Of course they pro- 
 duce a proper impression; and, accordingly, Paddy 
 avoids offending such persons in any way that might 
 bring him under their displeasure. 
 
 A certain class of curses much dreaded in Ireland 
 are those of the widow and the orphan. There is, 
 however, something touching and beautiful in this 
 fear of injuring the sorrowful and unprotected. It is, 
 .we are happy to say, a becoming and prominent fea- 
 ture in Paddy's character; for, to do him iustice in
 
 IRISH SWEARING. 353 
 
 his virtues as well as in his vices, we repeat that he 
 cannot he surpassed in his humanity to the lonely 
 widow and her helpless orphans. He will collect a 
 numher of his friends, and proceed with them in 
 body to plant her bit of potato ground, to reap h , 
 oats, to draw home her turf, or secure her hay. Nay, 
 he will beguile her of her sorrows with a natural 
 sympathy and delicacy that do him honour : his heart 
 is open to her complaints, and his hand ever extended 
 to assist her. 
 
 There is a strange opinion to be found in Ireland 
 upon the subject of curses. The peasantry think that 
 a curse, no matter how uttered, will fall on something ; 
 but that it depends upon the person against whom it 
 is directed, whether or not it will descend on him. A 
 curse, we have heard them say, will rest for seven 
 years in the air, ready to alight upon the head of the 
 person who provoked the malediction. It hovers over 
 him, like a kite over its prey, watching the moment 
 when he may be abandoned by his guardian angel : 
 if this occurs, it shoots with the rapidity of a meteor 
 on his head, and clings to him in the shape of illness, 
 temptation, or some other calamity. 
 
 They think, however, that the blessing of one per- 
 son may cancel the curse of another ; but this opinion 
 does not affect the theory we have just mentioned. 
 When a man experiences an unpleasant accident, they 
 will say, " he has had some poor body's curse ;" and, 
 on the contrary, when he narrowly escapes it, they 
 say, *' he has had some poor body's blessing." 
 
 There is no country in which the phrases of good- 
 will and affection are so strong as in Ireland. The 
 
 VOL. I. 2 A
 
 354 AN ESSAY ON 
 
 Irish language actually flows with the milk and honey 
 of love and friendship. Sweet and palatable is it to 
 the other sex, and sweetly can Paddy, with his de- 
 luding ways, administer it to them from the top of his 
 mellifluous tongue, as a dove feeds her young, or as a 
 kind mother her babe, shaping with her own pretty 
 mouth every morsel of the delicate viands before it 
 goes into that of the infant. In this manner does 
 Paddy, seated behind a ditch, of a bright Sunday, 
 when he ought to be at Mass, feed up some innocent 
 girl, not with " false music," but with sweet words ; 
 for nothing more musical or melting than his brogue 
 ever dissolved a female heart. Indeed, it is of the 
 danger to be apprehended from the melody of his 
 voice, that the admirable and appropriate proverb 
 speaks ; for when he addresses his sweetheart, under 
 circumstances that justify suspicion, it is generally 
 said — " Paddy's feedin' her up wid false music." 
 
 What language has a phrase equal in beauty and 
 tenderness to cushla ma chree — the pulse of my heart? 
 Can it be paralleled in the whole range of all that are, 
 ever were, or ever will be spoken, for music, sweetness, 
 and a knowledge of anatomy ? If Paddy is unrivalled 
 at swearing, he fairly throws the world behind him at 
 the blarney. In professing friendship, and making 
 love, give him but a taste of the native, and he is a 
 walking honey-comb, that every woman who sees him 
 wishes to have a lick at ; and heaven knows, that 
 frequently, at all times, and in all places, does he get 
 himself licked on their account. 
 
 Another expression of peculiar force is vick ma- 
 chree — or, son of my heart. This is not only elegant,
 
 IRISH SWEARING. 355 
 
 but affectionate, beyond almost any other phrase ex- 
 cept the foregoing. It is, in a sense somewhat different 
 from that in which the philosophical poet has used it, 
 a beautiful comment upon the sentiment " of the child's 
 the father of the man," uttered by the great, we 
 might almost say, the glorious, Wordsworth. 
 
 We have seen many a youth, on more occasions 
 than one, standing in profound affliction over the dead 
 body of his aged father, exclaiming, " Ahh\ vick ma- 
 chree — vick machree — wuil thu marra wo'um ? Wuil 
 thu marra wo^um ? Father, son of my heart, son of 
 my heart, art thou dead from me — art thou dead from 
 me?" An expression, we think, under any circum- 
 stances, not to be surpassed in the intensity of domes- 
 tic affliction which it expresses ; but under those 
 alluded to, we consider it altogether elevated in ex- 
 quisite and poetic beauty above the most powerful 
 symbols of Oriental imagery. 
 
 A third phrase peculiar to love and affection, is 
 '* Manim asthee hu — or, My soul's within you." 
 Every person acquainted with languages knows how 
 much an idiom suffers by a literal translation. How 
 beautiful, then, how tender and powerful, must those 
 short expressions be, uttered, too, with a fervour of 
 manner peculiar to a deeply feeling people, when, even 
 after a literal translation, they carry so much of their 
 tenderness and energy into a language whose genius 
 is cold when compared to the glowing beauty of the 
 Irish. 
 
 Mavourneen dheelishy too, is only a short phrase, 
 but coming warm and mellowed from Paddy's lips 
 into the ear of his colleen dhas, it is a perfect spell —
 
 356 AN ESSA.Y ON IRISH SWEARING. 
 
 a sweet murmur, to which the lenis susurrus of the 
 Hybla bees is, with all their honey, jarring discord. 
 How tame is " My sweet darling," its literal transla- 
 tion, compared to its soft and lulling intonations. 
 There is a dissolving, entrancing, beguiling, deluding, 
 flattering, insinuating, coaxing, winning, inveigling, 
 roguish, palavering, come-over-ing, comedhering, con- 
 senting, blarneying, killing, willing, charm in it, 
 worth all the philtres that ever the gross knavery of a 
 withered alchymist imposed upon the credulity of 
 those who inhabit the other nations of the earth — for 
 we don't read that these shrivelled philtre-mongers 
 ever prospered in Ireland. 
 
 No, no — let Paddy alone. If he hates intensely, 
 effectually, and inquestingly, he loves intensely, com- 
 prehensively, and gallantly. To love with power, is 
 a proof of a large soul, and to hate w ell is, according 
 to the great moralist, a thing in itself to be loved. 
 Ireland is, therefore, through all its sects, parties, and 
 religions, an amicable nation. Their affections are, 
 indeed, so vivid, that they scruple not to kill each 
 other with kindness : and we very much fear, that 
 the march of love and murder will not only keep pace 
 with, but outstrip, the march of intellect.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 The Donagh, Vol. I. p. 158. 
 
 The story of the Donagh, the Author has reason to heheve, was 
 the means of first bringing this curious piece of antiquity into 
 notice. There is httle to be added here to what is in the sketch, 
 concerning its influence over the people, and the use of it as a 
 hlessed relic, sought for by those who wished to apply a certain 
 test of guilt or innocence to sucli well-known thieves as scrupled 
 not to perjure themselves on the Bible. For this purpose it 
 was a perfect conscience-trap, the most hardened miscreant 
 never having been known to risk a false oath upon it. Many 
 singular anecdotes are related concerning it. 
 
 The Author feels great pleasure in subjoining two very inter- 
 esting letters upon the subject — one from an accomplished scho- 
 lar, the Rev. Dr. O'Beirne, master of the dist:nguished school 
 of Portora at Knniskillen ; the other from Sir William Be- 
 tham, one of the soundest and most learned of our Irish Anti- 
 quaries. Both gentlemen diflPer in their opinion respecting the 
 antiquity of the J)onagh ; and, as the Author is incompetent to 
 decide between them, he gives their respective letters to the 
 public. 
 
 " Stradbrook House, October, 1832. 
 
 " DEAR SIR, 
 
 " 1 have read Dr. O'Beirne's important letter on the Dona : 
 the account he has collected of its recent history is full of in- 
 terest, and for the most part, I have no doubt, correct. His 
 speculations respecting its antiquity I cannot give my adhesion 
 to, not feeling a doubt myself on the subject. When I have 
 time to investigate it fully, I am satisfied that this box, like the 
 o+hers, of which accounts have already been published, will be 
 
 VOL. I. 2 B
 
 358 NOTES. 
 
 found mentioned in the Irish Annals. The inscriptions, how- 
 ever, fully identify the MS. and the box, and show that anti- 
 quaries, from the execution of the workmanship and figures on 
 these interesting reliques, often underrate their antiquity — a 
 fault which the world are little inclined to give them credit for, 
 and which they fall into, from an anxiety to err on what they 
 consider the side which is least likely to produce the smile of 
 contempt or the sneer of incredulity, forgetting that it is the sole 
 business of an antiquarian and historian to speak the truth, dis- 
 regarding even contempt for so doing. 
 
 " I had been somewhat lengthy in my description of the 
 Dona, and, from habit, entered into a minute account of all its 
 parts, quite forgetting that you, perhaps, do not possess an ap- 
 petite for antiquarian detail, and therefore might be better 
 pleased to have a general outline than such a recital. I there- 
 fore proceed to give it as briefly as possible, not, however, 
 omittmg any material points. 
 
 " The Irish word (5orT)qAC, or Domnach, which is pro- 
 nounced Dona, means the Lord's day, or the first day in the 
 week, sanctified or consecrated to the service of the Lord. It 
 is also in that sense used for a house, church or chapel. Do- 
 naghmore means the great church or chapel dedicated to God. 
 This box, being holy, as containing the Gospels, and having 
 the crucifix thereon, was dedicated or consecrated to the service 
 of God. Like the Caah, the Meeshach^ and Dhimma's box, 
 it is of hrass, covered with plates of silver, and resembles the 
 two former in having a box of yew inside, which was the original 
 case of the MS. and became venerated so much, on that account, 
 as to be deemed worthy of being inclosed with it in the shrine 
 made by permission of John O'Carberry, Abbot orClonmacnois 
 in the 14th centur}-. 
 
 " The top of the Dona is divided by across, on the lower arm 
 of which is a figure of the Saviour ; over his head is a shield, 
 divided per pale, between two cr3'stal settings; on the dexter, 
 is a hand holding a scourge or whip of three thongs, and on a 
 chief a ring; on the sinister, on a chief the same charge and 
 three crucifixion nails. In the first compartment, or quarter of 
 the cross, are representations of St. Culumbkill, St. Bridget, 
 and St . Patrick. In the second, a bishop pierced with two ar- 
 rows, and two figures of St. Peter and St. Paul. In the third, 
 the archangel Michael treading on the dragon, and the Virgin 
 Mary and the infant Jesus. In the fourth, St. Tigernach 
 handing to his successor, St. Sinellus, the Dona; and a female 
 figure, perhaps Mary Magdalen. 
 
 " The front of the Doua is ornamented with three crystal
 
 KOTEs. 359 
 
 settings, surmounted by gn.tcsque ii^ures oi' animals. Between 
 these are four horsemen with sswortis drawn, in full speed. 
 
 " The Dght hand end has a figure of St. Tigeniach, and St. 
 John the Baptist. The ieit hand end a tigure of St. Catherine 
 with her wheel. 
 
 " The Dona is nine inches and a half long, seven wide, and 
 not quite four thick. 
 
 '• So far 1 have been enabled to describe the Dona from the 
 evidently accurate and well executed drawuigsyou were so good 
 as to present to me. Why the desmptiou is less particular than 
 it should have been, I shall take another opportunity of explain- 
 ing to you. 
 
 •' There a«i three inscriplions on the Dona: one on a scroll 
 from the hand of the figure of the Baptist, of ECCE AGa US 
 DEI. The two others are on plates of silver, but their exact, 
 position on the box is not marked in the drawing, but may be 
 guessed by certain places which the plates exactly tit. 
 *' The first is— 
 
 "JOHANNES: OBARRDAN : FABRICAVIT. 
 " The second — 
 " JOHS : OKARBRI : COMORBANVS : S. TIGNACII : 
 
 PMISIT. 
 ** i. e. 
 '' ' John Barrdan made this box by the permission of John 
 
 O Carbry. successoi- of St. Tigi'rnach.' 
 " St. Tierny, or St. Tigernacb, was third Bishop of Clogher, 
 having sucteeded St. Maccartin in the year 506. In the li^t of 
 bishops, St. Patrick is reckoned the frrst, and founder of the 
 see, Tigernacb died the 4th of April, 548. 
 
 " John OTarbry was abbot of Clones, or Clounish, in the 
 County of Monaghan, and as such was comorb, or corb"^ — i. e. 
 successor — of Tigernacb, who was fcmnder of the abley and 
 removed the episcopal seat from Clogher to Clounish. Many of 
 the abbots were also bishops of the see. He died in 1353. How 
 long he was abbot does not appear ; Init the age of the outside 
 covering of the Dona is fixed to the 14th century. 
 
 " Since the foregoing was written I have seen the Dona, which 
 was exhibited at the last meeting of the Royal Irish Academy. 
 It has been put together at a guess, but different from the draw- 
 ing. There is inside O'Barrdan's case, another of silver plates 
 some centuries older, and inside that the yew box, which origi- 
 nally contained the manuscripts, now so united by damp as to 
 
 * All the successors of the founder saints were called by the Irish, 
 comords, or curbs. The reader will perceive ihatO'Carbry w;isa dislaiil 
 but not the immediate, successor ot St. Tigernach. 
 
 2 «^ 2
 
 350 NOTES. 
 
 be apparently inseparable, and nearly illegible ; for they have 
 lust tlie colour of vellum, and are quite black, and very much 
 decayed. The old Irish version of the New Testament is well 
 worthy of being edited ; it is, 1 conceive, the oldest Latin ver- 
 sion extant, and varies much from the Vulgate or Jerome's. 
 
 " The MS. enclosed in the yew bax appears from the two 
 
 membianes handed me by your friend Mr. , to be a copy 
 
 of the Gospels — at least those membranes were part of the two 
 first membranes of the Gospel of St. Matthew, and, I would 
 say, written in the 5th or 6th century; were probably, the pro- 
 perty of St. Tigernach himself, and passed most likely to the 
 abbots of Clounish, his successors, as an heir-loom, untd it fell 
 into the hands of the Maguires, the most powerful of the princes 
 of the country now comprising the diocese of Clogher. Dr. 
 O'Beirne's letter I trust you will publish. I feel much indebted 
 to that gentleman for his courteous expressions towards me, and 
 shall be most happy to have the pleasure of being personally 
 known to him. 
 
 " You must make allowance for the hasty sketch which is 
 here given. The advanced state of your printing would not 
 allow me time for a more elaborate investigation. 
 " Believe me, my dear Sir, 
 
 " Very sincerely yours, 
 
 '' W. Betham." 
 
 " Portora,Aug. 15, 1832. 
 
 " It is well you wrote to me about the Dona. Your letter, 
 which reached me this day, has proved that I was mistaken in 
 supposing that the promised drawing was no longer necessary. 
 J had imagined, that as you must have seen the Dona with Mr. 
 Smith, any communication from me on the subject must be 
 superfluous. And now that I have taken up my pen in com- 
 pliance with your wish, what can I tell you that you have not 
 perhaps conveyed to yourself by ocular inspection, and better 
 than I can detail it r 
 
 " I accompanied Mr. S. to Brookborough, and asked very 
 particularly of the old woman, late the possessor of the Dona, 
 what she knew of its history ; but she could say nothing about 
 it, only that it had belonged to ' the Lord of Enniskillen.' This 
 was the Fermanagh Maguire, who took an active part in the 
 shocking rebellion of 1641, and was subsequently executed. His 
 castle, the ruins of which are on the grounds of Portora, was 
 stormed during the wars of that miserable time. When I en-
 
 NOTES. 361 
 
 tered ou my inquiries for you, I anticipated much in the way of 
 tradition, which, I hoped, might prove amusing at least ; but 
 disappointment met me on every hand. The old woman could 
 not even detail distinctly how the Dona had come into her pos- 
 session : it was brought into her family, she said, by a priest. 
 The country people had imagined wonders relative to the con- 
 tents of the box. The chief treasure it was supposed to contain 
 was a lock of the Virgin Mary's hair! ! ! 
 
 " After much inquiry, I received the following vague detail 
 from a person in this county; and let me remark, by the by, 
 that though the possession of the Dona was a matter of boast to 
 the Magunes, yet I could not gain the slightest information re- 
 specting it from even the most intelligent of the name. But 
 now for the detail : — 
 
 " ' Donagh O'Hanlon, an inhabitant of the upper part of this 
 county, (Fermanagh,) went, about 600 years ago, (longer than 
 which time, in the opinion of a celebrated antiquary, the kind 
 of engraving on it could not have been made,) on a pious pil- 
 grimage to Rome. His Holiness of the Vatican, whose name 
 has escaped the recollection of the person who gave this infor- 
 mation, as a reward for this supererogatory journey, presented 
 him with the Dona. As soon as Donagh returned, the Dona 
 was placed in the monastery of Aughadurcher (now Aughalur- 
 cher.) But at the time when Cromwell was in this country, the 
 monastery was destroyed, and this Ark of the Covenant hid by 
 some of the faithful at a small lake, named Lough E3^e, between 
 Lisbellaw and Tempo. It was removed thence when pt ace was 
 restored, and again placed in some one of the neighbouring 
 chapels when, as before in Aughadurcher, the oaths were ad- 
 ministered by the priests with all the superstition that a depraved 
 imagination could invent, as " that their thighs might rut offi" 
 "that they might go mad," &c. &c. 
 
 ," ' When Kings James and William made their appearance, 
 it was again concealed in Largy, an old castle at Sir H. Brooke's 
 Deer-park. Father Antony Maguire, a priest of the Romish 
 church, dug it up from under the stairs in this old castle, after 
 the battle of the Boyne, deposited it in a chapel, and it was used 
 as before. 
 
 " ' After Father Antony's death it fell into the possession of 
 his niece, who took it over to the neighbourhood of Florence- 
 court. But the Maguires were not satisfied that a thing so 
 sacred should depart from the family, and at their request it was 
 brought back.' 
 
 " For the confirmation of the former part of this account, the 
 informant refers you to Sir James Ware, I have not Ware's
 
 362 NOTES. 
 
 book, and cannot therefore tell you how much of this stoiy is 
 given by him, or whether any. In my opinion there is nothing 
 detailed by him at all bearing on the subject. The latter part 
 of the story rests, we are told, on tradition. 
 
 " As I confess myself not at all versed in Irish antiquities, it 
 may appear somewhat presumptuous in me to venture an opinion 
 respecting this box and its contents, which is, I unders;and, op- 
 posed to that of our spirited and intelligent antiquary, Sir \Vm. 
 Betham. I cannot persuade myself that either tiie box or the 
 contained MSS. were of such an age as he claims for them. 
 And, first, of the box : — 
 
 " At present the MSS. are contained in a wooden box : the 
 wood is, I believe, yew. It cannot be pronounced, I think, with 
 any certainty, whether the wooden box was originally part of the 
 shrine of the precious MSS. It is very rude in its construction, 
 and has not a top or lid. Indeed it appeal's to me to have beeri 
 a coarse botehed-up thing to receive the MSS. after the original 
 box, which was made of brass, had fallen to pieces. 
 
 *' The next thing that presents itself to us is the remnant of 
 a brass box, washed with silver, and rudely ornaanented with 
 tracery. The two ends and the front are ail that remain of the 
 brass box. 
 
 " You may then notice what was evidently an addition of later 
 times, the highly ornamented gilt- silver work, made fast on the 
 remains of the brass box, and the chased compartments, which 
 seem to have formed the top or lid of the box. But, as you 
 have seen the whole, I need not perhaps have troubled you with 
 this description. I shall only dnect your attention to the two 
 inscriptions. In the chasing you will see that they are referred 
 to their SM;?;>o^ef/ places. 
 
 " The upper inscription, when deci{)hered, is— 
 
 " ' Johannes : O'Karbri : Comorbanus : S. Tignacii : Pmisit. 
 For S. Tignacii I would conjecture St. Ignacu. P, I should 
 conjecture to be Preshyterus. On this I should be very glad to 
 have Sir William's opinion. I cannot imagine, if P stands part 
 of a compound with misit, what it can mean. I would read and 
 translate it thus — ' John O'Carbery, coadjutor, priest, of the 
 order of St. Ignatius, sent it.' 
 
 " This inscription is on a narrow slip of silver, and is pre- 
 sumed to have formed part of the under edge of the vppcr pari 
 of the back of the box. The lower inscription is — 
 ' Johannes WBarrdanfabric.nvit. 
 " This also is on a slip of silver, and appears to have fitted 
 into a space en the upper surface, which is supposed to have 
 been the top, and to have lain in between the two square com-
 
 NOTES. 363 
 
 partments on the left hand: this is marked in the drawin|^. I 
 have expressed myself here in the language of doubt, lor the 
 box is a)", in confusion. 
 
 " Now, on the insciiptions, I would say, that they indicate to 
 me a dite much later than some gentlemen who have seen the 
 box are willing to ascribe to it. in the island of Devenish, in 
 our lake, (Lough Erne,) is an inscription, that was discovered in 
 the ruins (still standing) of a priory, that was built there A. D. 
 1-149. The characters in this inscription are much more remote 
 from the Roman character in use among us than those used in 
 the insciiptions on the box. The letters on the bux bespeak a 
 later period, when English cultivation had begun to produce 
 some etfect in our island, and the Roman character was winning 
 its way into general use. I shall probably be able to let you 
 see the Dovenish inscription, and ajuxta position of it and the 
 others will satisfy you, I think, on this point. In my opinion, 
 then, the box, with all its ornaments, must have been made at 
 some time s:nce the year 1449. I cannot tliink it reasonable to 
 suppose that an inscription, containing many letters like the 
 Ro.nan characters, should be more ancient than one not only 
 having fewer letters resembling them, but also having the let- 
 ters that differ ditfering essentially. 
 
 " Now for the MSS. 
 
 '•' I am deficient in antiquarian lore : this I have already con- 
 fessed; but perhaps 1 want also the creative fancy and devoted 
 faith of the genuine antiquary. I cannot, for example, persuade 
 myself, that a MS. written in a clear, uniform, srna/l cliaracter 
 of the Roman form, could have been written in remote times, 
 when there is reason to think that MSS. were written in uncial 
 characters only, without stops, and with few or no divisions into 
 words, sentences, or paragraphs. The palimprest MS. exa- 
 mined by Dr. Barrett is in uncial characters, and is referred by 
 him to the 6th or 7th century, Cic. de Repub/ica, published 
 by Angelo Mai, is assigned to much the same period. Small 
 letters, and the distinctions above mentioned were the inven- 
 tion of later times. I cannot therefore persuade myself that 
 this MS. is of so early an age as some would ascribe to it, 
 though I will nut take it upon me to assign the precise time iu 
 which it was written. The characters are decidedly and dis 
 tinctly those nov/ called the Roman : they have not many ab- 
 breviations, as far as I could judge, and they are written with 
 much clearness and regularity. They are not the fiterce cursivce, 
 or those used in writing ibr the sake of facility and connexion : 
 they seem rather formed more in imitation of printed letters. 
 SECUNDUM — This imperfect attempt to present one of the
 
 364 NOTES. 
 
 words, will explain my meaning. But I had better not weary 
 you any more with my crude notions. I shall be very glad to 
 hear \ouii: opinion, or that of Sir William Betham, to whom I 
 should b.ow with all the respect due to talent and worth. I 
 must avow my distrust of Irish antiquities; yet, allow me to 
 add, that there is no man more willing to be converted from my 
 heresy, if you would call it so, than 
 
 * My dear , 
 
 " Yom- friend and servant, 
 
 " A. O'BEIRNE 
 
 END OF VOL, I. 
 
 Loudon* Printed '•>: "Wimjam Ci.omes, Duke-strcet, Lambeth.