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 "LI B R.AR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 G^7 1 A^ 
 
 v.\
 
 TALES 
 
 OF 
 
 MY NEIGHBOURHOOD 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE COLLEGIANS.^ 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 
 
 1835.
 
 LONDON : 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTKRS, WHITEFRIAKS.
 
 Ni.l 
 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 
 I 
 
 •§^ THE GREAT HOUSE . . . . . 209 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY ... 1 
 
 "<\ 
 
 -^■i
 
 ■%
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY.
 
 1^
 
 THE BARBER OF BAMTRY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 There is a small river which, rising amid 
 the wildest and least cultivated upland of the 
 county of Limerick in Ireland, pursues its lone- 
 some course amid heath and bog, by cliff and 
 quarry, through scenery of the bleakest and 
 yet the most varied kinds, until it discharges 
 its discoloured waters into the bosom of the 
 Lower Shannon. Now gliding, deep and nar- 
 row, through some heathy plain, it presents a 
 surface no wider than a meadow streamlet, and 
 like placid characters in the world, indicating 
 its depth by its tranquillity ; anon, it falls in 
 one white and foamy volume over the brow 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 9. THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 of some precipitous crag, at the foot of which 
 it dilates into a pool of tolerable extent. Fur- 
 ther down it may be traced through the 
 intricacies of a stunted wood, now babbling 
 in one broad sheet over the limestone shallow ; 
 now rolling silent, deep, and dark, beneath the 
 overhanging brier and hazel bushes that fling 
 their tangled foliage across its waters from the 
 indented bank. In another place, it may be 
 found dashing noisily from ledge to ledge of 
 some opposing mass of limestone, or pursuing 
 its swift and gurgling course along the base of 
 a perpendicular cliff until, as it approaches the 
 mighty river in which its waters are received, 
 it acquires surface and depth sufficient to float 
 the fisher's skiff", and the small cot or lighter 
 that conveys a lading of marl or sea-weed to 
 manure the little potato garden of the humble 
 agriculturist upon its banks. Nor even in this 
 dreary region is the wild streamlet wholly 
 destitute of animated figures to give a quickening 
 interest to the general loneliness of the scenery
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 3 
 
 along its side. The neighbouring cottager 
 " snares " for pike and salmon in its shallows ; 
 the cabin housewife beetles her linen in the 
 summer evening on its banks, and the barefoot 
 and bareheaded urchin, standing or sitting by 
 the side of an overhanging ash or elder, drops 
 his pin-hook baited with an earth-worm, into 
 the deep and shaded corner which he knows, by 
 profitable experience, to be the favourite haunt 
 of the eel and trout ; and in which it may be 
 said, in passing, his simple apparatus is often 
 as destructive as all the erudite machinery of 
 Izaak Walton and his disciples. 
 
 In the summer season the appearance of this 
 little river is such as we have described. In 
 the winter, however, after the great rains, 
 common in mountain scenery, have set in, the 
 shallow bed of the stream is often filled, in the 
 course of a few minutes, with a body of water, 
 collected from the heights around its source, 
 that presents a formidable contrast to the usually 
 placid tenor of its course. It is then seen roar- 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 ing and foaming along in one huge yellow flood, 
 inundating not unfrequently the cottages and 
 hamlets near its banks, and carrying dismay 
 and death among pigs, poultry, and other anti- 
 aquatic animals, who happen to stray within 
 reach of its overflowing current, and some- 
 times even placing life in jeopardy. 
 
 Not far from the banks of this river, and 
 commanding a full prospect of its windings, 
 through a varied and extensive though wild 
 and thinly populated landscape, may be seen 
 at this day the walls of a roofless mansion, which 
 bears in its decay the marks of having been 
 once inhabited by persons somewhat superior in 
 rank to the " strong farmers" who, with a few 
 exceptions, constitute at present the sole aristo- 
 cracy of the district. The style of the mason- 
 work (the sounding term architecture would be 
 somewhat misapplied to so simple an edifice) 
 refers the date of its erection, and indeed cor- 
 rectly, to the beginning of the last century. The 
 small windows are nearly square, and deep set
 
 THE BARBER OF BANtRY. 5 
 
 in the massy stone work, while the lofty gables, 
 comprising more than half the height of the whole 
 building, present, when viewed from the end, an 
 angle almost as acute as that of a wedge. Around, 
 in a still more dilapidated condition than the 
 dwelling-house, may be traced the ruins of 
 numerous out-offices, the stable, the cow-house, 
 the turf-house, the piggery, the fowl-house, 
 and even (a contrast to the present poverty of 
 the surrounding country) the coach-house. 
 At a little distance the urchins of the neigh- 
 bourhood point out the remains of earthen, 
 fences, not much more distinct than the immortal 
 Roman entrenchment of Monkbarns, as all that 
 is left of what was once the kitchen and flower- 
 garden. Polyanthuses, almost dwindled into 
 primroses, bachelor*'s buttons impoverished both 
 in size and colour, and a gooseberry or currant 
 bush choked up in furze, furnish corroborative 
 testimony to the tradition. The neighbouring 
 peasantry still preserve the history of the build- 
 ing from its earliest foundation, as well as of
 
 6 THE BARBER OF BANTIIY. 
 
 its successive owners, who were persons of no 
 little notoriety in their time. 
 
 In the beginning of the last century, the tract 
 of land on which the ruin stands was purchased 
 by a certain Mr. Patrick Moynehan (more 
 commonly known by the familiar diminutive 
 Paddy Moynehan, or Paddy the Lad). As, 
 although respectably descended, Mr. Moynehan 
 was not heir to any property whatever, and as 
 his subsequent habits did not furnish, any indi- 
 cations of that thrift which Shylock tells us — 
 
 *' Is blessing, if men steal it not," 
 
 there was very general whispering and great 
 perplexity as to how Paddy Moynehan could 
 have acquired the means of purchasing an estate 
 and building a handsome house. As the stories 
 circulated upon the subject were numerous, and 
 characteristic both of the place and period, we 
 will venture to relate a few. 
 
 It was said by some, that on one occasion, 
 when yet a .young man, Pat Moynehan went
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 7 
 
 to attend the " berrin'*" of a friend. While the 
 remainder of the crowd were occupied at their 
 devotions in the place of death, young Moy- 
 nehan, little impressed by the solemnity of the 
 scene before him, rambled about among the 
 graves, " funning " and amusing himself, and 
 paying little attention to the severe glances that 
 were occasionally directed towards him from the 
 kneeling crowd. On one occasion, it happened 
 that he found, placed upon the corner of a 
 monument, a bleached skull, the eyeless sockets 
 directed towards him, and seeming to convey » 
 more terrible rebuke than ever could have pro- 
 ceeded from the eyes that once moved within 
 their orbits. Moynehan, however, was nothing- 
 checked in his career of mirth. 
 
 " Look there ! " he said, pointing out the 
 skull to a companion, who in vain endeavoured 
 to repress his unseasonable levity, " much as 
 you think of yourself, that was once as fine a 
 man as you are, and you'll have as ugly a grin 
 upon your own face yet; he was just as
 
 8 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 good a gentleman, and as devout a Christian." 
 Then turning to the skull, and taking off his 
 hat with an air of mock politeness, he added, 
 " I am happy, sir, to have the pleasure of making 
 your acquaintance, and will feel obliged by your 
 giving me the honour of your company at 
 breakfast next Sundav." And off he turned 
 with another bow of mock respect, and left the 
 church-yard with his companion. 
 
 Before breakfast hour on the following Sunday 
 (the legend still continues), young Moynehan 
 went out to speak with a neighbour. While 
 he was absent, and while the servant girl was 
 occupied in preparing breakfast, the door was 
 opened from without, and " a big man" entered. 
 He did not say " God save you," nor *' God 
 bless you," as he came in, but walked silently 
 to a chair that stood near the fire, and took his 
 seat without speaking. His singular conduct 
 was but the counterpart of his appearance. 
 His dress was that of a gentleman, and rich, 
 but so grotesque in form, and strange in ma-
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 9 
 
 terial, that it was impossible to decide on the 
 rank or country of the wearer. A high standing 
 collar, a flowered silk waistcoat, ruffles at the 
 wrists, a handsome pair of plush under-garments 
 with golden knee-buckles, and silver ones of an 
 enormous size across the instep of his square- 
 toed shoes ; these, together with a well-powdered 
 head of hair, brushed backward and gathered 
 behind into a handsome queue, a cocked hat, 
 which he carried under his arm, and a slender 
 rapier by his side, constituted the chief portion 
 of that costume which looked so perplexing in^ 
 the eyes of the mountain handmaiden. With 
 all this there was in the expression of his eyes, 
 and in the mechanical regularity of his move- 
 ments, an air of she knew not what, that chilled 
 the spirit of the young woman, and left her scarce 
 the power to ask his business. Being, however, 
 naturally of a free and hearty disposition, she 
 did not suffer herself to be altogether daunted, 
 but said, in a laughing manner, and after waiting 
 a considerable time to hear him speak — 
 
 b3
 
 10 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 '' Why, then, sir, arn't you a droll gentle- 
 man, to walk into a house in that kind o' way, 
 an' sate yourself without sayin' a ha'p'orth ? " 
 
 The stranger looked fixedly at her. " It is 
 a law where I come from," says he, " that none 
 of us shall speak until we are spoken to ; and 
 if the same law prevailed among people I know 
 here, there are many of their friends that would 
 have reason to be glad of it. But where 's the 
 man o' the house ? Isn't it a shame for him to 
 ask a gentleman to breakfast with him and not 
 to be at home before him ? '' 
 
 While he was speaking Moynehan entered. 
 
 *' Isn't it a burning shame for you," said the 
 stranger, in a loud voice, " to ask a gentleman 
 to breakfast with you, and not to be at home 
 before him ? " 
 
 " Me ask you to breakfast ! " exclaimed the 
 astonished Moynehan ; '' I never laid eyes on 
 you before, but youVe as welcome as if you got 
 fifty invitations." 
 
 ** Indeed, but vou did ask me/"* said the *
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 11 
 
 Stranger, "and I'll tell you where, too ;" — and 
 stooping over towards him, he whispered in his 
 ear. 
 
 The instant Moynehan heard the whisper, he 
 fell in a death-like faint upon the floor. The 
 stranger showed not the least concern, nor made 
 any effort to relieve him, but waited with the 
 utmost indifference until he should revive. 
 While he was yet insensible, the girl, standing 
 in awe of this mysterious guest, requested him 
 to sit down to breakfast. 
 
 " No, no," he answered ; " I can eat nothing 
 until your master sits with me ; it was with him 
 I came to breakfast." 
 
 When Moynehan came to himself, under- 
 standing from the girl what the stranger had 
 said, he repeated the invitation, which was im- 
 mediately accepted, and both sat down together. 
 The effect of the first shock having passed away, 
 Moynehan made up his mind to perform the 
 part of host with true Irish hospitality. He 
 laughed, talked, jested, told his best stories.
 
 12 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 ^ shook his guest by both hands together, and 
 protested that he was as welcome " as a rose 
 in June." He ordered the freshest eggs and 
 fried the richest bacon, and treated the stranger 
 with the most perfect hospitality. 
 
 They had scarcely done breakfast when a bell 
 was heard ringing at a distance. 
 
 " AVhat's that bell ? " asked the stranger, in 
 a sharp tone. 
 
 '* Oh, it's nothing," said Moynehan with a 
 careless air ; " only the bell for chapel." 
 
 The stranger said nothing, but looked very 
 serious. At length, rising from his chair he 
 addressed his host as follows : — 
 
 "" YouVe an honest fellow, after all, and you 
 may thank your hearty hospitable conduct 
 that I do not make you suffer severely for the 
 trouble you gave me by your invitation ; how- 
 ever, vou must not say that you gave your 
 breakfast for nothing. Meet me this evening 
 by the elder tree near the river side, and 
 you shall hear of something that you will thank 
 me for."
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 13 
 
 Moynehan kept the appointment, and those 
 who gave credit to the story (and they com- 
 prised no small portion of the inhabitants of 
 the surrounding cottages) asserted that during 
 their evening conference, his unearthly visiter 
 revealed to him a quantity of hidden treasure 
 in a neighbouring ruin, more than sufficient to 
 warrant the expensive style in which he soon 
 began to live ; others, while they admitted the 
 truth of the greater poi'tion of the story, denied 
 that there was any thing supernatural in the 
 case. They asserted that the whole was a hoaa;^ 
 played upon Moynehan by a young man, a 
 stranger in the place, who observed his conduct 
 at the funeral, and availed himself of the mock- 
 invitation which he overheard, to read the wag 
 a lesson, and to help himself to a comfortable 
 breakfast. It was certain, indeed, that Moynehan 
 himself never liked to have the story alluded to 
 in his hearing, but this circumstance was urged, 
 by the advocates of the wonderful, as evidence 
 in favour of their own version of the tale. Those
 
 14 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 who contended for the common-place, were in 
 the habit of accounting for Moynehan's great 
 accession of wealth by other than supernatural 
 means. He had become engaged, they said, in 
 common with many other persons in his time, 
 in a species of commerce which is viewed 
 with a jealous eye by all governments ; and 
 by his share in the disposal of two or three 
 cargoes of tobacco and other expensive luxuries, 
 had amassed money enough to rest on his oars 
 for all his after life. 
 
 Other persons gave a different account of the 
 manner in which Moynehan obtained his riches. 
 This party seemed inclined to strike a medami 
 between the supernatural and the common-place. 
 Moynehan, they said, rented two or three small 
 farms nearly adjoining that tract of mountain- 
 land which subsequently became his estate. 
 Neither providence, nor settled and regular 
 industry were amongst the qualities for which 
 he was most remarkable. A man whose sole 
 income was derived from his share in the profits
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 15 
 
 of those small farms, he still maintained a style 
 of living not surpassed by many who could boast 
 of fee-simple patrimonies to support and palliate 
 such extravagance. He kept a pack of hounds 
 and a huntsman, and gave jovial entertainments 
 to such of the neighbouring gentry as would 
 condescend to accept his hospitality. His house 
 was ever open ; a family piper lent his music 
 to the dance of ruin ; there was nobody who 
 did not look upon Moynehan as a paragon of 
 good fellows, except his landlord, and even he 
 could scarcely find it in his heart to proceed t(\ 
 extremities with a person of so much spirit and 
 goodnature. It is the fate of most goodnatured 
 spendthrifts, however, to tire out in the end the 
 forbearance of even their most forbearing friends, 
 and Moynehan formed no exception to the 
 general rule. After running six years in arrear 
 of rent, he was thunderstruck by the intelli- 
 gence that Sir David Hartigan was on the 
 eve of visiting his property in the county, 
 and of course would not leave Mr. Patrick
 
 16 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 Moynehan without a call. This was the signal 
 for consternation. Ejectments and executions 
 floated before the eyes of Moynehan ; and before 
 he could collect even a moderate portion of the 
 arrear last due, the baronet was on his way to 
 his estate. It was (no uncommon case with Irish 
 landowners, even at that period of home legisla- 
 tion) the first visit he had ever made to his 
 paternal inheritance, and of this circumstance 
 Moynehan determined to take advantage for . 
 his security. He called the tenants together, 
 and harangued them in the most earnest manner 
 on the propriety of giving their landlord a suit- 
 able reception. 
 
 " I need not tell you all," he said, " that Sir 
 David has been a good landlord to us all — 
 [hurra ! hurra !] a man that gives the poor man 
 time for his money — [hurra !] — that never yet 
 distressed * a tenant for his rent, nor bore hard 
 on those that he knew to be well inclined if 
 they had the means — [hurra ! hurra !] — very 
 
 * Distrained.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. ]7 
 
 well then, lads ; you will remember that this is 
 the first time he has ever shown himself amongst 
 his tenants, and let us take care that he has no 
 cause to complain of his reception." 
 
 A new volley of cordial " hurras" announced 
 the acquiescence of the assembled tenants in this 
 agreeable proposal, and preparations were imme- 
 diately set on foot for receiving the baronet in 
 the most splendid style. The demesnes and 
 lawns of the small gentry within five miles 
 round, were stripped of their fairest poplars and 
 mountain ash, in order to form triumphal arches, 
 along the road which led to the little village of 
 *****, where the great man was to reside 
 during his stay. Hardy would have been the 
 owner of a tapering fir or larch, who had dared 
 to murmur at seeing his grounds invaded, and 
 the pride of his shrubbery laid low for this 
 festive purpose. The mothers, wives, and 
 sisters of the cottiers lent their bright coloured 
 shawls, ribands, and handkerchiefs, to flutter 
 amid the foliage, and add new gaiety to the
 
 18 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 scene. There was one article of holiday splen- 
 dour in which there was no stint. A great 
 portion of Sir David's estate consisting of excel- 
 lent bog, there was no lack of material for 
 bonfires. Accordingly, at every cross road 
 within half a mile round, and almost at every 
 second cabin in the village itself, there was a pile 
 of turf and bogwood, the contribution of the 
 surrounding tenantry, ready for the torch the 
 instant the carriage of the mountain sovereign 
 should appear. But what exceeded all beside, 
 was the zeal exhibited by Mr. Patrick Moynehan 
 himself, the instigator, in a great degree, of 
 the whole proceeding, and who was moved 
 to it, partly by real good-will towards his 
 landlord, and in part, by certain undefined 
 hopes and impulses, which we will leave the 
 knavish reader to divine. Before his door, upon 
 the bare and level green, was piled a circle of 
 turf, in the midst of which was suspended by 
 machinery, which had taxed the ingenuity of the 
 whole district, a prime ox, intended to be roasted 
 
 ?h
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 19 
 
 whole. Besides this, were lesser fires, at which 
 pigs, turkeys, geese, and other inferior animals of 
 culinary celebrity were prepared, each by the 
 persons who had contributed both fire and meat. 
 
 Above the gateway which led to this gala 
 spot, was suspended a painted board, surrounded 
 by green boughs, with of course, what other 
 inscription than " Cead millia faltha," executed 
 in the best manner that the village could afford. 
 
 The day at length arrived, and the great man 
 came. In consequence of his continual absentee- 
 ism, he had certain misgivings with respect to. 
 his popularity amongst his own tenantry, which 
 made him wholly unprepared for the enthusiastic 
 reception with which he was now honoured. 
 Within half a mile of the village, he was met by 
 a prodigious multitude of people, of both sexes, 
 and all ages, shouting, laughing, and capering 
 for joy. Flutes, fiddles, bagpipes, and, in lieu 
 of these, tin cans, dildorns, and every other 
 implement from which any sound could be 
 extracted that might bring the idea of music
 
 20 THE KARBKR OF BAKTRY. 
 
 to the mind of the rudest hearer, added their 
 obstreperous harmony to the general uproar. 
 What need to pen our way through all the 
 glories of the feast that followed ? Some idea 
 may be formed of the enjoyment of the worthy 
 Baronet (who was amazingly fat), when we 
 mention that he was placed from noon to 
 evening of a broiling day in June, in the centre 
 of between thirty and forty huge fires, the 
 smoke of which settling low, in consequence of • 
 the calm, and the tenuity of the mountain air 
 had well nigh stifled him ; that in addition to 
 this, he had to dance (according to indispensable 
 custom) with almost all the young women in the 
 place; besides other duties of courtesy, so 
 oppressive, that he was afterwards heard to 
 declare, that he had almost as lief be a king and 
 go through all the labour of a levee, or drawing 
 room, as to spend such another day at * * * *. 
 In addition to this, when it is remembered that 
 the gates were thrown open, and free admission 
 given to all travellers, comprising the numerous
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 21 
 
 beggars, whom the foregone fame of the ftast 
 had drawn together from the distant parishes, it 
 must be acknowledged that the situation of the 
 excellent Baronet was truly enviable. At all 
 events, he could not choose but feel the deepest 
 gratitude to Mr. Moynehan, at whose house he 
 spent the ensuing fortnight. The latter, how- 
 ever, seemed to think the glory sufficient for his 
 landlord, for by some means or other, Sir David 
 never could find an opportunity of engaging him 
 in any serious conversation on the subject of his 
 rent. If he spoke of money, Moynehan talked 
 of woodcocks, — if he mentioned arrears, Moy- 
 nehan could show him the prettiest fly-fishing 
 in Ireland, — or he had a present of grey-hounds 
 of the genuine old Irish stock, — known relatives 
 of those that were presented by Sir Somebody 
 to the Great Mogul, — or he insisted on his 
 accepting a beautiful mare of the most unble- 
 mished pedigree — anything — everything he was 
 ready to furnish him with except the needful. 
 And the issue was, that Sir David returned to
 
 22 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 Dublin, looking upon Moynehan as one of the 
 most generous fellows and the most impracti- 
 cable tenants in the world. 
 
 However, such a state of things could not 
 continue. Year followed year, threat came on 
 threat, and ruin showed her hideous countenance 
 at length, in the shape of a formal ejectment 
 from his holding. He might still (such were 
 the times) have set the law at bay, and main- 
 tained possession for some years longer at least ; 
 but this he would not do. He must give up his 
 farm, and the thought filled him with the deepest 
 melancholy. At table, the huntsman cracked 
 his joke in vain (for the huntsman, it should be 
 understood, was a man of sufficient importance 
 to occupy a small side table in the common 
 dining room, and after dinner to take his seat by 
 the ample fireside). It signified little that it was 
 the same irresistible joke, or the same admirable 
 anecdote which had shook his sides with laughter 
 regularly once a day for half a score years 
 before. He now listened to it with a vacant
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. S3 
 
 eye, and a countenance that plainly showed how 
 far his thoughts were out of hearing. 
 
 What was to be done ? AVas he to bid farewell 
 to his numerous domestics, and to tell his hunts- 
 man that he was to hunt no more for him, and to 
 sell or give away the hounds, and to resign his 
 flies and fishing-tackle, and to watch no more the 
 beautiful motion of his greyhounds as they shot 
 like ghosts across the mountain heath in March ? 
 The thought was dreadful. He wandered like 
 a solitary being by the river side, and along the 
 hedges which enclosed his lawn and paddock, and» 
 seemed to feel already the pressure of the abject 
 poverty, to which he must soon be reduced. 
 
 Amid all the faults which he now so bitterly 
 regretted, if not for a better motive, yet for the 
 ruin they had brought upon himself, there was 
 one feature in his past conduct which he called 
 to mind with pleasure. He never in a single 
 instance had refused assistance to a fellow- 
 creature in distress. No matter who the indi- 
 vidual, how indifferent the character, or what
 
 J24 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 his own circumstances at the moment, he never 
 
 had withheld his aid where it was wanted. No 
 
 consideration of inconvenience to himself, no 
 
 dread of theft or lack of means in his own 
 
 household, prevented his affording to every 
 
 individual, without exception, high or low, great 
 
 or little, who chose to apply for it, a comfortable 
 
 dinner and a night's lodging beneath his roof. 
 
 This indiscriminate charity, it is said, was not 
 
 wholly in accordance with the views of Mrs. 
 
 Moynehan, whose wardrobe and fowl-house had 
 
 often suffered to her husband's hospitality, but 
 
 he would hear nothing of her complaints. 
 
 Giving was with him the easiest of all duties, 
 
 and as there were some others to which he did 
 
 not attend so closely, he seemed determined to 
 
 practise this in its perfection. The greater the 
 
 loss and the greater the inconvenience, he thought 
 
 the greater the merit also ; and he had an idea, that 
 
 what is bestowed in this way is not lost, but that 
 
 merciful actions, beyond all others whatsoever, 
 
 buoy up the spirit at the hour of death and after.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 25 
 
 In his arguments with Mrs. Moynehan upon 
 this subject, he was in the habit of relating an 
 anecdote for her edification, which we will tran- 
 scribe for that of the reader. 
 
 " There were two brothers, twin-brothers," he 
 said, " who were so fervently attached, that each 
 made the other promise, in case he should die 
 first, to return, if possible, and let the survivor 
 know how he had fared in . 
 
 That undiscovered country from whose bourne 
 No traveller returns. 
 
 Both, however, had passed the meridian of hfq, 
 without meeting any serious illness, and both 
 forgot a compact which they had made in youth, 
 and which was blotted from their memory by 
 the cares of manhood and the new engagements 
 in which matrimonv had involved them. On a 
 sudden one of them was stunned, by the intelli- 
 gence that his brother had died of that species 
 of brain fever called a coup de soleiL The 
 news filled him with grief. In the evening he 
 walked out to indulge his sorrow in a neigh- 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 26 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 bouring churchyard, and to relieve his mind by 
 prayer. While thus occupied, an oppressive 
 sense of some extraordinary presence fell upon 
 his mind. He looked up— his brother stood 
 before him. His first feeling was an emotion of 
 extasy at the thought that the rumour of his 
 brother's death was false, and he ran to cast 
 himself upon his neck. But as he proceeded, 
 the other retired, and always, to his extreme 
 astonishment, preserved exactly the same distance 
 at which he had first beheld him. 
 
 *' ' Why do you not speak to me ? ' said the 
 surviving brother ; ' they told me you were dead, 
 and that we should meet no more."* 
 
 " ' Brother,' said the figure, in an unearthly 
 voice, ' do you forget the agreement which we 
 made near this spot exactly twenty-five years 
 since ?"* 
 
 " The hearer instantly understood the whole, 
 and that it was his brother's shade which he 
 beheld. He trembled, and a cold moisture 
 settled on his forehead.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 27 
 
 " ' I am allowed to come back/ says he, ' for 
 your warning and for your consolation. Imme- 
 diately after my death, I found myself in the 
 finest country I ever saw in my life, with the 
 richest demesnes and grandest houses that ever 
 were found, and millions of people walking 
 amongst the trees, and talking and laughing 
 together, as happy as the day is long. To my 
 great surprise I found that almost all the ladies 
 and gentlemen that owned the fine houses were 
 people that I remembered in this world as poor 
 beggars, and religious christians, and persons of 
 that kind, that nobody cares about. I went 
 from one to another but not one of them knew 
 me, and the man that had the charge of the 
 place was going to turn me out, when one of the 
 gentlemen called to him and said he knew me. 
 I looked close at him, and at last remembered 
 the face of a poor blind man whom I had guided 
 once on a stormy night from a neighbouring 
 village to his own door, but he had now a pair 
 of eyes as bright as stars. That was the only act 
 
 c 2
 
 28 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 of real charity I ever recollected to have done 
 in my life, and it was now the means of getting 
 me a handsome house and garden, where I live 
 happier than I can describe. "" 
 
 A celebrated Greek critic tells us that if we 
 separate the sublime from the allegorical,we shall 
 often strip it of half its excellence. If the 
 axiom be applied in the case of Moynehan's 
 legend, even polished readers may find it not 
 wholly without meaning. From the fact, . 
 however, that Mr, Moynehan was in the habit 
 of repeating it for the improvement of his 
 lady, it may be inferred that it had not all the 
 influence upon her conduct which he could 
 desire.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A FEW evenings previous to the day on which 
 he, Moynehan, was to give up possession of his 
 house and lands, a storm arose so terrible that 
 it seemed doubtful whether the building would 
 survive the ownership of its present master. Th5 
 wind came howling and shrieking up the 
 unsheltered heath, and through the close ravines 
 in the neighbourhood. Now it shook the 
 window frames as if in sudden passion at their 
 obstinate resistance to its fury, now it hissed and 
 roared against the well-bound thatch — and now 
 wound its dismal horn in the lofty chimney-top. 
 Mr. Moynehan sat by his parlour-fire, com- 
 paring his past with what must, in all probability, 
 be his future style of living, and the contrast
 
 30 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 was almost too much for his philosophy. Sud- 
 denly, the voice of Mrs. Moynehan, raised high 
 in objurgation in the kitchen, attracted his 
 attention. Half opening the parlour door, he 
 paused to ascertain the cause of sounds " not 
 unfamiliar to his ear/' 
 
 " Out of my house — pack — out of my house 
 this instant," exclaimed the lady, in a voice scarce 
 a note of which was lower than C above the fifth 
 over line. " It was you, and the like of you, 
 that brought ruin to our door, — pack out ! "" 
 
 A shrill and querulous murmur was heard 
 in answer. 
 
 " The storm ! " continued Mrs. Moynehan, 
 " it is no matter for the storm. As well as you 
 found your way here, find your way back, for 
 here you shall not stay an hour. Do you hear 
 me talking to you ? Quit my house this instant. 
 Aye — cough, cough — I dare say you know how 
 to do more than that when it serves your turn. 
 Out — pack at once !" 
 
 At this instant Mr. Moynehan entered the
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 31 
 
 kitchen, where he beheld a sight that filled him 
 with indignation against the cruelty of his 
 helpmate. An old man, shaking with palsy, 
 and so worn down by age and its infirmities 
 that it seemed as if his years could scarcely 
 number less than a century, was standing on 
 the well-flagged kitchen floor, and gazing on 
 the stout and portly Mrs. M. with a deprecating 
 attitude. It would be difficult to conceive a 
 more complete picture of misery than the old 
 man presented. A long stafl*, half again as high 
 as its possessor, and held in both hands, seemed 
 all that enabled him to keep his feet ; his knees, 
 his hands, his head, his whole frame shook 
 violently with his disease, so that had his 
 features been less strongly marked it would be 
 difficult to gather their expression in the con- 
 tinual and rapid motion. His dress was ragged 
 in the extreme, and so patched that it seemed as_ 
 if he never had been the master of another suit. 
 In addition to this he had been already drenched 
 in rain from head to foot, and his long white
 
 3-2 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 hair and the hanging fritters of his garment still 
 dropped as if he were about to dissolve away 
 upon the floor, while his face, which looked as if 
 the loose skin had been drawn over without 
 being attached to the fleshless bones, was glisten- 
 ing with rain, and haggard with fear, at the 
 prospect of being again exposed to the horrors 
 of the storm. Moynehan could not help think- 
 ing, however, as he looked on the old man, that 
 his terror seemed excessive for the occasion, and 
 that his manner resembled that of one who feared 
 some danger of a still more appalling kind than 
 any which the storm could bring. 
 
 " Will you — turn out — the — poor ould man 
 in — the storm an' all — " he gasped forth word 
 after word at long intervals, and with gestures 
 of the most agonising terror. " Give tne a 
 night's — lodg — in* an' Fll pray for — you for — 
 ever an' — ever. Don't send me out to the 
 robb storm, I mane." 
 
 " To the robbers ? what robbers ? What 
 robbers do you expect to meet in ■ ?
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 33 
 
 and if it was full of them what have you to lose 
 by robbers ? eh ? " 
 
 " Did I — say — robbers, a-gra ? " said the old 
 man — " don't mind me — I'm an ould fool that 
 hasn't any sense. Sure enough, what robbing 
 could they have upon me ; a poor ould beggar 
 that has nothin' only what rags is coverin' my 
 ould bones — nothin' in life — nothin' — Ay eh — 
 robbers — I don't know what I'm sayin' with the 
 dint o' fear ; but won't you, like a good Christian, 
 gi' me a night's lodgin' — anywhere — upon these 
 
 bare flags — I'm aisy, so as the robb so as , 
 
 I'd have the roof betune me an' the clouds to- 
 night — an' may the heavens be your bed here- 
 afther." 
 
 " She will — she will — come in and sit by the 
 fire,'* exclaimed Moynehan, interposing just as 
 his lady had opened her lips, to give vent to a 
 fresh volley of reproaches. " Get supper ready 
 for that poor man," he added, to a servant — 
 " and you, my dear, will not even affliction itself 
 
 c 5
 
 34 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 teach you to pity the afflicted ? you don't know 
 how long we may have a house ourselves." 
 
 " I know how long we're to have this house," 
 answered Mrs. Moynehan, in a low growling 
 tone, like that of an over-zealous watch-dog, 
 which has received a reprimand from its master 
 for offering a too obstinate resistance to the 
 entrance of a peaceable stranger. 
 
 " You don't know that neither," said Moyne- 
 ham, " and no matter if it should be ours for 
 no longer than an hour, I am determined to 
 make a free use of it while it belongs to me. 
 Walk in, good fellow." 
 
 The poor man, clasping his hands together, 
 and muttering blessings, staggered forward to 
 the fire-place, still casting a timid eye askance 
 at the lady, as if he could have answered in the 
 language of poor BuiF — 
 
 "I dare not, Sir, 
 For fear of your cur." 
 
 Mr. Moynehan having seen the beggar com-
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 35 
 
 fortably established by the fire-side returned to 
 the parlour. Here he began to meditate upon 
 the difference between his own condition and 
 that of the poor mendicant, and found so much 
 that was preferable in the former that he began 
 to recover his spirits. 
 
 " At the worst, my dear," said he, addressing 
 Mrs. Moynehan, " we are not so badly off as 
 that poor fellow. We will still have many 
 friends, and we will not, in all probability, be 
 without a house of some kind or another, and 
 at all events we have each of us a decent suit gf 
 clothes, which is more than can be said for him. 
 So that 'tis a great comfort to think our case is 
 not so bad but that it might be worse/' 
 
 Before Mrs, Moynehan could reply, the 
 parlour-door was opened, and a face, distin- 
 guished by a gaping mouth and pair of staring 
 eyes, appeared at the aperture. It was that of 
 Rick or Rickard Lillis, the faithful groom and 
 valet (not to mention fifty other offices which 
 he filled wnth equal fidelity and skill) of Mr.
 
 36 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 Moynehan. He remained for a little time in the 
 same position, gaping and gazing as if, like a 
 ghost, he could not speak until some living 
 being had addressed him. 
 
 " Well Rick, what ails you now ?" 
 
 " The poor man, Sir ! " 
 
 " What of him ? " 
 
 " He wants the priest, Sir ; I'm in dhread 
 he's dyin'." 
 
 " Pooh, nonsense ! " exclaimed Mr. Moynehan, 
 snatching a light and hurrying from the room. 
 Strange as it seemed, he found his servants 
 story true. The old beggar was lying in the 
 kitchen, on the straw pallet which had been 
 prepared for him, and gasping, as it appeared, 
 almost in the agonies of death. By this the 
 storm had in some degree abated, and Moynehan 
 ordered Rick Lillis to tie a collar on the head 
 of the working mare, and ride off at once for 
 the clergyman and the neighbouring doctor. 
 When both those functionaries had left the " 
 house (which was not for a few hours), he paid
 
 THE BARBER. OF BANTRY. 37 
 
 another visit to bis miserable guest. The old 
 man was lying on his back in a feeble condition, 
 and still muttering some incoherent sentences 
 
 about " robbers" and "down the glen of B " 
 
 and of " the storm,'' and *' his own cabin in the 
 west." On hearing Mr. Moynehan's voice, he 
 looked fixedly upon him, and seemed making 
 an effort to collect his scattered reason. 
 
 •' You will have no raison, Sir,'' he said, " to 
 repent your charity to me. The docthor tells 
 me I can't live ; so I must only see and make 
 use o' the time that's left me. • 
 
 " I was born westwards, near Dingle. My 
 father thought to make a scholar of me, but 
 from a child I never could take to the book. 
 Neither birch nor masther could ever get any 
 good o' me. No one could equal me for michin' 
 from school, and while I was there, I'd be at 
 any thing but the learnin'. So one day, afther 
 a'most breakin' his heart to thry an' get good o' 
 me, my father kern' out, an' he havin' a book 
 in one hand and a spade in the other.
 
 38 THE BARBER OF BANTRY, 
 
 " ' Here, Tom,' says he, ' take your choice 
 between these ; if you choose the book, you 
 may become a counsellor one time or other — 
 if you take the spade, you'll die as you began.' 
 
 " I looked this way and that, and afther con- 
 sidherin' for a while I took the spade. My 
 father left me nothin' else, but I thought it 
 enough, for I didn't know what it was to have 
 more. I was light and happy ; my conscience 
 ga' me no throuble, an' I had no sort o' care , 
 upon my mind. 
 
 '' Well, of a day, a burnin' day in June, (T 
 remember it well — it was the worst day to me 
 that ever came out of the skies) — of a Little St. 
 John's eve, I was making a drain to clear a bog 
 belongin' to a gentleman that used to gi' me 
 work. I ought to think o' that day well, an' 
 so T do ; an' often did before. It was a fine 
 bright day, but it darkened my mind for ever 
 afther. The sun was shinin' all around, the 
 birds were singin' in the little bushes, the cuckoo 
 was goin' at a distance in the wood, an' the
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 39 
 
 young foals were gallopin' about upon the 
 green fields like kittens at play. 'Twas a fine 
 day to man an** beast, but 'twas a woeful day 
 to me; it was just then, as I was whistling an' 
 working in the thrench, I threw up somethin' 
 upon the bank that sounded as it hit agin' a 
 stone. I took it up an' looked at it. It was 
 like a collar that would be roond a person's 
 neck, an' I was told aftherwards, that it was a 
 kind o' collar the ould Irish knights or kings, 
 or people o' that sort, used to wear as an orna- 
 ment in former times. I scraped it a little, 
 an' it was yellow inside ; I took it to the docthor 
 that lived in the same place, to see could he 
 make any thing of it. He dipped the top of 
 a quill in a little bottle he had, an' touched it 
 where I scraped it, an' afther lookin' at it again, 
 he wiped it an' handed it back to me an' tould 
 me it was raal goold. 
 
 " Until that time the thoughts o' riches, nor 
 money, nor any thing o' the kind ever ga' me 
 a day's unaisiness. I had my hire from one
 
 40 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 day to another, an"* I had health, an"* I cared for 
 no more. But the minute he tould me it was 
 raal goold, I felt as if my whole mind was 
 changed within me at once ; I took home the 
 goold, an' put it under my head that night' 
 an slep' upon it, an' in the mornin' I went off* 
 to town_, where I took it through all the goold- 
 smiths' shops to see what they'd gi' me for it, 
 and I sould it at last for seven pounds, which 
 was twelve times more money than ever I had 
 in my Hfe before. From that day out, I never 
 knew an hour's pace o' mind ; and for eighty- 
 seven years afther, that's to this present time, 
 my whole end and aim was to add as much as 
 I could to the price of what I found* I stinted 
 my food, I stinted my clothin' ; I never laid 
 out as much as one ha'penny in sport. I never yet 
 since that day, gave so much as one farthin' to a 
 
 fellow crathur — an' now I must part it all " 
 
 Here the unfortunate old man heaved a deep 
 groan, and his ghastly eyes rolled in their sockets 
 with the agony.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 41 
 
 " Bring witnesses if you have 'em," said he, 
 in a feeble tone, " so that the law can't come 
 between my words and their meaning afther 
 I am gone." 
 
 Mr. Moynehan complied, and summoned Rick 
 Lillis and another servant to the mendicant's 
 bedside. 
 
 " Ye are witnesses," said the old man, faintly, 
 " that out o' thanks to this gentleman for his 
 charity to me, an' having no kith nor kindred 
 o' my own, an' bein' sure he'll make a betther 
 use o' what I have, than any body else I know, 
 I lave him my outside coat an' its contents, an' 
 all I have in the world besides." 
 
 The servants then retired, and the mendicant, 
 taking a small and rusty key from his bosom, 
 where it was tied fast with a piece of hempen 
 twine, handed it to Moynehan, and said — 
 
 " There's a small cabin without a stick o' 
 furniture, on the side of a hill by the ould bridge 
 near Dingle. Any body will tell you where Garret 
 Casey, the miser, lives, when he's at home.
 
 42 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 There's a padlock on the doore, an** this is the 
 key of it. Whisper hether. When I'm gone, 
 go to that house, an' sarch in the corner near 
 the cupboard in the inner room, an' rise up a 
 brick that's there, an' have what's undher it — 
 but — but — not till I'm gone, you know," the old 
 man added, with a sudden expression of alarm ; 
 "the mother never loved her child, nor the wife 
 her husband, nor the glutton his food, nor the 
 drunkard his glass, as I loved what's undher 
 that stone; an' what good is it for me now? 
 I fasted for it — I watched for it — I hungered 
 and thirsted for it — and I bore the heat and 
 the cold, an' thought nothing of any kind o' 
 labour that could add the smallest trifle to it ; 
 an' now I must part it all. If I suflfered 
 as much for my sins this would be a happy 
 night to me. Many a mile I walked barefoot 
 on many a flinty road, to add a little to it ; an' 
 all for you. If I loved the law o' God as well 
 as I loved what's undher that brick, what a 
 saint I'd be to-night."
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 43 
 
 Soon after he began to rave in a distracted 
 manner, about robbers, and felt for his key, 
 and missing it, burst into feeble lamentations, 
 and complained that he was undone, and that 
 his house was plundered. Before morning he 
 expired, after recovering his reason sufficiently 
 to request that his remains might be conveyed 
 to his own parish. On examining his garments 
 they were found quilted with coins of every 
 description, from gold tohumble copper; guineas, 
 dollars, shillings, pence and halfpence, being 
 stitched in indiscriminately between the lining* 
 and the cloth, to the amount of more than 
 thirty pounds. 
 
 Mr. Moynehan complied with the last wishes 
 of the dying man. He had the remains con- 
 veyed to the mendicant's native parish, and 
 having found the cabin, waited until night in 
 order to examine it. He then went, accompanied 
 by Rick Lillis, and bearing a dark lantern in 
 his hand, to the miser's wretched dwelling. It 
 was a hovel of the very vilest kind. A round
 
 44 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 stone near the chimney corner served for a seat. 
 There was no appearance of firing, no ashes on 
 the hearth, nor even the least indication that 
 any such luxury had brightened the lonely spot 
 for years before. By the light of the lantern, 
 Moynehan searched the gloomy little inner room 
 which was partitioned off by a hurdle rudely 
 smeared with clay. He found the brick and 
 raised it. After clearing away a quantity of 
 loose earth, he found a bag of tanned calf-skin, 
 which, by its weight and bulk, he judged to be 
 the treasure sought. It was nearly filled with 
 gold, far more at the first glance than would 
 be sufficient to relieve the legatee from all his 
 difficulties. 
 
 When they had returned to the small inn at 
 which they slept, Moynehan charged his servant 
 to say nothing whatsoever when they should 
 reach home, of their good fortune, judging 
 of course that he might safely leave it to his 
 own discretion to keep silence while they were still 
 in a strange place. Rick Lillis could not for 
 
 %
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 45 
 
 a long time find any form of expression in which 
 to convey an idea of the extraordinary thoughts 
 that filled his mind since the completion of this 
 adventure. He remained sauntering from corner 
 to corner of the room in which his master sat 
 quietly musing by the fire side, now looking 
 down at his feet, now directly up at the ceiling, 
 now at every corner above, and anon successively 
 at every corner below, as if he were looking out 
 in all directions for suitable expressions. 
 
 " Well, there's no use in talking, masther; 
 but this day flogged Ireland. See, for all, how, 
 'tis no way foolish to do a good turn to high or 
 low. Why then, I remember of a time, my 
 father tellin'' me (rest his sowl !) of a thing o' 
 the kind that happened a first cousin of his own, 
 one Brien Sheehy, that lived estwards in the 
 hills o' Knockaderry. He was a very stupid 
 man, sir, with submission to you, an' hadn't as 
 much sense as would carry him from this to the 
 bedpost; but he had a wife that was just as 
 'cute as he was foolish, an' many's the time he'd
 
 46 THE BARBER OF BANTRY, 
 
 be lost only for her. Well, *tis innocent people, 
 they say, mostly gets the luck. Of a day Brien 
 found a handful o* money in a field, where he 
 was diggin', an' nobody lookin** at him the same 
 time, so he went an' hid it in a ditch, makin** a 
 hole for it with his spade, until he'd come an' 
 take it away, when it would be his convenience. 
 Well, sir, he went home and tould his wife what 
 he found. ' You. done some good, at last,' says 
 she ; * where's the money P"* ' Oh, I have it 
 a-hide,"* says he, ' in the field where I got it.' 
 ' Well an' good,' says the wife ; 'I hope you 
 have a mark upon it, the way youll find it 
 again ; an* nat to be like Pat Piercy, the 
 cobbler, that hid his tools so well that he never 
 could find 'em afther.' ' Oh, I'll find it asy 
 enough,' says Brien ; ' for I took a fine ])ig 
 mark for it,' says he, ' a grey horse that was 
 feedin' a-near the place when I put it a-hide.' 
 Well, the wife gev one screech that you'd hear 
 a mile off. ' Oh, murther ! you born omodhaun^'' 
 says she ; ' sure the horse was no mark for you
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 47 
 
 to take. Sure he'll lave that to go elsewhere," 
 says she, 'an' then what ""ll become o' your 
 mark? 'Twas an evil day,' says she, ' I ever 
 had anything to say to you ; an' you'll bring us 
 to beggary at last.' Well, poor Brien stood as 
 if you shot him ; an** then he darted out the 
 doores, an' run for the bare life to the field 
 where he left the money. An' sure enough the 
 horse was clane at a conthrairy side o' the field. 
 Poor Brien clapped his hands to his head, and 
 was fit to be tied at the thoughts of it ; but it 
 was no use for him. He sarched the whole 
 field ; but he might just as well be lookin' for 
 lobsthers in the same place. 
 
 " Well, sir, as he was walkin' a few weeks 
 afther, on the high road, comin' from market, 
 he met an ould beffffar-man that axed him for 
 
 DO 
 
 an alms. 'Don't be talkin' to me, man,' says 
 Brien. ' I lost more money a month ago, than 
 ril ever have in my life again ; but here's one 
 penny for you any way.' 'AVhere did you lose 
 it?' says the poor man. 'I lost it in such a
 
 48 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 field, where I had it a-hide in a ditch,"* says he. 
 ' Well,' says the beggar, ' one good turn desarves 
 another. If you'll step acrass the field, to Paul 
 Rahilly's, you'll hear somethin' of it,' says he : 
 ' I turned in the boj-een, 'while ago, an"* I heard 
 them talkin' of a power o' money the childher 
 found in a ditch, as they were playin'.' Well, 
 sir, sure enough, he went acrass to Rahilly's ; 
 an"*, I declare, he got the money again. The 
 Rahillys were very honest people ; an' the first 
 token he gev 'em o' the money bein"* his, I'll 
 engage they handed it over to him. So that 
 
 even a poor beggar might have it in his . 
 
 Sonuhar to me," added Rick, as a loud sound, 
 resembling the noise of a penny trumpet, cut 
 short the moral of his tale. — " Sonuhar * to me ; 
 — but he's fast asleep the whole time, an' I, like 
 a fool, tellin"* my story to the four walls. Well, 
 an* some walls have ears, they say, an' why 
 shouldn't I ? The masther is a made man, any 
 way, that's plain enough,*" 
 
 * A good wife, or husband.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 It will be recollected that we do not relate 
 the above as a fact of which we have historical 
 knowledge; but as one of the explanations 
 rumour gave of the way in which Mr. Moynehan 
 had obtained his sudden wealth. His secret was 
 kept, and the day of sale arrived. An auctioneer 
 from Limerick attended to put up the house- 
 hold furniture and other articles to the highest 
 bidder. Many, howevei, said it was folly to 
 talk ; that there would be no bidders at all, the 
 Moynehans were so hospitable, and so well 
 liked throughout the country. Though the 
 morning was rainy, it did not prevent great 
 crowds from attending ; and, to the great 
 astonishment of the whole world, biddings were 
 just as smart as if Mr. Moynehan were a perfect 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 stranger. There was one circumstance, how- 
 ever, which occasioned universal amazement in 
 the crowd. 
 
 Mr. Moynehan had taken his seat next the 
 auctioneer, his hands resting on his walking 
 cane, and his eyes fixed upon the various bid- 
 ders, as if to be satisfied by ocular demonstration 
 of the identity of the individuals who were now 
 pouncing like hawks upon the spoils of the 
 mansion, which had been for near a score of 
 years as free to their use as to his own. The 
 auction was about to commence, when in strutted 
 Rick Lillis, with the air of a nobleman, and 
 took his place amongst the aristocratic pur- 
 chasers. 
 
 " Give me a chair, here ! " he cried aloud, in a 
 voice like thunder. 
 
 Three or four servants fle\f to execute his 
 orders, and he placed himself in the seat with 
 an air of surly dignity, as if he wished to see 
 who would presume to meddle with him. The 
 gentleman and ladies around him began to
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 51 
 
 whisper, and gather their brows, and seemed 
 not altogether to like it, but Rick maintained 
 his place unmoved. 
 
 " Gi' me a bottle o' wine ! '* he called aloud, 
 in the same tone — " an"* a glass for dhrinkin'y 
 an' a crust o' bread." 
 
 Again half a dozen attendants flew to execute 
 his wishes with the same alacrity as before. 
 
 , " That '11 do," said Rick ; " Now, Misther 
 auctioneer, you can commence business : Vm 
 quite ready." 
 
 The auctioneer bowed low with mock gravity,* 
 and proceeded to put up the articles of furniture 
 in succession. Nothing could be more painful 
 to Mr. Moynehan's friends than to bid at all; 
 but as the articles were goings each thought 
 he might as well have them as another. What 
 was their astonishment, however, when Rick 
 Lillis bid for every lot just as it was about to 
 be knocked down to another ! Lot after lot, 
 there was nothing too high nor too low for him ; 
 and he paid for every article in sterling gold 
 
 d2 
 
 LIBRARY -'~^— ^ — — 
 UNIVERSITY nr It nvoi^
 
 52 THE BARBER OF BANTRY, 
 
 upon the instant. Every article, without ex- 
 ception, — not a stick of furniture, nor of any 
 thing else, was carried out by a stranger. The 
 bidders now began to turn the tables upon 
 Rick, and many said that he was an ungrateful 
 fellow, after having been able to save so much 
 money through the liberality of his master, to 
 make so thankless an use of it at the close. 
 However, amid all this generous zeal for the 
 ruined Moynehan, none of the jovial companions 
 and old friends seemed to think of asking him 
 to his house, — but, one after another, they 
 dropped away, and left him to confer alone with 
 his calamity. 
 
 Mr. Moynehan made no effort to retain his 
 farms, but settled honourably with his landlord. 
 He then made the purchase long since spoken 
 of, and began to build the house, the ruins of 
 which have been described at the commence- 
 ment of our narrative. It would be a vain 
 attempt to paint the consternation which was 
 excited throughout the country side, by the
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 53 
 
 news that Mojnehan had purchased an estate, 
 nor the celerity with which he had all his friends 
 about him once again, as officious and as cordial 
 as ever. The mystery of Rick Lillis's extra- 
 ordinary wealth became clear when they found 
 the furniture of the old house appropriated to 
 its accustomed uses in the new. 
 
 Mr. Moynehan, however, did not reproach 
 his old neighbours with their ingratitude. 
 
 " How would I be the gainer, my dear," 
 he would say to his indignant helpmate, on 
 perceiving her anger rise at the approach of 
 any of those ^^orthy adherents, " how would I 
 be the gainer by declaring war against all my 
 neighbours, because they are not just the kind 
 of people I would have them? — If I were to 
 wait for friends until I should find them without 
 fault, I might live to the age of Methusaleui 
 without finding as much as would make a hand 
 at whist, and Dumby one of the party too. 
 Sure 'tis the very fault I have to find with 
 myself, that Fm not just as I'd like to be.
 
 54 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 And, poor people, if they have acted wrong, 
 they will suffer enough to it hereafter, without 
 my endeavouring to make them uncomfortable 
 at present." 
 
 Accordingly, there was no one who was not 
 invited to the Housewarming. Now, if any 
 uninitiated reader should desire to know what 
 an Irish Housewarming was in the days of Mr. 
 Moyneham, he must be content with our brief 
 description, seeing that no such entertainment 
 is to be found amongst the extravagancies of 
 the present day. The period was a century 
 too late for the muse of Derrick, and a 
 century too early for the bard of Ballyporeen, 
 or we would have considered it unnecessary 
 to say more than that a Housewarming had been 
 given. 
 
 '* Rick ! " Mr. Moynehan exclaimed from 
 the bed room, where he was occupied in an 
 operation from which half the human race are 
 happily exempt — we mean that of shaving — 
 " Rick ! " exclaimed Mr. Moynehan.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. DO 
 
 , *' Goin\ masther I'" The reader must under- 
 stand that Rick Lillis generally said going, 
 when he meant coming. " Goin\ masther ! "* 
 answered Rick, and his gaping mouth and 
 staring eyes were presently visible at the cham- 
 ber door. 
 
 "Rick, do you know that I am to give a 
 House warming on Thursday next ? " 
 
 '* Oyeh, iss, Sir — long life to you. The 
 misez tould uz ov it." 
 
 " Well, Rick, you know we shall want music, 
 so I leave that part of the affair to your man- 
 
 agement. 
 
 " Ullilu ! me, Sir,"' exclaimed Rick, in modest 
 alarm. " Sorrow tune did I ever play in my 
 life upon any thing, exceptin^ it was a little 
 taste upon the jews-harp, an' I'm sure it is aisily 
 known that wouldn't go far among a whole 
 houseful."" 
 
 " You mistake me, Rick ; I have as little 
 inclination to listen to your music as you can 
 have to furnish it. But I mean that you shall
 
 56 THE BARBER OF BAKTRY. 
 
 find musicians, so mind what I tell you. If I 
 find that there is a man within three baronies 
 round us, that ever drew horsehair across 
 catgut, or ever danced the chanter of a bagpipe 
 on his knee, or ever whistled God save the 
 King upon a pipolo, who shall not be at the 
 Housewarming on Thursday next — I'll — no I 
 can't hang you — ah, joy be with the times when 
 I could, — before we ever had a law to interfere 
 with us — but ril be tempted to go as near 
 it as I can — '' 
 
 " Long life to your honour, sure Fll do ray 
 best" 
 
 " Take no excuse, as you value your head — "" 
 
 "Excuse!*" exclaimed Rick, with a half 
 shout of surprise, " I'll go bail, I'll make 'em 
 come jumpin' an' glad to be axed — I'll take 
 my hazel stick in my hand, an' I'd like to 
 see the man among 'em that would daar say 
 ' no ' to me, when I give the commands." 
 
 He left the room, and so punctually did he 
 fulfil his commission, that on the Thursday
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 57 
 
 following, a troop of fiddlers, fifers, pipers, and 
 other musicians, of all ages and of both sexes, 
 had assembled at the new edifice, sufficient of 
 themselves to have constituted a numerous com- 
 pany. But they were soon lost in the multitudes 
 that followed. Cars, horses, truckles (furnished 
 with a bed tick, to supply the lack of springs 
 and cushion), every species of vehicle, and every 
 beast of burthen that the land aiforded were 
 put in requisition, by the numerous guests who 
 came with imblushing countenances to claim 
 a share of Moynehan's returning hospitality.* 
 Nor did he treat them to Timon's feast of 
 /'smoke, and lukewarm water.'' Moynehan 
 never expected much gratitude from his friends, 
 so he was not disappointed when he did not 
 receive it. It was in compliance with the 
 promptings of his own heart, and not in the 
 wild goose chase of human gratitude, that he 
 ever was either hospitable or generous, so he 
 felt no indignation at being denied what he had 
 
 d3
 
 58 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 never sought. Indeed, it is most probable that 
 if he had heard the story of Timon of Athens, 
 he would have thought him a selfish fellow, 
 who precisely met with his desert for affecting 
 the name of generosity, when in reality he 
 gave nothing, for which he did not both expect 
 and demand a return ; and an exquisite temper 
 he manifested too, when he made that wonder- 
 ful discovery, that it is not quite so easy to 
 borrow as it is to lend in this world. No — ' 
 " uncover, dogs, and lap," was not the welcome 
 Moynehan gave his guests — but such a banquet 
 that it was " given up to it,'^ such a " giving 
 out" was never known before in that side of 
 the country, any way. And he had the satis* 
 faction too of finding that it was all a mistake 
 about the ingratitude of his neighbours, for 
 there was scarcely an individual amongst them 
 that did not before morning take an opportunity 
 of assuring their host, that all he had in the 
 world was at his service, and his life if he
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTR^. 59 
 
 wanted it into the bargain, a fact which shows 
 how erroneous was the evil opinion entertained 
 of them by Mrs. Moynehan, and how cautious 
 we ought to be of judging by appearanees. 
 And so the house was built and warmed.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 During the life-time, or, as the peasantry on 
 his estate termed it, the " reign" of Mr. Moyne- 
 han, the affairs of Tipsy Hall, as he named 
 his new residence, *' for rasons," were managed ' 
 with tolerable moderation. We have material 
 enough to dwell at ample length on the subse- 
 quent history of the edifice, before it came into 
 the hands of the individual whose earthly 
 destinies were most intimately interwoven with 
 the subject of our tale. We might describe the 
 feasting, the drinking, and, unhappily for the 
 credit of a portion of our ancestry, the duelling, 
 the cock-fighting, the horse-racing, the dissipa- 
 tion of every kind of which it was once the scene, 
 and some readers might find so faithful a detail 
 of manners, now happily almost forgotten, not
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 61 
 
 wholly destitute of interest. We might dwell 
 upon the unheard of magnificence, displayed at 
 the funeral of the first Moynehan, who chose to 
 be interred at his birth-place, which was " far 
 up in the north,'''' in the county of Donegal. 
 We might follow the sable vehicle for eighteen 
 days along the wild and varied road, attended 
 as it was the whole way by near one thousand 
 persons. We might describe the storm of 
 rain, that, for three lon^ days, pouring down 
 incessantly upon the mournful train, added 
 unexpected dreariness and discomfort to a tasl^ 
 already full of gloom and woe; we might tell, 
 (for the sources from which we draw our in- 
 formation faithfully record the number), how 
 many, dying on the wayside of cold and of 
 fatigue, how many, in a sudden feud arising 
 between two hostile factions, who were sleuded in 
 the train, had given this testimony of their fidelity 
 and zeal to the manes of their benefactor. 
 For a whole day it was said the coffin halted 
 in its progress, until this controversy was deci-
 
 62 THE BAEBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 ded, and then the whole proceeded in the same 
 order as before. We might dilate yet further 
 on the extravagancies of the more unbridled 
 spirits who succeeded the founder of the mansion 
 in his possessions, and on the wilder orgies 
 with which they made its walls re-echo through 
 many a winter night. But we write to illustrate 
 not to satirise human nature, and it is possible 
 that if we were to transcribe all that is preserved 
 amongst the neighbouring peasantry of the 
 history of the ruin, the reader might hardly 
 thank us for our preciseness. Add to this, 
 that we must confess, at the risk of losing no 
 matter how many of our readers, the subject 
 has for us but little attraction. Boisterous, 
 quarrelsome manners, habitual excesses, the 
 manners, in a word, of the drinking table, have 
 for us, whether in life or on paper, but little 
 charm, even when dashed with gaiety and wit, 
 and made interesting by personal daring and 
 adventure. Our ancestors had their follies — 
 we have ours — and it is rather hard that we
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 6S 
 
 should laugh at their manners, when they have 
 not the opportunity of returning the compliment. 
 
 We shall therefore, suffer this portion of our 
 history to be gathered from the lips of no less a 
 personage than Rick Lillis himself, as, an old 
 and crutch-borne man, he stood amongst the 
 ruins of the building on a summer day, detailing 
 with melancholy interest, to an inquisitive tourist, 
 the'fortunes of the family he had survived. 
 
 " There was somethin' wrong about the house, 
 sir, ever from the very big'nin*. The dhroUest * 
 nizes ever you seen, used to be hard about the 
 place at night, every day, from the time the first 
 stone was laid, until the roof an' all came down. 
 In the dead o' the night time the people used to 
 be called out o' their sleep by sthrange voices, 
 and they never could find out who it was that 
 called *em. It bate all ever you hear. For a 
 time after the ould masther'^s death (rest his 
 sowl !) there was no standin' the place at all, 
 with the stories they all had, that he used to be 
 
 * Strangest.
 
 64 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 seen risin' — himself an' the ould hiicogh^ that it 
 was known afther left him all the money. Some- 
 times they used to be seen walkin' together, lock- 
 arms, in the moonshine ; more times, they say, 
 when the family would be sittin' by the fire-side, 
 talliin', an' no light in the place only the blaze o' 
 the fire, they'd hear the doors open, an' they'd 
 look back this way over their shouldhers, an** 
 there they'd see old Moynehan with the grave- 
 clothes about him, lookin' in upon 'em. But 
 there's one thing I was, as I may say, present at 
 myself, an' 'tis as thrue as you're standin' there. 
 
 " You don't know, may be, the dizaze the 
 ould masther died of? Asy, an' I'll tell you. 
 It was what they call a stomach-wolf. He was 
 out of a day in harvest with the men, an' bein' 
 rather hot, an' the fresh hay convanient, he sat 
 down upon a cock of it, an' fell asleep. Well, 
 he knew nothin' of it, but it is then the rogue of 
 a wolf took an advantage of him, to get into his 
 mouth, so 'cute, an' down his throath, an' into the 
 stomach snug an' warm, an' the masther nivir
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 65 
 
 knowing a word about it. When he woke by 
 an' by, an' went home to dinner, he felt so 
 hungry, that you'd think he'd ate the world, an' 
 dhrink the ocean dhry. His dinner was no more 
 to him than a boiled piatee. He ate an' he ate, 
 an' he dhrank an' he dhrank, an' he was just as 
 hungry an' as thirsty when he got up as he was 
 when he sat down. So it went on from day to 
 day, an' instead of being betther, 'tis worse and 
 worse he was gettin' ever an' always. 
 
 " One neighbour come in, an' another, an' not 
 one of 'em could give the laste account o' what 
 aileded him. An' what was worst of all was, 
 that in place o' getting fat with all he ate, 'tis 
 laner an' laner he was gettin' every day, till he 
 was a complete nottomy. Not a ha'p'orth he ett 
 or dhrank done him any good. 
 
 " Still nobody could tell from Adam what was 
 the matther with him. The docthor that was in 
 the place, although bein' a very knowin' man, he 
 knew nothin' whatever of this ailment, never 
 meetin' a case o' the kind before. One neighbour
 
 66 THE BARBER OF BANTRV. 
 
 recommended one thing, and another another, 
 but the masther didn't give in to any of 'em 
 some way, an' when they'd bring him any great 
 physic, in place o' takin' it, he'd give it to the 
 missiz to keep for him. Weil, one day he came 
 in, lookin' so pale and wake, that he was ready 
 to dhrop. ' There's no use in talkin', my dear,' 
 says he to^the missiz, ^ but there's some bad work 
 goin' on inside in me.' ' Can't you take some of 
 the muddicines, my love?' says she. * Rech 'em 
 hether,' says he, ' I believe I must do somethin'.' 
 So she rech'd 'em all down. ' Why then, the 
 heavens direct me now,' says the missiz, ' which 
 o' these I'm to give you,' says she, lookin' at the 
 hape. ' I'll tell you what,' says the masther, ' if 
 one o' them is good, the whole o' them must be 
 betther. Make them get a saucepan,' says he, 
 * an' a dhrop o' wather.' So she did. The 
 saucepan was brought, and the master haved 
 'em all into it headforemost, bottles, an' pills, an' 
 powdhers, in as they wor, an' boiled 'em all 
 together, with the dhrop o' wather. When it 
 
 %
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTR^. 67 
 
 was boiled he dhrank it, an' little was wanten' 
 but it was the last dhrop he ever dhrank. He 
 lost Ms walk * the same day, an' before night it 
 was all the same thing as over with him. 
 
 " Well, nothin"* would satisfy the missiz, but 
 some docthor should see him, to keep people's 
 tongues quiet. While she was thinkin' who 
 she'd send for, an ould bucogh come to the doore 
 axin' charity, an' he up an' tould her where 
 she'd get a rale docthor. ' There's a docthor,' 
 says he, ' livin' upon the bordhers of Kerry, an' 
 if there's any man,' says he, ' that's able to raise 
 the dead to life, 'tis he.' So the missiz called 
 Tim Dalton, or Tim Tell-truth, as we used all 
 to call him, by rason he never would tell a word 
 o' thruth by his own good will, an' sent him off 
 on horseback for this great docthor. I can only 
 give you Tim's word for what took place, until 
 he come back next day following. He rede for 
 a good part of a day, until he come into the 
 lonesomest mountain counthry he ever seen in 
 
 • The use of his limbs.
 
 68 
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 his life. He made inquiries, and they showed 
 him where the docthor lived, in a lonesome 
 house down in a little glen, an' the smoke comine 
 out o' the chimney. ' Well,' says Tim to me' 
 an' he tellin' me the story, ' I med for the house, 
 an' if I did, there I seen all the place sthrown 
 all round with dead men's bones, an' the pathway 
 up to the hall doore was paved with little white 
 things that looked just like knuckle bones. 
 Well become me,' says Tim, ' I med for the' 
 hall doore an' gev a great rap, and axed for the 
 docthor. The sarvant girl shown me into the 
 kitchen, where there was a great pot bilin' on the 
 fire. Thinks I to myself, I wondher what in the 
 world is in the pot. So while I was wondherin, 
 the docthor come out an' axed me mv business, 
 which I up an' toult him.' « Well,' says he, 
 * stay asy a minute, an' I'll be with you, but for 
 your life,' says he, ' take care you don't look 
 after me.' ' I'll engage,' says Tim, ' I was'nt 
 said by him, but the instant he left the kitchen, 
 I took an' opened the doore, an' gave a dawny 
 
 >-
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 69 
 
 peep into the room that was inside it.' Well, 
 what Tim seen in that room, he never was very 
 ready to tell, only from that day out, he wouldn't 
 take a taste of muddicine if he was dyin\ He 
 used to say he seen keelers all round the room 
 an"* dead people hangin' up, an' their blood 
 dhroppin' into the keelers, to make muddicines. 
 Vm sure as for myself, I only hould it to be one 
 of Tim's stories. But he brought the docthor 
 away with him any way. 
 
 " AVhen the docthor come to the ould 
 masther's room, an' felt his pulse, he looked 
 very sarious. He began makin' a cut jest a near 
 the heart with his insthruments, an' I declare 
 you could hear the wolf barkin' inside, quite 
 plain, at every cut he made. So he brought out 
 the wolf, an' showed it to us all — a little dawny 
 thing not the length o' my finger, but the tail 
 going like a switch, an' the eyes like little sparks o' 
 fire. But howsomever it was, the poor masther 
 did'nt get much good of it, an' twas'nt long 
 afther that we had to lay him with his people.
 
 70 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 " Be coorse, the masther's son, Misther 
 Henry, come after him — an** a sore day it 
 was, for the estate, the day it come into his 
 hands. If the ould masther was over foolish 
 in spendin** he was twice more so. Cocks, an' 
 horses, an' hounds, an' every other ha'p'orth that 
 the first gentleman in the land could fancy, he 
 had about him from year to year. But it 
 wasn''t that that broke him after all, only I'll 
 tell you. 
 
 " There was a poor Dumby the ould masther 
 kep, that used to dhraw out anything in the 
 whole world upon a slate ; he was still in the 
 house when the new masther was goin"* on this 
 way. Well, of a day when Misther Thomas 
 was gettin"* ready for the Curragh, sure the very 
 day before the jockey was to take her off, the 
 mare was found dead in the stable ! The 
 masther was fit to be tied — so he sent off privately 
 for Shaun Dooly, a knowledgeable man that 
 lived down near the sa^-side, that had a great 
 report for bein thick with the good people.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 71 
 
 'Tis myself went for him, an' carried a led horse 
 ready saddled to bring him up to Tipsy Hall, 
 not to spake of a goold guinea I had for him at 
 the first word. I waited till night-fall because 
 the masther would be very unfond any body 
 should know he** send for a fairy docthor. 
 
 " I brought Shaun Dooly up to the masther, 
 and he seemed for a while greatly puzzled to 
 know what could be the cause of it. ' Did you 
 ever shoot a weazel ?' says Shaun Dooly. ' Not 
 to my knowledge,' says the masther. ' Or a 
 magpie ? ' ' Not as I remember, indeed."* ' Do 
 you be whistlin' when you do be out at night at 
 all ? ' * That can't be,' says the masther, ' for I 
 never turned a tune.' * Well I don't know in 
 the world what to think of it,' says Shaun. So 
 while he was thinkin' there was a great flutterin' 
 outside. ' What's that noise ? ' says Shaun 
 Dooly ' I suppose it's the pigeons that's comin' 
 home,' says the masther. ' Pigeons ! ' cries Shaun, 
 ' do you keep pigeons about the house ? It's
 
 72 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 plain to me now, ' says he, * what rason your 
 mare died, an' I would'nt wondher,' says he, ' if 
 all belongin"* to you was gone to rack and ruin.' 
 'What rason?' says the masther. Til not 
 tell you what rason,' says Shaun, ' but if you take 
 my advice, you'll not have one of 'em about the 
 place.' 
 
 " He went, an' next mornin' airly the masther 
 went about shootin' all the pigeons. There was 
 one of em' that the Dumby had tamed, an' when, 
 he seen 'em all shootin,' he took an' hid it from 
 the masther, poor crathur, it was so quiet an' so 
 fond of him. Well, sure enough in less than 
 two months afther the ould missiz died, an' the 
 masther found out that the Dumby kept the 
 pigeon. I never seen one so wild. He turned 
 the Dumby out o' doores (although the crathur 
 cried a gallon -full, an' went on his knees to ax 
 pardon), an' twisted the head off o' the pigeon. 
 But it was no good for him. From that day 
 out it seemed as if the loock went out o' the
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 73 
 
 doores with the Dumby. And when the next 
 Mr. Moynehan came into the property, he found 
 himself much in the situation of more jentlemen 
 in the country then an' now, that have 'pon my 
 honour^ an' nothing to back it." 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 But since the accession of this third Moynehan 
 to the proprietorship of Tipsy Hall brings us 
 into the most important portion of our tale, we 
 shall take the story out of the hands of Rick 
 Lillis, and resume our own task as historians of 
 the ruined building. 
 
 So indeed it was. In the course of less than 
 half a century, the fair estate which Mr. 
 Moynehan was so anxious should be long pre- 
 served in the hands of his posterity, had melted 
 away to a small remnant, which was wholly 
 inadequate to the maintenance of the family in 
 the style of splendid hospitality which they had 
 always upheld. What added to this embarrass- 
 ment was that Mr, Thomas Moynehan never 
 could be prevailed upon to augment his diminish-
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 75 
 
 Ing income by seeking some situation suitable to 
 his rank, which he might easily have procured 
 amongst his influential friends. Antiquarians 
 tell us that amongst the ancient Irish, all occu- 
 pations of a commercial nature were held in the 
 highest scorn and the term, ceanuig'he, or mer- 
 chant, was considered wholly incompatible with 
 that of a gentleman. Until a very late period 
 a strong tincture of the same spirit appears to 
 have influenced the conduct of our Irish gentry. 
 Mr. Moynehan seemed to think that his family 
 would be disgraced if he were actually to earn, 
 the bread which he had hitherto received as his 
 patrimonial right. A circumstance which took 
 place while affairs were in this condition is said 
 to have had a strong effect in withdrawing him 
 from society, and indeed in hastening his death. 
 The public road, which passed close by Mr. 
 Moynehan's gate, was the same by which the 
 judges of assize were accustomed to travel on 
 their way to the western towns. It happened 
 one evening (so goes the tale), that one of those 
 
 E 2
 
 76 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 personages who was about to open a commission 
 in Tralee, was overtaken by nightfall in the 
 neighbourhood of Tipsy Hall. As there was 
 no inn within the distance of several miles, and 
 the Judge and Mr. Moynehan were well 
 acquainted, the former determined to pass the 
 night at the house of his friend, and resume his 
 journey on the following morning. Accord- 
 ingly, he directed his coachman to drive through 
 in the avenue gate, and was received with a 
 ready welcome at the open door. 
 
 Mr. Thomas Moynehan, notwithstanding 
 those weaknesses which we have seen, and a 
 certain violence of temper, which was at times 
 uncontrollable, was yet in many things a man 
 of a reflective and solemn turn of mind. Much 
 of his attention had been given occasionally to 
 the nature of human law and the extent of its 
 power over human life and liberty. It was his 
 opinion that in most governments too little 
 regard was shown to human life ; and there was 
 one point in particular which moved his horror.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 77 
 
 This was the ease with which circumstantial 
 evidence was received in British courts of justice 
 on questions of a capital nature. Such convic- 
 tions, taking into account the many occasions on 
 which the innocence of the culprit had subse- 
 quently been manifested in time to redeem his 
 reputation, but not to save his life, appeared 
 to him in the light of so many formal and 
 deliberate murders. 
 
 On the present occasion, as the judge and he 
 were sitting quietly together by the fire-side 
 after dinner, he could not resist the opportunity 
 of introducing his favourite topic. He found, as 
 he had expected, his learned guest entirely of 
 the other way of thinking. The judge said 
 that it was true circumstantial evidence might 
 sometimes be merely specious, and undoubtedly 
 in such cases it was wrong to convict ; but that 
 there were circumstances which were fully as 
 demonstrative of the guilt or innocence of the 
 accused as the most direct ocular testimony 
 could be.
 
 78 THE BARBER OF BANTRV. 
 
 " For," said he, '^ Gentlemen of the Ju^ 
 
 Mr. Moynehan, I should say, we must remember 
 that the degree of certainty is not altered by the 
 nature of the evidence. Certainty is certainty 
 still, by whatever means it is obtained. I am 
 certain that two and two are the equation of 
 four, and I am certain that this glass, if I drop 
 it, will fall on the floor, and I am certain that 
 King Charles the First lost his head. My 
 certainty with regard to the three positions is 
 the same, yet the means by which I arrive at it 
 are different, for the last fact I have only on 
 hearsay, whereas the others are physical and 
 metaphysical truths. So I grant you circum- 
 stantial evidence can only give us moral certainty ; 
 yet moral certainty, when it is certainty at all, is 
 fully equal to any other whatsoever. When 
 people say they are only morally certain of 
 anything, they use a vulgar expression, which 
 means that they are not certain at all ; for if 
 they were morally certain, they would be per- 
 fectly so."
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 79 
 
 So saying he hemmed, and looked as if he 
 expected there should be no reply. Accordingly 
 Mr. Moynehan, though he could not see what 
 the lecture upon the nature of certainty had to 
 do with his own assertion that circumstantial 
 evidence could never produce it in a conscienti- 
 ous mind, did not conceive it prudent to urge the 
 matter further, contenting himself with saying 
 that perhaps the time might yet arrive when he 
 would have an opportunity of furnishing his 
 lordship with a case in point. 
 
 On the following day the judge continued 
 his route, and Mr. Moynehan resumed his 
 customary occupations. He still continued to 
 reflect much upon the injustice of depriving a 
 fellow-creature of life where there was even a 
 possibility of his innocence. Even if there were 
 cases, as he doubted not there might be some, in 
 which circumstantial evidence might amount to 
 certainty, he was yet convinced that no such 
 strength of testimony was required in the great 
 number of instances in which convictions had
 
 80 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 taken place. The more he thought upon it, 
 the more he became assured of the correctness 
 of his own views; and only longed for an 
 opportunity of converting the judge to his 
 opinion. 
 
 In a few mornings afterwards he was prepar- 
 ing to take breakfast at an early hour, when 
 Rick Lillis entered the parlour, to say, with a 
 countenance aghast with horror, that some 
 countrymen without had taken a murderer, 
 and wanted that Mr. Mo3^nehan (who was a 
 justice of the peace) should commit him to the 
 county gaol. Mr. Moynehan seemed deeply 
 struck at the intelligence. It seemed as if he 
 even felt a nearer interest in the case owing to 
 his recent controversy with the judge. 
 
 '* Let them wait outside,*" said he, " until I 
 have done breakfast, and I will hear them." 
 
 In a short time after he ordered the men to 
 be summoned into the office, where he usually 
 took his examinations. Three countrymen 
 entered, conducting a fourth, who by his pale
 
 THE BAllBER OF BANTRY. 81 
 
 and terrified countenance, his disordered appear- 
 ance, and some reddish stains upon his garments, 
 was evidently the person accused. One of the 
 others held a pitchfork, the handle of which was 
 dabbled with blood. 
 
 Mr. Moynehan, who knew the man perfectly 
 well as one of his own labourers, and of the 
 most peaceable characters in the country, seemed 
 much concerned at beholding him in such a 
 situation, but determined to give the fullest 
 hearing to all the parties. 
 
 " Plase your worship," said the eldest of the 
 three accusers, " this hoy an' my son Ned wer^ 
 at work together yestherday, an' they had some 
 words comin' home, which nobody then took 
 much notice of. But this morning it so happened 
 that I went to work in your honour's piatee 
 garden agreeable to ordhers. It was early, an' 
 I expected to be first upon the ground, which I 
 knew to be plaisin' to your honour, but I was 
 overtaken on the road by these two neighbours ; 
 so the three of us went on together with our
 
 82 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 spades in our hands. When we come into the 
 field it was just the dusk o' dawn. ' Stop,"* says 
 this man here to me, don't you hear groanin"* ? ' 
 I hard something,' says I ; ' but I made nothing 
 of it, thinkin' it was the wind.' ' 'Tis not the 
 wind,' says he, ' but some one that got a bad 
 hurt, an' there they are !' Sure enough at that 
 minute we seen this boy here thryin' to make 
 off with a pitch-fork, this pitch-fork here — 
 in his hand, but we pinned him. Little I 
 knew what use he was afther puttin' it to. I 
 wish I had no more to tell — it's dear I aimed 
 your worship's piatees. We found my poor 
 boy a dead corpse in the furrow, an' there's the 
 villyan that done it." 
 
 The two other witnesses being examined, 
 corroborated in all its circumstances the evidence 
 given by the first. Having patiently heard all 
 they had to say, and finding that they had not 
 detected the man in the very act, Mr. Moynehan 
 seemed desirous to dismiss the case. It was 
 true, he said, they had found the man on the
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 83 
 
 spot, and with the bloody weapon in his hand, 
 and with his hands on the dead body. This 
 and his precipitate flight when seen, and the 
 disagreement of the previous evening, were 
 strong circumstances ; yet they did not amount 
 to actual evidence of guilt, and he called on the 
 prisoner for his explanation. 
 
 The unhappy man turned pale and red alter- 
 nately, and trembled as if his doom had been 
 already fixed. He acknowledged the dispute, 
 and indeed all the circumstances deposed by his 
 accusers, yet he attested heaven that he was 
 wholly guiltless. • 
 
 "I went into the field," said he, "to my 
 work, an' I found the corpse before me in the 
 furrow, an' the pitchfork lyin' a-near it, an** 
 while I was feelin' him to see had he any life, 
 an' examinin' the spade, these people come upon 
 me. I run, becase I was afeerd they'd say 'twas 
 I done it, an' I took the pitchfork with me in 
 my fright." 
 
 Mr. Moynehan, who seemed affected in the 
 strongest manner by the poor fellow's anxiety.
 
 84 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 was SO far from judging him guilty, that he 
 peremptorily refused to issue a warrant of com- 
 mittal, and used all his influence to dissuade the 
 friends of the deceased from proceeding further 
 against the prisoner. To this, however, they 
 would by no means listen. They conveyed the 
 accused before another magistrate, who com- 
 mitted him to gaol without hesitation. 
 
 The day of trial came, and Mr. Moynehan 
 happened to be one of the jury. The evidence 
 was the same as before — the judge his old 
 acquaintance. To the whole court, except to 
 Mr. Moynehan, the testimony seemed conclusive. 
 He, however, would not listen to the thought of 
 a conviction. The arguments of his eleven 
 fellow-jurors were vain — he would not sub- 
 scribe to their verdict. The foreman made his 
 report to the judge, who reproached Mr. Moy- 
 nehan severely with his obstinacy. The latter, 
 however, was not to be moved, and the issue was 
 (as the rumour goes) that the jury were kished^ 
 and the prisoner set at liberty. 
 
 When the judge had returned to his lodgings,
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 85 
 
 he could not avoid reflecting on the extraor- 
 dinary character of this man, who had thus, to 
 gratify a favourite theory, let a murderer loose 
 upon society, and set up his own solitary judg- 
 ment against the unanimous conviction of a 
 crowded court. So deeply did it prey upon his 
 mind, that he sent for Mr. Moynehan, in order 
 that they might exchange some quiet conversa- 
 tion on the subject. The latter readily attended 
 on his summons. 
 
 ** My lord," said Mr. Moynehan, with a 
 serious air, on hearing the cause of the judge's 
 message, " you may remember a conversation ' 
 which we had some time since on the subject of 
 circumstantial evidence ? " 
 
 " Perfectly well," replied the judge. 
 
 '* I told your lordship then," said Mr. Moy- 
 nehan, '' that the time might yet arrive when I 
 should have an opportunity of making you a 
 convert to my own opinion.*" 
 
 " That time, Mr. Moynehan, is certainly yet 
 to come; for I never knew a case so clearly
 
 86 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 against you, as that which we have tried to-day. 
 May I request to know vour reasons for such 
 extraordinary — perseverance — to give it no 
 harsher name ? " 
 
 '' My reasons are at your lordship's service," 
 answered Mr. Moynehan, " provided that I have 
 your solemn word of honour not to divulge them 
 during my own lifetime." 
 
 The judge, without hesitation, gave him the 
 promise he desired. 
 
 " I admit, my lord," said Mr. Moynehan, 
 " that this case had all the strength of circum- 
 stantial testimony which you considered neces- 
 sary; but I could not in conscience convict the 
 prisoner, for I am myself the slayer of the 
 deceased." 
 
 The judge started back in horror. 
 
 '' Yes," said he, ''it happened on that 
 morning that I was in the field before any of 
 my workmen. The deceased was the first who 
 made his appearance, and I rebuked him for his 
 neglect. Being a man of a hot temper, he
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 87 
 
 answered me with more than equal warmth, and 
 I lost all command of mine. I struck him — he 
 returned the blow — I held the pitchfork in my 
 hand, and with one blow more I felled him to 
 the earth. I fled in terror, and in less than one 
 hour after, the prisoner was brought before me. 
 Judge whether I had not reason to be constant 
 in my verdict of acquittal." 
 
 The judge kept his promise ; but from that 
 day forward he was much more cautious in 
 receiving circumstantial evidence on a capital 
 charge. 
 
 On the death of Mr. Thomas Moynehan (a* 
 considerable portion of whose history might, 
 perhaps, in the reader's opinion, have been 
 omitted with advantage,) the estate and mansion 
 of Tipsy Hall fell into the hands of Edmond 
 Moynehan, his nephew, and the last of the race 
 who held dominion beneath its roof.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Mr. Edmond Moynehan, though succeeding 
 to a diminished income, had been, in some 
 respects, more fortunate than any of his prede- 
 cessors. He had received an excellent education, 
 in the truest sense of the word ; and up to the 
 period of his accession to the estate of Tipsy 
 Hall, had used it, in all appearance, to the best 
 advantage. As far as any one could be said to 
 enjoy happiness in a world where people find no 
 situation so good that they do not long for 
 better, Mr. Edmond Moynehan was a happy 
 man. He had a wife, who, whether as a 
 doctress, counsellor, or housewife, was without 
 her equal in the country side. At the time 
 when they were suddenly called to the inhe- 
 ritance of Tipsy Hall, they inhabited a small 
 
 '*
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 89 
 
 cottage near the romantic town where the 
 Knights of the Valley once held feudal sway. 
 Their scanty income was derived from their 
 agricultural pursuits; and industry, united with 
 economy, enabled them to maintain a more 
 respectable station in their neighbourhood than 
 many who were far their superiors in fortune. 
 For it must be understood, that all this while it 
 was not wholly for the want of knowing better that 
 so much dissipation prevailed amongst the Irish 
 countrysquires — and instances might occasionally 
 be found, of families who fulfilled in every respect 
 the duties of their station. Of this description 
 were Mr. Edmond Moynehan and his wife ; 
 they were examples of piety and of sobriety to 
 their humble neighbours— they were active 
 benefactors of the poor around them ; and in a 
 country where the wealthier gentry seldom made 
 their appearance, it was an incalculable advan- 
 tage to the peasantry to have even one family 
 who could in some degree supply their place as 
 counsellors and protectors. Fortunately kept at
 
 90 THE BAKBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 a distance from the coarse corruption that sur- 
 rounded them, by their own good sense, they were 
 still more fortunate in living at a distance from 
 the more dangerous, because more subtle and less 
 perceptible corruption that prevailed then, as at 
 all times, in town and cities. They were happy 
 even in their ignorance how far the human mind 
 and heart can go astray when once they have for- 
 saken the path of simple truth. It was true they 
 saw vice around them, but they never yet had 
 seen it justified — they saw the duties of religion 
 neglected, but they did not know that the mind 
 can even be brought to vindicate such neglect, 
 and give it specious names. They maintained 
 their plain and simple course at peace with 
 themselves and heaven, and in goodwill with the 
 whole world. Of politics (in the angry sense of 
 the word) or of controversy, they heard and 
 thought but little, and maintained a primitive 
 simplicity as well in their mode of thinking as 
 of living. They fasted on all the fast days, and 
 they kept all the holidays holy. They never
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 91 
 
 troubled their heads about new points of doc- 
 trine, and thus were left more leisure to practise 
 what they already believed. 
 
 Perhaps it would be difficult for a person 
 engulfed in the vortex of the world, and all 
 its cares, absorbed by the anxieties of commerce, 
 the intrigues of love or of ambition, or con- 
 sumed by the devouring thirst of fame or 
 power, to imagine the happiness which the 
 Moynehans up to this period had enjoyed 
 in their tranquil river-side life. It was not 
 slothful, for the Moynehans were stirring with 
 the dawn, and till sunset, occupied in some 
 charitable or useful avocation. Mr. Moy- 
 nehan in the fields with his workmen, or 
 on the road to some neighbouring fair, his 
 fair help-mate in the dairy, or superin- 
 tending her flax-dressers in the open barn, 
 or hearing her son Edmond read aloud 
 while she knitted a stocking at the parlour 
 window. Neither was it a solicitous life, 
 for their attachment to the world or its
 
 92 THE BAllBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 possessions was not so strong as to awaken 
 anxiety ; the solitude in which they lived kept 
 reflection awake, and no artificial rapidity of 
 profit, or intoxicating violence of pleasure, ever 
 seduced them into forgetfulness of the real value 
 of mortal hope or joy. Even their love for 
 each other was, we fear, such as would by no 
 means satisfy a real votary of romance. That 
 poetical gentleman, who said he knew only two 
 places in the universe — viz., where his mistress 
 was, and where she was not, would have looked 
 with scorn upon the affection of Mrs. Moynehan 
 for she knew a great many places besides that 
 where her husband was; and yet it was not 
 saying a little to assert that after ten years of 
 wedded life, there was no other which she 
 liked so well. 
 
 If, amongst the many who occasionally shared 
 the hospitality of Moynehan's cottage, some 
 votary of passion made his appearance, the life 
 of these simple people must have appeared to 
 him insipid, dull, and monotonous in the extreme.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 93 
 
 There was nothing in their tranquil pastoral 
 enjoyments at all so highly seasoned as to 
 satisfy a devotee of pleasure, and he would have 
 attributed to the nature of the life they led the 
 insipidity which was wholly owing to the defect 
 in his own sense. But to the Moynehans, 
 whose relish of the pleasures of innocence had 
 never been dulled by any acquaintance with 
 those of vice, it did not appear that there 
 was any thing so tasteless or so burthensome 
 in their daily life. They found health in the 
 morning air, that blew freshly from the sunlit 
 river, and relief from weariness of mind in the 
 occupations of their farm. The undecorated 
 exhortation of their parish clergyman on a 
 Sunday, had with them more weight than all 
 the eloquence and learning of a metropolitan 
 pulpit upon the ears of metropolitan hearers. 
 It might be said of them with truth, that they 
 thought more with the heart than with the head, 
 and if they had not the learning neither had 
 they the pride of the philosopher.
 
 94 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 From this humble, simple life it was that the 
 Moynehans were called to the inheritance of Tipsy 
 Hall. The news came upon them somewhat unex- 
 pectedly, and it might be almost said without a 
 welcome. The cottage in which they now lived 
 had been their residence since they were united. 
 It was the birth-place of their only son, and 
 the scene of their calm and prosperous industry 
 during so many happy years. The accession, 
 however, to such a property as that of Tipsy Hall 
 was too important an addition to their fortune 
 to be neglected, and they prepared for a removal. 
 Mrs. Moynehan, in particular, had a strong 
 misgiving with respect to this migration, and 
 felt as if every knock of the carpenters, as 
 they were taking the furniture to pieces for the 
 purpose of conveyance, sounded the knell of 
 their departing happiness. There was no use, 
 however, indulging, much less communicating, 
 such fancies. 
 
 The day appointed for their removal came, 
 and a number of weeping friends and neigh-
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 95 
 
 bours assembled to bid farewell to their long 
 established associates and companions. An 
 elderly lady, who had often filled the office of 
 counsellor and instructor to Mrs. Moynehan on 
 critical occasions, and who had not been sparing 
 of her rhetoric upon the present, gave so many 
 hints with respect to a family of the name of 
 Tobin, living within the distance of two miles 
 of Tipsy Hall, that Mrs. Moynehan became 
 quite alarmed. 
 
 *' I do not want to make you uneasy, my dear 
 by what I say," concluded this sagacious friend, 
 *'but to make you cautious in time. I know 
 how little relish Mr. Moynehan has for such 
 society, indeed he*'s an angel of a man, where 
 will you meet such another ? but men are men 
 after all — the best are frail, and the Tobins are 
 enough to corrupt a monastery."" 
 
 "Is it possible ? " said Mrs. Moynehan, 
 astonished, " I thought Mr. Tobin was a magis- 
 trate of the county. Does he not sit at the 
 Quarter Sessions ? "
 
 96 THE BARBER OF BANTBY. 
 
 '* He does — and a pretty Magistrate he is — 
 but I don't choose to say any more at present. 
 I have said enough to put you on your guard, 
 and that was my only reason for speaking at all. 
 The Tobins are of a very good family no doubt, 
 and have excellent connexions, but it is a wild 
 house ! " 
 
 Mrs. Moynehan thanked her friend for those 
 suggestions-, which she promised to bear in mind. 
 Soon after they set out for Tipsy Hall, their 
 mode of conveyance being suited rather to their 
 past than to their present fortunes. It consisted 
 of a truckle or low cart with a block of timber 
 for an axle-tree. On this were laid a feather- 
 bed and quilt, on which Mrs. Moynehan and 
 her son Edmond, a child about six years of age, 
 took their seat, while Neddy Shaughnessy, " the 
 boy," who acted as charioteer to the group, sat 
 with his legs dangling from a corner. Behind 
 rode Mr. Moynehan on horseback, musing much 
 upon their sudden change of fortune. Even 
 already his helpmate could imagine that she ^
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 97 
 
 beheld a shade of solicitude darkenino; over his 
 features, which, until this unhoped improvement 
 had taken place in their circumstances, were as 
 clear and unruffled as a noontide lake. 
 
 It was evening when they entered the small 
 demesne of Tipsy Hall ; Mr. Moynehan still 
 looking more serious than he had ever done in 
 his life before, and his soft-hearted companion 
 crying as if some terrible misfortune had be- 
 fallen them both. Her grief attracted the 
 interest of Rick Lillis, who at first entertained 
 some involuntary prejudice against his new 
 master and mistress. In the course of the 
 evening, while he was busy in arranging some 
 furniture under her directions, she took an op- 
 portunity of making some inquiries about the 
 Tobins. 
 
 " A family o' the name of Tobin, ma'am, 
 plase your honour ? '' echoed Lillis, when he 
 had heard her question. " There is indeed 
 then, an' there's none has betther rason to know 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 THE BAKBEU OF BANTRY. 
 
 it than the mastber's family; an' if you plase, 
 ma'am, plase your honour, Mrs, Moynehan, 
 since you axed me the word, I'll tell you my 
 mind o' them people, not out of any ill-will to 
 them, but the way you'd put the masther upon 
 his guard again 'em, in case they'd be borrowin' 
 money or inveigiin' him any way to his hurt. 
 Them Tobins, ma'am, arn't right people, with 
 submission to you. They'd borry money an' 
 they wouldn't pay it, an' if they couldn't borry, 
 there's rason for sayin' that they'd go some 
 other way about gettin' it besides what would 
 be proper. You'd lend em a hundhert pounds, 
 an' when you'd go to ax for your money, afther, 
 in place o' gettin' it, or thanks, instead of it 
 may be 'tis to challenge you to fight 'em they 
 would — they're such Jezvellers, lord save us ! 
 There isn't such jeiiPlyery goin' on all over 
 Ireland, ma'am, as what they goes on with ; 
 a very black, terrible family, ma'am." 
 
 In the course of the ensuing fortnight, nearly
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 99 
 
 all the families within three miles round, who 
 had any pretensions to gentility, had visited 
 the new proprietors of Tipsy Hall. The 
 Moynehans had never before received so much 
 attention, or had to digest so large a quantity 
 of civil flattery. The Tobins were almost the 
 only family that might have been expected, and 
 yet did not make their appearance. Never, for 
 a considerable time, was there so thorough a 
 revolution effected in any establishment as in 
 that of Tipsy Hall. During the ensuing two 
 years, the mansion hardly knew itself; every 
 thing was done in order ; the traces of a sober 
 and careful management were visible in all 
 quarters. They did not here consider it a 
 part of hospitality to make their guests get 
 drunk at their table, and it was remarked by 
 Rick Lillis, that it was the first time since the 
 foundation stone of the building had been laid 
 that two successive years had rolled over the 
 oof of Tipsy Hall, without its being possible 
 for any body to say with truth that he had 
 
 F 2
 
 100 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 seen a human being '' tossicated " within its 
 walls, or a tradesman leave the door with his 
 bill unpaid. 
 
 Notwithstanding all that Mrs. Moynehan 
 could do to prevent such an occurrence, her 
 husband became acquainted with the Tobins 
 and relished their acquaintance. Their wit, 
 their fun, their show of good nature and of 
 hospitality, could not fail to win some favour 
 from one who really was what they affected . 
 to be. There are many persons whose very 
 virtues, or at least dispositions for virtue, are 
 often sources of strong temptation to themselves. 
 Mr. Moyn8han''s frank and unsuspecting nature, 
 and social temperament were to him occasions 
 of imminent danger. The Tobins talked so 
 pleasantly, and so good-humouredly, and so 
 good-naturedly, that he found it impossible not 
 to like their company. Of the justice of this 
 opinion, Mrs Moynehan could not form any 
 correct idea, for as there were no females 
 amongst the family at Castle Tobin, she had
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 101 
 
 never set her foot within its precincts. Her 
 opinion, at first so unfavourable, became some- 
 thing more tolerant, however, when, after 
 several months had passed, she could not 
 recollect that her husband had once returned 
 home with any symptom of those excesses about 
 him, which she had been taught to apprehend 
 at Castle Tobin. 
 
 In another way, however, their acquaintance 
 was not so advantageous. On two or three 
 occasions, old Mr. Tobin had found it neces- 
 sary to trespass on his friend Moynehan's purge, 
 to an amount already rather embarrassing ; 
 and with what the latter could not help thinking 
 the best intentions in the world, these moneys 
 had never been repaid. Mrs. Moynehan, how- 
 ever, as soon as she understood what had taken 
 place, was determined to provide against a re- 
 currence of the same misfortune. She entered 
 upon the subject one morning at the breakfast 
 table, and after a severe lecture on the injustice 
 he was committing towards their child, as well
 
 102 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 as to those who had better claims on his assist- 
 ance, obliged liim to " make a vow" that he never 
 again would lend money to the Tobins without 
 her concurrence. He did so, and all was peace 
 for some time after. 
 
 All hitherto was well with Mr. Moynehan. 
 He had a property, moderate, it is true, but to 
 which his industry was daily adding something ; 
 a wife who knew Buchan"'s Domestic Medicine, 
 in the country phrase, from cover to cover, and in 
 whose eyes he was, without exception, the greatest 
 man in Ireland ; a promising boy, acknowledged 
 on all hands to be the "living image"" of him- 
 self, and a tenantry who looked up to him for 
 assistance and protection, and were never disap- 
 pointed. He rose at morning with the sun 
 dressed himself briskly, was not ashamed to 
 go down on his knees to return thanks for 
 the past, and petition for the future; nor did 
 he think himself a whit the worse for never 
 omitting this duty either at night or morning. 
 He kept a hospitable board ; a door " that
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 103 
 
 opened with a latch ; " a bed for the traveller ; 
 a warm fireside and a wholesome dinner for the 
 humble mendicant. When he had discharged 
 his duties his conscience was at rest, and if 
 any of his neighbours at such a time sought 
 to make amends for their own delinquencies 
 by lecturing him, he would listen in silence, 
 contented with having done what other people 
 only seemed to talk about. 
 
 This life of tranquillity and goodness, how- 
 ever, was doomed to meet with a singular reverse. 
 The fiend, 
 
 grown wiser than of yore, 
 
 Who tempts by making rich, not making poor, 
 
 put it into the head of some official functionary 
 of the state to appoint Mr. Moynehan a col- 
 lector of assessed taxes in his district, and into 
 Mr. Moynehan's to accept it. What the publi- 
 cans were in the ancient Roman provinces, the 
 tax-collectors were at a certain period in " our 
 own green isle ; " that is to say persons well paid 
 for taking pains to make their own fortunes. A
 
 104 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 few years before, the proprietor of Tipsy Hall 
 might have thought such a situation not worthy 
 of his acceptance, but a considerable alteration 
 bad taken place in the affairs of that establish- 
 ment. It was therefore with no little satis- 
 faction that Mr. Moynehan received the appoint- 
 ment, wholly ignorant as he was of the innumer- 
 able risks by which it was attended. He had 
 heretofore been honest, and he did not see why 
 a man might not be an honest tax-gatherer as 
 well as an honest farmer. Accordingly he set 
 about the duties of his new office with alacrity. 
 
 An eminent statesman, some years since, when 
 about to announce the intention of government 
 to repeal the assessed taxes in Ireland, assigned 
 as one of the motives which influenced ministers 
 in coming to such a resolution — " that they were 
 found to fall very heavy upon those country gen- 
 tlemen who were kind enough to pay them.'''' 
 Mr. Moynehan found few of his neighbours so 
 disposed. It was true, nothing could be more 
 frank and hospitable than the manner in which
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 105 
 
 they all received him when he came to their 
 houses. They loaded him with attentions. The 
 best bed in the house and the best wine in the 
 cellar were at his service. They had company to 
 meet him, and they had a thousand little things 
 which he might want, and which they would find 
 an opportunity to send him. But few articles 
 liable to the kino-'s taxes could he find in 
 their possession. They had no windows — no 
 hearths — no cows — no carriages ; all the wealth 
 which, on the previous evening, had been dis- 
 played with so much munificence, had dwindled 
 on the following morning into absolute poverty. 
 Mr. Moynehan was thunderstruck — but he could 
 not help himself. His predecessors in office, he 
 was told, had pursued a certain line of conduct, 
 and he must not make himself singular. On one 
 occasion his preciseness was near involving him 
 in a serious affair. There was no carriage, he 
 was told ; and as he knew that truth towards a 
 tax-gatherer was not here regarded with much 
 scrupulosity, he asked to see the coach-house.
 
 106 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 The gentleman bowed in assent, but signified at 
 the same time that he considered such conduct 
 as an impeachment of his veracity. Mr. Moyne- 
 han did not persist, and he was favoured in a few 
 days with a cordial salute from this veracious 
 gentleman as he passed him in a dashing cabri- 
 olet. It was indeed a thing almost impossible 
 (so irresistible is the influence of bad example) to 
 hold the office and to keep the hands untainted — 
 
 And things impossible can't be, 
 And never, never come to pass. 
 
 Temptation effected for Mr. Moynehan what it 
 has effected for millions. It wrought his fall. 
 Bribes were poured in upon him from all quarters. 
 One supplied his table — one his manger — ano- 
 ther his bin — a fourth his cellar — a hundred his 
 pantry- - Every house in the country had a con- 
 vivial board, a comfortable chamber, and a blaz- 
 ing fire for the tax-gatherer. The least he felt 
 to be expected of him, in return for these civi- 
 lities was (like the unjust steward) where one 
 owed a hundred bushels to the state, to take his
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 107 
 
 pen and write down fifty, or perhaps not a fifth 
 of that, and it often happened that even that 
 fifth remained unpaid. 
 
 Those who have once enjoyed the peace of a 
 pure conscience, cannot find repose in its opposite. 
 Neither the influence of an example that seemed 
 almost universal, nor the stunted maxims of con- 
 venience by which the tax-gatherer sought to 
 satisfy his mind, could make his new hfe happy. 
 " What signifies it when the loss is divided 
 amongst so many that they can't feel it?'' — 
 " Sure every body is doing it."—" What good 
 would it do to have one out of a thousand go 
 against all the rest r " Such were the arguments 
 by which at moments of reflection he resisted 
 the warnings of conscience, but which could 
 not wholly silence its reproaches. We grieve 
 to relate the issue. When peace of mind is lost, 
 men generally seek to supply its place by false 
 excitement, and so did Mr. Moynehan. He 
 found it easier to divert his attention from the 
 consideration of his evil ways, than to take up
 
 108 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 a vigorous resolution and amend them. Accor- 
 ingly, Moynehan, the pattern of sobriety and 
 decorum to his neighbourhood, fell by degrees 
 into habits of vulgar dissipation. He seldom 
 now returned sober to his home. His rational 
 hours were hours of hurry, and fretfulness, and 
 impatience, and he now was only mirthful when 
 reason had been drowned in whiskey punch. 
 
 It must not be supposed, however, that this 
 course was deliberately chosen by Mr. Moyne- ' 
 han; on the contrary there was scarcely a morning 
 on which he did not renew his determination of 
 altering his life, and scarce an evening after 
 which this determination did not require a 
 renewal. 
 
 " Say no more, Mary, say no more," he said, 
 after Mrs. Moneyhan had given utterance to 
 one of her customary morning counsels ; " I 
 tell you this is the last night I will ever dine 
 away from home." 
 
 " You have often said that." 
 
 " Well, I will fulfil it now."
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 109 
 
 " Take my advice, Edmond, and do not dine 
 to-night at Castle Tobin. You know that you 
 no longer leave that house in the condition that 
 you ought. The place and the company would 
 overcome all the resolutions that were ever 
 made. Oh, my dear husband, you are putting 
 an end to all our happiness, and, what is worse, 
 you are securing your own destruction. Do, 
 Edmond, be guided at last, by one who loves 
 you better than ever the Tobins did. Do not 
 continue to destroy our comfort and the hopes 
 of our poor child ; I wish we never had left our 
 little cottage on the Shannon side ; I wish we 
 never had heard of this estate, that has brought 
 sin and ruin to our doors. Will you not grant 
 me this request, my dear husband ? Will you 
 not look to yourself before it is too late ? You 
 dare not think of continuing such a life, and 
 how can you tell what time may be given you 
 for amending it." 
 
 " Say no more, now, Mary, — say no more."'' 
 " But I must say more, Edmond, until I have
 
 110 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 your promise. I am more than ever anxious on 
 this morning, for I had the most dreadful dreams 
 last night, about you and the Tobins.**' 
 
 " Pooh, pooh, nonsense."" 
 
 " It may be so, and I trust it is so ; but I can't 
 help thinking of it. I thought that they made 
 you stay to dine at Castle Tobin, and that after 
 making you drunk they were murdering you in 
 a private room, while you cried out to them to 
 give you time for repentance, but they refused 
 it.'' As she said this, she cast herself weeping 
 upon her husband's neck. 
 
 " What folly, my dear ! " exclaimed Moynehan 
 in an angry tone. " I wonder you could pay 
 attention to such silly thoughts ; to talk in that 
 manner of the Tobins ! some of the best fellows 
 breathing, and the warmest friends I have." 
 
 " If they were your real friends," said Mrs. 
 Moynehan, " they would not do so much as 
 they are doing to bring about your ruin. We 
 were happy until we knew them. Listen tome, 
 Edmond. You have already done us grievous
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. Ill 
 
 injury — to me and to your child, and, worst of 
 all, to yourself. Stop where you are, and go 
 no fartlier on the road to ruin. Begin this 
 instant, by resolving not to go to-night to Castle 
 Tobin, and by keeping that good resolution.'' 
 " But I promised Tobin, my dear." 
 " Break that promise, and come home," said 
 Mrs. Moynehan. " If you expect to change 
 your whole plan of life without meeting any 
 difficulties, or without being obliged to use 
 any violence to your own wishes, or to those 
 of others, you are mistaken, I can assure yotJ. 
 Make this one effort resolutely, and the next 
 
 will be easy." 
 
 " Pooh, my dear ; is it not a great deal better 
 to keep this one promise, since I have made it, 
 and to-morrow, and for the future, to take care 
 to make no promise at all ? " 
 
 " It is not," said Mrs. Moynehan. " Every 
 new sin makes the bad habit twice as strong; 
 you will find it harder to refuse promising to- 
 morrow, than you do to break the promise you
 
 112 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 have made to-day. Remain at home this even- 
 ing, Edmond, and begin what you dare not 
 think of leaving unbegun for ever."" 
 
 The tax-gatherer paused to meditate. Reform 
 and be at peace ! A happy prospect ; but how 
 enormous was the mountain of guilt that now 
 lay between him and his past condition. All 
 that he had ever pilfered from the public purse 
 must be restored. That awful word "Restitu- 
 tion," had more of terror in it than all beside. 
 What ! condemn himself to poverty and want 
 for all his future life, in order to refund the 
 thousands at the embezzlement of which he 
 had connived ! Why, two long lives, spent in 
 the closest economy, would not enable him to 
 repay one half the amount. Still, justice con- 
 fronted him with her immutable countenance ; 
 it must be done, or he was lost for ever. 
 
 May one be pardoned and retain the offence ? 
 
 He struggled with the uncomfortable conviction ; 
 and while he did so, the prospect of Mr. Tobin's 
 
 %
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 113 
 
 jovial board, the pleasant laughing faces and 
 inspiring cheer by which it was to be enlivened, 
 came before him, and the words " lost for ever !" 
 died away on the horizon of his thought with a 
 faint and feeble echo. 
 
 While he was dehberating, the hour arrived 
 for his departure. 
 
 " No," he said to his wife, " I cannot, and I 
 will not, break my promise of dining with 
 Tobin ; but this is the last evening I will ever 
 dine away from home. Mind now — 1 have said 
 it, and you shall find that I will keep my word.*' 
 
 Mrs. Money han said no more, but a look of 
 agony told her disappointment. On entering 
 the hall he found a number of people assembled 
 at his levee, as usual. 
 
 " My master's compliments, Sir, with a pair 
 of young turkeys, for Mrs. Moynehan ." 
 
 *' My master's compliments, Sir, with a bag 
 of oats." 
 
 " My master's compliments, Sir, an' he has 
 the grass o' the cow ready now, that he was 
 talkin' of."
 
 114 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 " My master's compliments, Sir 
 
 II 
 
 And a dozen other presents, which there was 
 no refusing. The messengers were dismissed 
 with suitable answers, and the state was 
 defrauded of a fresh portion of its revenue. 
 Open-eyed, Mr. Moynehan consented to the 
 peculation of some fifty or sixty pounds addi- 
 tional from his Majesty'^s exchequer. And his 
 only apology was custom. Every body did 
 it ! Devouring custom ! 
 
 But all was now ready for his departure, and 
 Mrs. Moynehan's deeper anxieties were swal- 
 lowed up in providing for his personal comfort. 
 
 " Remember, Edmond, if any thing should 
 oblige you to spend the night at Castle Tobin, 
 to look well to the sheets. You remember the 
 last night you slept there that you were near 
 bringing home your death of cold. If you just 
 hold the sheet that way to your cheek for half a 
 minute, (taking a corner of her apron to suit the 
 action to the word), you can tell at once whether 
 it is damp or not. Here's the Opodeldoc — and the 
 thing for the tooth-ache. — Nelly ! Nel— ly !"
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 115 
 
 " Goin', goin', ma'am." 
 
 " Where's the comforter ? '' 
 
 " 'Tis in the pocket o' the masther's loody, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " That terrible stumbhng mare ! I don't 
 know how you can trust your hfe to her. But 
 you men absolutely don't know what fear is. 
 Nelly ! Nel-ly !" 
 
 "^ Goin', ma'am, goin' !" 
 
 " Where's the child ?" 
 
 " Masther Mun, where are you, sir? Don't 
 you hear yourself callin' ?" ♦ 
 
 The child was brought out to receive his 
 father's customary parting caress. Many further 
 additions were made to those 
 
 lengthened sage advices 
 
 The husband fra the wife despises, 
 
 before the tax-gatherer mounted his horse and 
 rode away. Trotting briskly down the avenue 
 which led to the high road, a few hours' easy 
 riding brought him to the district in which his 
 business for the day was principally cast. It is
 
 116 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 not necessary to follow him through the detail 
 of all his occupations. He collected a tolerable 
 sum at the houses of the neighbouring gentry, 
 and in disregard of Mrs. Moynehan's '* counsels 
 sweet," took the road to Castle Tobin. 
 
 For a long time after they had left the main 
 road, he was accompanied by Rick Lillis, who 
 still filled the same situation in the employment 
 of Mr Moynehan, that Faustulus did in that of 
 the Latin monarch. The evening had a mena- - 
 cing look, and both occasionally glanced at the 
 gathering masses of vapour over head without 
 venturing to exchange their apprehensions. At 
 length, the following conversation arose between 
 them, 
 
 " Masther." 
 
 " Well, Rick ? " 
 
 " Will you tell me, sir, if you plase, how 
 much money you may have about you at this 
 pras'nt moment .P''* 
 
 " Why do you ask ?'* 
 
 " Oh, for rasons o** my own."
 
 THE BARBEll OF BANTRY. 117 
 
 " I have near five hundred pounds." 
 
 *' 'Tis a dale o' money ,^' said Rick. 
 
 '' It is, indeed." 
 
 " This is a lonesome road, masther.*" 
 
 " 'Tis, Rick." 
 
 " An' do you mane to come back this way to- 
 night from Castle Tobin, sir?" 
 
 " If I should not be prevailed upon to remain 
 for the night." 
 
 Rick looked dissatisfied. 
 
 " 'Twas but a poor choice," said he, ''between 
 the bog and the clifF. Fm not over satisfied; 
 master, about the propriety of your having so 
 much money about you late at night, an' goin' 
 such a lonesome road. Sure you know, sir, 
 'twouldn't be wishin^ to you for a dale, you lost 
 that money to-night."" 
 
 " 'Twould not he wishing to me, Rick, for 
 near five hundred pounds." 
 
 " Ayah, it's no joke at all, masther, nor no 
 laughin' matther either. I declare I don't like 
 the thoughts of it, at all. I tell you there's bad
 
 118 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 boys about these mountains. I"'d just as soon 
 expect that one o' them lads would let a handful 
 o"* money that way pass him by, as I would to 
 see a cat left alone with a pail o' milk, an' to have 
 no call to it." 
 
 " Don't you know, Rick, that in the reign of 
 Brian Boroimhe, a young lady travelled on foot 
 through Ireland, with a gold ring on the top 
 of a long wand, to show that there was no such 
 thing as a rogue in the whole island ? " 
 
 " Why then, sir, sonuher to the bit of that 
 lady ever set foot in these mountains, or if she 
 did, it's more than she could do these times. 
 Be said by me, sir, an' go home safe an' sound 
 with your money, while you have it." 
 
 " There is no danger, Rick," said his master, 
 " for if I should not choose to encounter the 
 midnight journey, I can take a bed at Castle 
 Tobin." 
 
 " Why then, Fll tell you my mind out o' the 
 face," said Rick ; " that's a plan I don't like one 
 bit betther than the other. The Lord forgive 
 
 ■%
 
 THE BARBEE OF BANTRY. 119 
 
 US, 'tisn't in my way, nor any one else's, to be 
 spakin' ill o"* those that arn't convanient to defind 
 themselves ; but there'*s rasons for what I say. 
 I'd be very unfond, if I had it, to pass a night 
 at Castle Tobin with such a sum o' money as 
 that. Them Tobins have a bad report in the 
 counthry : they're needy, bould, daarin' young 
 men (an' heaven forgive me if I belies 'em), that 
 would almost rob a priest. I declare, I'd rather 
 of the two take the road itself, bad as it is. An' 
 see, along with that, the night is threat'nin'." 
 
 Mr. Moynehan could not help feeling struck,^ 
 in spite of himself, with the double warning that 
 was given him by both his wife and servant. 
 The reports of robberies, and even worse, among 
 these lonesome hills, were not unfrequent ; and 
 it would, he knew, be certain and total ruin to 
 him and his family to lose such a sum as he at 
 present held in his saddle-bags. Such, however, 
 is the infatuation of habit, that he could not 
 resist the temptation of spending a jovial even- 
 ing with the Tobins, renewing, nevertheless,
 
 120 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 his determination not to suffer any persuasion to 
 lead him, on this night at least, beyond the 
 bounds of perfect moderation. It was true he 
 felt some uncomfortable twinges of conscience 
 when he recollected certain immutable truths 
 which he was in the habit of hearing more 
 frequently than he heeded their significance ; 
 such as that he who wills the cause ^ wills the 
 effect^ and that he v)ho zvould fiy the fault must 
 fly the temptation^ and that it is impossible to 
 court the occasion and avoid the consequence ; 
 with other maxims of the kind, which, when 
 they pressed in too troublesome a manner upon 
 his recollection, he strove to banish by putting 
 spurs to his mare, or entering into further con- 
 versation with Rick Lillis, as he strove to keep 
 pace with his master. 
 
 By this time the night had begun to put its 
 menaces into execution. The wind, now risen 
 high, came howling up the mountain road behind 
 them, and rustling in the fields of rushes and 
 bog myrtle which skirted the lonesome track.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 121 
 
 The clouds, with outline faintly visible in the 
 gathering darkness, drove rapidly over head, as 
 if scared by some terrific power rising far behind 
 on the horizon. Large drops of rain gave 
 warning of the approaching deluge, and both 
 travellers fastened a few additional buttons, and 
 put their horses to a quicker pace. Before the 
 storm had burst in all its terror, they had 
 reached a crossway where it had been arranged 
 that Lillis should take the homeward road, while 
 Mr. Moynehan continued his route to Castle 
 Tobin. 
 
 VOL. r. G
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It is necessary that we anticipate the arrival 
 of the tax-gatherer, in order to give with all the 
 brevity consistent with clearness of narrative, 
 an account of the company who awaited him. 
 
 There was, in the first place, Mr. Tobin, the 
 first of the family who had made his appearance 
 in the country, and who had built the Castle to 
 which he gave his family name. This castle, it 
 should be stated, was no castle at all, but a plain 
 house, dignified with that sounding name, from 
 its occupying what was once the site of a strong- 
 hold of the old Earls of Desmond. Busy and 
 malicious tongues asserted that Mr. Tobin had 
 left his native country charged with the crime of 
 Marmion, but nothing positive was ever known 
 upon the subject.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 123 
 
 One of his first acts was not calculated to 
 conciliate the goodwill of the country people. In 
 order to procure materials for the building, he 
 took down the remaining walls of an old 
 monastery, which stood at a little distance, 
 rather than, at a slight increase of expense, be 
 at the pains of drawing stones from a neigh- 
 bouring quarry. And it was told of him as an 
 instance of retributive justice, that in giving 
 directions respecting the shaping of one of those 
 stones, a splinter flew off, and, striking him in 
 the right eye, deprived him for ever of the bene- 
 fit of that organ. 
 
 There was one peculiarity in the site chosen 
 for the edifice which is worth observing. It was 
 so constructed that both the principal sitting- 
 room and bed-room were in no less than three 
 different counties, so that in case a bailiff should 
 make his way unexpectedly into either apart- 
 ment, Mr. Tobin, by shifting his chair from one 
 side of the parlour fire-place to another, could 
 plead an illegal caption, or if invaded at his 
 
 G 2
 
 124 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 dressing table, might jump into bed and defy 
 the law and its officer together. 
 
 He had two sons, who were not blessed with 
 an equal share of the parental affection. The 
 idea had got into the heads of Mr. Tobin and 
 his lady that the eldest boy was not their son, 
 but a changeling, and the unhappy child was a 
 sufferer to this wretched prejudice. They made 
 him do the work of a menial in their kitchen, 
 while the second was elevated to the place and 
 privileges of the first born. It was perhaps 
 fortunate for the elder, in some respects, as he 
 became the only amiable member of his family. 
 Wisdom, like grief, says somebody, is an affec- 
 tion of the mind, and not a thing to be taught 
 by lectures. It was so the elder Tobin learnt 
 it, but the unkindness of his friends affected his 
 health, and he died young. 
 
 He was not much missed at Castle Tobin, 
 but the wicked preference of the parents was not 
 left without some punishment. Young Tobin 
 grew up to be a fine young man, and fought, and
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 125 
 
 hunted, and drank, and gambled, and showed 
 himself in every way a real son of his father, 
 and no changeling whatsoever. And accord- 
 ingly the father doted on him. 
 
 One morning, say the historians of the neigh- 
 bourhood, Mr. Tobin saw his son going out at 
 a very early hour. He asked him where he was 
 going, and the young pcian answered carelessly 
 " no where, only up the mountains to fight a 
 duel." Whether through recklessness, or that 
 he disbelieved the young scrape-grace, the father 
 is reported to have recommended him to » take 
 the greyhounds with him, and that he might 
 have a very pretty course when it was over." 
 The son adopted the suggestion, but there was 
 no occasion for the dogs. He was brought home, 
 in less than two hours after, a corpse, to Castle 
 Tobin. 
 
 It was on the death of his wife, which followed 
 soon after, that old Tobin adopted Frank, his 
 nephew, to whom, as he was one of the company
 
 126 THE BARBEK OF BANTRYi 
 
 on this occasion, it is necessary that we direct our 
 attention for a little time. 
 
 Frank Tobin had the misfortune of being 
 
 " A self-willed imp, a grandame's child," 
 
 and was left for his education altogether to the 
 system of society in which he grew up. As to 
 restraint, he never knew what it was to have his 
 wishes contradicted in a single instance, in which 
 it was physically possible to comply with them. 
 His grandmamma, it should be known, was a 
 great lady, and had spent many years abroad, 
 where she had picked up several notions which 
 it was very hard to understand. She hated any 
 thing that people were used to. Nothing would 
 do for her either in the way of ribands or prin- 
 ciples, except it was spick-and-span new. If it 
 were possible to administer nourishment at the 
 ears, Mrs. Tobin never would have wished to 
 see the mouth employed for that purpose ; and 
 one would think to hear her speak that it was
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRYi 127 
 
 mere prejudice made all mankind persevere in 
 walking erect instead of creeping on all-fours, 
 In a word, good Mrs. Tobin was rather a char- 
 latan in her notions about educating children, 
 and master Frank Tobin was not five years old 
 before he began to turn her foible to his own 
 account ; for none are more quicksighted than 
 children in perceiving whether the individual 
 intrusted with their instruction is a quack or a 
 person of common sense. Though not alto- 
 gether an ill-natured child, he became, from Mrs. 
 Tobin's system of passive compliance, one of the 
 greatest pests and tyrants that ever plagued a 
 household. His father and mother, who had 
 never travelled, did not altogether rehsh Mrs. 
 Tobin 's plans, but they were afraid to interfere. 
 His grandmother was rich, and they thought she 
 would make Frank her heir. 
 
 But she died and disappointed them, as 
 Frank had disappointed her. And what was 
 now to be done ? Here was Frank, a fine gentle- 
 man, too proud to take any situation, and too
 
 128 THE BARBP^R OF BANTRY; 
 
 poor to do without it. His mode of life was 
 now somewhat curious. He used to spend a 
 great part of the day fishing, or shooting, or 
 coursing, and the produce of his sport he for- 
 warded to the different families in the neigh- 
 bourhood with whom he was connected l)y 
 affinity or by liking. He could glaze windows, 
 and cement broken china, and mend old 
 furniture, and tune pianos, and play a little on 
 the flute, and execute sundry little offices of ' 
 that kind, which made him a welcome visiter at 
 the houses of most of his country friends. And 
 if he had confined his accomplishments to such 
 matters as these, all would have been well ; but 
 it was far otherwise. Although very good- 
 humoured at convivial meeting, and capable of 
 singing a hearty song and passing a merry joke, 
 he was plagued with an unfortunate temper, 
 which was continually involving him in disputes. 
 He had, however, by some means got the name 
 of an humourist, and his last adventure was cir- 
 culated as regularly in his own circle as the last
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 129 
 
 bon mot of a legal functionary in our own day. 
 There was scarce an Assize or Quarter Sessions 
 at which Frank Tobin had not to answer some 
 score of charges for assault and battery. A 
 child of liberty, Frank could not, from his 
 boyhood, endure any system of human law, 
 which he conceived wholly unnecessary for the 
 maintenance of society. All law and govern- 
 ment, he used to say, was a job ; a mere trick, 
 intended for the purpose of putting money into 
 the pockets of lawyers, and throwing impedi- 
 ments in the way of young fellows who were 
 " inclined for fun." It was all an invention of 
 roguish attorneys and counsellors. This theo- 
 retical antipathy to the entire system was not 
 without its practical effects ; for Frank Tobin 
 visited severely, on the persons of the individual 
 professors, when they happened to fall in his 
 way, his abstract dislike of the profession. His 
 highest game, however, in this way, were the 
 bailiffs and tipstaffs, who were sent to apprehend 
 him for his misdemeanors, or at best some 
 
 G 3
 
 150 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 Special Sessions Attorney, and with these he 
 waged perpetual and implacable war. 
 
 He was first recommended to the notice of 
 his uncle by a characteristic incident. He was 
 sauntering one day through the mountains in 
 the neighbourhood of Castle Tobin, when he 
 saw a countryman at a Uttle distance walking 
 to and fro upon a field and looking very discon- 
 solate. 
 
 " Well, my good man,''' said Frank, " what's 
 the matter with you ? " 
 
 " Ah, plase your honour, I'm destroyed. I 
 have a latificat again' that man over, an' I don't 
 know from Adam how will I take him." 
 
 He pointed to a house about twenty yards 
 distant. On the half door, which was closed, 
 rested the muzzle of a blunderbuss, and behind 
 sat the proprietor, quietly seated in his chair, and 
 seeming to wait the first hostile movement on 
 the part of his adversary. Having ascertained 
 from the man that the case was one of peculiar ^ 
 
 hardship, Frank Tobin, who was a kind of
 
 ' THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 131 
 
 knight errant in a small way, and quite as 
 ready to encounter danger in anotlier''s behalf 
 as in his own, determined to accost him. He 
 bade the man continue to walk up and down 
 while he went to seek assistance. He had not 
 gone far before he met one of his own com- 
 panions. 
 
 " Tom," said he, " have you got a stick?'' 
 
 " I have, sir." 
 
 *' Do you see that house over ?^ 
 
 ** I do, sir." 
 
 *' Well, go round and stand o"* one side tite 
 back door and when you see a man running 
 out there, knock him down." 
 
 « I will, sir." 
 
 Away went Tom, while Frank, slipping close 
 along the front of the house laid both hands 
 upon the muzzle of the blunderbuss and effect- 
 ually secured it. The fellow, as he had antici- 
 pated, ran for the back door, where Tom, with 
 great punctuality, knocked him down. Both 
 then delivered their prisoner into the hands
 
 123 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 of the man who had got what he called the 
 ** latificat,'^ while Frank said — 
 
 " That^s the way to do business, my lad, and 
 not to be looking for any of your latitats nor 
 rattle-traps neither. If you take my advice, 
 you never will have any call to the law. It 
 would be long before one of your three-and-nine- 
 penny schemers would show you how to serve 
 that bit of paper after you had got it."" 
 
 It happened that the man was a tenant of 
 his uncle, who, on hearing of the affair, took 
 Frank under bis patronage, which he still 
 continued to afford him, with some restraint, 
 however, on his favourite inclinations, as Mr. 
 Tobin's character obliged him to maintain some 
 degree of decorum towards his old foes, a cir- 
 cumstance which many thought would prey 
 upon his health. 
 
 Besides these were Will Buffer, so named 
 for his prodigious strength of limb and wonder- 
 ful agility of muscle, which almost enabled him 
 to realise the fables of Fleetfoot in the fairy
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 133 
 
 tale ; and Mr. Dungan, Frank'*s old tutor, whom 
 his grandmother had engaged for no other reasons 
 according to their humble neighbours, who are 
 often as shrewd as their superiors, than that " he 
 was just as cracked as she was herself." He had 
 some strange notions about the pronunciation of 
 the letter C, which had gone against him all 
 through life, but which he would rather die then 
 surrender. 
 
 Such were the principal individuals of the 
 company whom Mr. Moynehan was asked to 
 meet to night at Castle Tobin. 
 
 He was received with a tumult of delight, 
 Frank Tobin undertaking, when they had sat 
 down, to make him acquainted with the people 
 in the room. 
 
 " That^s Will Buffer, sitting near my uncle. 
 Did you ever meet Will Buffer before ? He's 
 one of the ablest fellows in Ireland. I saw 
 him lift a deal table with his teeth. He can 
 somerset over his horse. You never saw such 
 a smart fellow. He can run like the wind."
 
 134 THE BARBER OF BANTRYi 
 
 " And who is that next your father?'*' 
 " That ! Oh, that's Tom Goggin. You'll 
 soon know who Tom Goggin is. He's a great 
 wit. You never saw a fellow tell such stories, 
 nor say such good things as Tom. He'd make 
 you split your sides laughing, listening to him." 
 There was something in the appearance of 
 Tom Goggin and the Buffer which Mr. 
 Moynehan did not altogether relish, nor was 
 his prejudice removed by the manners of both ' 
 in the course of the evening. The Buffer was one 
 of those characters occasionally to be met in the 
 Ireland of that day — rare, we believe, in our own. 
 He had just enough of the gentleman in his 
 appearance to form a convenient mask for the 
 bully, which was his real character. With an 
 appearance of hotheaded impetuosity, he had 
 underneath a fund of low and selfish cunning. 
 He knew perfectly to whom he might be rude, and 
 in what quarter his ignorant contradictions might 
 be hurled with impunity ; but no one had ever 
 caught him playing off the bully towards any one
 
 1:HE BARBER OF BA'NTllT. 135 
 
 who was capable of affording him a dinner, and 
 bed, or from whom he might at any time calculate 
 upon a seasonable loan of money. With such 
 persons he was content to be a good-humoured 
 and unresisting butt, a degree of servility for 
 for which he compensated to his wounded pride 
 by unprovoked and invariable insolence to all 
 those individuals from whom he expected nothing, 
 because they had nothing to afford. Incapable 
 either by any natural or acquired superiority of 
 mind of attracting the attention of a well-edu- 
 cated circle, he usually opened his conversation by 
 a direct contradiction of the last speaker ; always 
 provided that last speaker were not a person 
 from whom he had anything to hope for. 
 
 Nor was the wit in the least degree more pre- 
 possessing. Tom Goggin's forte was a horse- 
 laugh ; it was almost all that he could do in the 
 way of social communion, and accordingly his 
 single faculty was put to frequent use. He 
 might be said to have laughed his way through 
 life. Whenever he said what he meant for a
 
 136 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 good thing, he chorused the effort with a hearty 
 laugh, and his companions had gradually fallen 
 into the habit of joining him, until at length he 
 got the reputation of a wit. Probably his 
 hearers thought no one had a better right to 
 know what a joke was worth than the man who 
 had made it. But Tom Goggin's faculty of 
 laughing served him in many other ways. It 
 was just as useful to him in applauding another's 
 joke, as in procuring sympathy for his own. If ' 
 Tom had injured your reputation, and that you 
 remonstrated with him about it, he laughed until 
 it became almost impossible to avoid joining 
 him. If he had purloined your great coat or 
 umbrella by way of joke, and you reclaimed 
 your property, he would laugh, and laugh, and 
 laugh until you gave up all hope of getting an 
 answer from him. If you were fool enough to 
 lose temper, and set about chastising him, Tom 
 would still laugh, and it was ten to one, if you 
 were not on your guard, but he would have the 
 whole country laughing at you too.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. ]37 
 
 Notwithstanding all this fun, there was some- 
 thing, as we have said, in Tom's countenance 
 which the tax-gatherer did not rehsh. There 
 was more, he thought, of meanness, than of 
 either good-humour or good-nature, in all this 
 laughter, and whilst he observed the half-know- 
 ing leer which he sent around the room as he 
 gave vent to one of his good things, he felt less 
 inclined to laugh, than to exclaim with honest 
 Dogberry, " Friend, hold thy peace ; I do not 
 like thy look, I promise thee." 
 
 The evening, nevertheless, rolled pleasantly, 
 away, and the tax-gatherer was tempted more 
 than once to overstep the bounds which he had 
 prescribed to himself on leaving home. For a 
 long time, however, he restrained himself, nor 
 was it until late that habit and the occasion 
 overcame his prudence. It was observed that 
 when he had done so, although he soon entered 
 fully and even wildly into the revel spirit of the 
 night, there was something strange and peculiar 
 in his manner during the whole evening. He
 
 138 THE BARBER OF BANTRY; 
 
 was fitful in his mirth, and his loudest and most 
 boisterous bursts of hilarity were succeeded by 
 long fits of absence and absorbing silence, as if 
 he were on the eve of some enterprise in which 
 the fortunes of his life were interested. 
 
 The truth was, that the recollection of his 
 gold, the warnings of his wife and Rick, and his 
 prejudice against the new guests, to whom he 
 had to-night been introduced, made Moynehan 
 anxious to see the money safe at Tipsy Hall. 
 Accordingly, about midnight, and in the midst 
 of a wild bacchanalian uproar, he astonished his 
 host and bottle-companions by suddenly rising, 
 and declaring his intention of going home. 
 Never did a proposition excite more general 
 indignation. Never had so pleasant a party 
 been so unexpectedly broken up. Tom Goggin 
 had never been so happy ; Will Buffer had 
 given three somersets, and kicked the ceiling 
 with his heels, and Ned Stokes, a capital fellow, 
 who was at every party because he knew how 
 to sing a comic song, was just going to give
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 139 
 
 them " The Irish Schoolmaster." He had 
 actually begun — 
 
 Misther Byrne was a man 
 
 Of a very grate big knollidge, 
 
 An' behind a quickset hedge - 
 In a bog he kept his college — 
 
 when the tax-gatherer rose. Everybody strove 
 to dissuade him. 
 
 " Why, 'tis blowing a perfect storm," said Mr. 
 Tobin. 
 
 " And that mountain road," exclaimed Frank, 
 " where robberies are as common as — as — any* 
 thing," 
 
 '' I— ca — can't help it — I must be home 
 to-night," exclaimed Moynehan, endeavouring 
 to resist the rising delirium that was already 
 making inroads on his reason, and affecting an 
 air of great industry and seriousness. " I hav^ 
 some accounts to make up that must be ready 
 for the post to-morrow." 
 
 " If you have any loose cash about you, sir," 
 said Goggin, rolling his eye arotind the room,
 
 "140 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 and winking on the company, " Fd advise you 
 to let me take care of it for you." 
 
 In the burst of laughter which followed this 
 effusion, Mr. Moynehan left the room, followed 
 by the Tobins, who continued in vain to repre- 
 sent to him, with all the force of language and 
 of argument, which the glass had left them, 
 the dangers of a solitary journey through the 
 mountains at so late an hour. It was in vain 
 likewise, that the wind dashed in the door as 
 soon as the latch was raised, with such force, as 
 to extinguish all the lights they had brought 
 into the hall, and almost to destroy the already 
 tottering equilibrium of the tax-gatherer. He 
 seemed determined to make up by obstinacy 
 for the deficiency of argument, and resolved, at 
 all events, to undertake the journey. Buttoning 
 up his great coat to his chin, and shaking the 
 hands of his companions and his host with 
 vehement cordiality, he sprung upon his mare, 
 and with a wild halloo, dashed forward through 
 the stormy night-gloom. For some minutes the 
 
 %
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 141 
 
 revellers stood to hear the shout repeated, and 
 the tramp of the horses' hoofs growing fainter in 
 the distance, until it had ceased to reach their 
 ears. Soon after the company broke up, the 
 Buffer and Tom Goggin riding off together. 
 
 The next morning the tax-gatherer''s horse was 
 found, without a rider, at a little distance from 
 his house, and the saddle cloth and bridle had 
 the marks of blood. The truth was at once 
 disclosed to the perplexed and agonised widow, 
 for so she was already deemed. Mrs. Moynehan 
 acted on the occasion with more firmness an4 
 resignation than might have been expected from 
 her. She caused the most thorough search to 
 be made along the line of roads, and through the 
 fields and bogs that lay between their house and 
 Castle Tobin. Every bog-hole was dragged, 
 and every corner ransacked, but in vain. A 
 woman of strong mind and deep affections, the 
 shock to Mrs. Moynehan was proportionably 
 violent. 
 
 " Look, Edmond,'' she said, holding up the
 
 14S THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 bloody housing, and gazing with agony on her 
 orphan child as he entered her apartment, 
 " Look at all that is left us of your father."'' 
 
 The boy stared for a moment as if at a loss 
 to comprehend her meaning. 
 
 " My dear child,"" said the widow, " let what 
 is our ruin, be at least your warning. Your 
 father, who left home yesterday in perfect 
 health, will never now return to us again. He 
 has been murdered on his road." 
 ■ The boy turned pale and red by turns, as 
 he looked from the saddle-cloth to his mother's 
 countenance, and said at last in a whisper — 
 
 " By whom, mother ?'' 
 
 " Heaven only can tell that, and he who did 
 it," said the widow — " Oh, it was an evil day 
 for us all when he accepted that situation — Till 
 then he was happy, good, and virtuous — he 
 made all happy round him. But now — " 
 
 At these words, and at the recollection of the 
 altered life which her husband had been leading 
 during his latter years, the unhappy woman
 
 THE BARBEE OF BANTRY. 143 
 
 swooned away, and was conveyed to her apart- 
 ment. Years rolled away, and the circum- 
 stances attending the disappearance of the tax- 
 gatherer, remained enveloped in darkness as 
 deep as that in which he had set out on his 
 last journey. A proclamation was issued from 
 Dublin Castle, commencing with the usual — 
 " Whereas some evil-minded person or persons, 
 &c. ;" and offering a reward of two hundred 
 guineas for the detection of the murderer, 
 but in vain. Whether he had been struck by 
 lightning, stifled in a bog, torn to pieces (a% 
 some sage fair ones hinted) by evil spirits, 
 or destroyed by beings no less malignant of 
 his own form and species, were questions that 
 exhausted speculation and remained unsolved. 
 The broken-hearted widow sought some conso- 
 lation for the terrible stroke, in devoting her- 
 self to the education of her son, whom she 
 determined to bring up in the strictest prin- 
 ciples of religion and virtue.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 About fifteen years before this period^ there 
 stood, within a hundred paces of the outskirts 
 
 of B 5 a house of moderate size, of which 
 
 no hving eye has seen a trace. It was tenanted 
 by a humble barber of the name of O' Berne. 
 Beside the dwelling stood a lofty elder, in 
 which the magpie and the goldfinch built their 
 nests. Behind was a garden, stocked with 
 heads of cabbage, some rows of gooseberry and 
 currant trees, with a few wall-flowers and mari- 
 golds of flaming yellow. A handsome pole, 
 rising oblique from the doorway, and bearing 
 at its summit a tuft of hair that streamed upon 
 the wind, announced to passengers the vocation 
 of the owner. On either side of the entrance, 
 two small plots sprinkled with the commonest
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 145 
 
 flowers, and fringed with rows of London pride 
 or bachelors'* buttons, gave grace and fragrance 
 to the decent tenement. The thievish sparrow 
 reared his noisy brood beneath the eaves, and 
 at evening the robin would often sing his short 
 and plaintive song amongst the elder boughs. 
 
 The house of the barber on Saturday even- 
 ings afforded a lounge to many of the neighbour- 
 ing villagers. Here, while .0 -Berne stropped 
 his razors, or tucked a snow-white napkin under 
 the grisly chin of some unwashed artisan, the 
 many who waited to undergo a similar operation 
 would lean against the well-scoured dresser, or 
 take a hay-bottomed chair near the door, dis- 
 cussing politics, foreign and domestic, circu- 
 lating the easy jest, or listening to the piquant 
 anecdote. Amongst these persons there were 
 few subjects on which the opinion of O'Berne 
 had not considerable weight ; and few ventured 
 to interrupt the current of his speech, while, 
 as he raised the mollient foam, he would reveal 
 to his wondering hearers the designs of many 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 a potentate and minister, who fondly deemed 
 them a secret to the world. 
 
 The barber, as it was generally said, had 
 migrated to this village from the south-western 
 town of Bantry. It was in the tenth year of his 
 only son, Godfrey, this removal took place. Soon 
 after, chance threw the latter in the way of a 
 singular education. One evening, during the 
 
 first year of their residence in B , the 
 
 barber was busy, as usual, in preparing his 
 shop for the customers who generally dropped 
 in when the business of the day was over. 
 While thus engaged, an old gentleman entered, 
 a white-haired venerable looking man, but with 
 eyebrows black as coal, and something in the 
 expression of his dry and shrivelled features 
 that was unacountably repulsive and forbidding. 
 It was not that he was morose, for his coun- 
 tenance wore a continual smile, and he seemed 
 ever on the watch for something to jest about ; 
 but sternness itself would have been more agree- 
 able than his uncordial mirth. It was a dry
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 147 
 
 and heartless levity, not genuine good-humour; 
 and evidently indulged in, rather for the grati- 
 fication of his own vanity than from a desire 
 of affording pleasure to others. Seeing little 
 Godfrey playing on the floor, he began to 
 question him, and was so much entertained 
 with the thoughtful solemnity of his answers, 
 that he proposed, if the barber would allow it, 
 to take him into his household. O'Berne feared 
 to miss an offer of patronage which promised, 
 so much advantage to his son, and promised 
 with many expressions of gratitude, to take 
 him to the gentleman^s house on the following 
 day. 
 
 The mansion was situated in a lonely and 
 barren heath valley, about seven miles from the 
 village. It was a bare, wild looking edifice, 
 occupying the centre of an enclosure (it could 
 hardly be called a demesne), on which not a 
 single branch of foliage was to be seen, east 
 or west, north or south, that could qualify in 
 the least degree the natural dreariness of the 
 
 h2
 
 148 THE BAKBEU OF BANTRY. 
 
 place. The first impression of the scene sunk 
 down like lead upon the mind of the younger 
 Godfrey. A peasant, whom they overtook 
 upon the road, and from whom they made 
 inquiries respecting the proprietor, told them 
 " that very little was known about him at all 
 in them parts; that he had no one livin' with 
 him, only an old woman that used to dress his 
 food and do the kitchen work, and that it was 
 said he was a foreigner: but he was livin' 
 there a good long while, and nothing was ever 
 known to his disparagement." 
 
 They found the old gentleman within. Seeing 
 little Godfrey rather low-spirited at the prospect 
 before him, he took him into the library, which 
 was pretty well furnished, and took some pains 
 reconcile him to his new abode. 
 
 Here young Godfrey remained for six years, 
 during which time his only companions, except 
 when he went to spend a day at his fathers. 
 Were the proprietor of the mansion, the old 
 woman, and, far more entertaining and interest-
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 149 
 
 ing to him than either, the books which burthened 
 the shelves of the small library. Reading like- 
 wise was the constant occupation of his master. 
 Seldom did he favour Godfrey with any conver- 
 sation, and when he did, it was in such a brief 
 and half-sneering style, that the latter did not 
 lament his general taciturnity. Never had he 
 heard of a man who hved so isolated — so entirely 
 centred in himself — as his new master. Nor while 
 he secluded himself from all ordinary intercourse 
 with the world in which he lived, was it for the 
 purpose of devoting himself with more freedom 
 to the concerns of another; for Godfrey never 
 observed in his master any of those actions or 
 expressions, by which men are accustomed to 
 intimate their recollection of a higher allegiance 
 than any they owe on earth. His patronage, 
 however, and the leisure which he here enjoyed, 
 enabled Godfrey O'Berne to lay up a store of 
 information, which, though nearly useless, and in 
 some points worse than useless, from want of 
 method, was far more extensive than was usual
 
 150 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 in his station. The sudden death of his patron 
 deprived him unexpectedlyof those brilliant hopes 
 to which his father looked forward with a san- 
 guine eye. The recluse was found one morning 
 in his bed a corpse, and Godfrey was recalled to 
 the paternal threshold, as much in mystery with 
 respect to the character and history of his late 
 master as when first he entered his house. 
 
 In about a year after, the elder O'Berne him- 
 self being struck with his death sickness, sent 
 for his son, who was at this time the only living 
 member of his family. The latter, who was on 
 a visit at the house of a friend in the neighbour- 
 ing city, came without loss of time to receive the 
 dying injunctions of his only parent. He found 
 the latter seated in the arm-chair which was usu- 
 ally allotted to his customers, apparently await- 
 ing the last stroke of death, and surrounded by 
 a numerous crowd of relatives and friends. On 
 seeing his son approach, he bade one of the men, 
 who stood near him, to unfix the pole, which 
 Avas made fast at the front door, and to bring it
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 151 
 
 into the house. His wishes being complied with 
 he took the pole in his right hand, causing it 
 to stand erect upon the floor at his side, and 
 addressed his son in the following words : — 
 
 " This painted pole, Godfrey, is one o' the 
 most ancient marks of our profession. It signi- 
 fies that stick which, when the barber and the 
 surgeon were the same, used to be held in their 
 hands by the customers and worked this way, 
 to make the blood come freer from the vein. 
 This riband that's tied at the top signifies the 
 bandage, and this stripe o' red paint that goe^ 
 coiling down the pole, the blood, as it were, 
 flowing from the arm. This pole, Godfrey, 
 has stood at my door, winter and summer, for 
 five and forty years. I never possessed a half- 
 penny but what it brought me, and I never wished 
 for an estate beyond it. If you are satisfied 
 with it, you are as rich as an emperor; if not, 
 the riches of an emperor would not make you 
 so. Keep it then, and be contented with it, and 
 you will be happy."
 
 152 THE BARBER OF BANTRY, 
 
 So saying, he placed the pole in the hand of 
 his son, and soon after gave up the ghost. The 
 latter interred the remains of his parent with all 
 demonstrations of filial respect and piety, and 
 entered presently afterwards upon the business 
 and possessions he had left behind him. 
 
 The younger Godfrey O'Berne had always 
 been looked upon in his neighbourhood as a 
 kind of oddity. Tall and ungainly in his figure, 
 in his manner abrupt and sheepish, he was to 
 far the greater number of his companions a sub- 
 ject of jest and ridicule rather than admiration. 
 There was, however, another circumstance which 
 counteracted the eff*ect of Godfrey's manner and 
 appearance. He was a great student, and from 
 various sources had contrived to amass a quan- 
 tity of knowledge in a mind of no ordinary force. 
 
 Were we to take opinions on the cause of 
 O'Berne's reserve and awkwardness, it is pro- 
 bable that we should find a great variety. 
 Some would call it pride — some sensibility — 
 some modesty — and some, by way of being
 
 THE BARBKR OF BANTRY. 153 
 
 wiser than all the rest, might say '' it was a 
 mixture of all these."" Whatever was the cause, 
 the young barber, unlike his fellow in the Ara- 
 bian Nights, was reserved and meditative. He 
 courted no friendships, sought no society, and 
 seemed even impatient of that which he could 
 not avoid. Still he bore in mind his father's 
 dying counsel, and, while he courted solitude 
 as much as possible, he gave no one any actual 
 reason to complain of him. 
 
 The young barber felt a want which none of 
 us, in whatever rank or station we may be placed 9 
 have failed to experience at some portion of our 
 lives — the want of mental sympathy. There 
 was no one in the village who shared his infor- 
 mation, or who could understand his thoughts 
 on any subject, and it was not contempt, but 
 the actual difference of mind that made him 
 unwilling to mingle in societies where he could 
 find nothing of considerable interest to him. It 
 so happened that the train of his reading was 
 one peculiarly adapted to foster such contem- 
 
 h3
 
 154 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 plative habits. The works which fell into his 
 hands related principally to moral and meta- 
 physical subjects, and the barber, who had an 
 acutCj intelligent spirit, was deeply caught by 
 the profound and absorbing disquisitions which 
 those books contained. How could he who 
 had been all the preceding evening engaged 
 in arduous endeavours to comprehend the rea- 
 sonings of various philosophers on the connexion 
 of mind with matter, and the mysterious manner 
 in which both seem blended in the human indi- 
 vidual, be expected on the following day to 
 take an active interest in the labours of a 
 mechanical vocation, or in the vulgar sports 
 that made the village echo near his dwelling? 
 There is no fact, however, more notorious than 
 the possibility of uniting an extensive knowledge 
 of, and the liveliest interest in, moral studies 
 with a very inferior course of moral practice. 
 The pleasure which Godfrey took in such pur- 
 suits as we have described was one of a purely 
 intellectual character ; the heart had little or
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 155 
 
 nothing to do with it. He pleased himself with 
 the noble exercise which the subject afforded to 
 the faculties of his understanding, and thought 
 little of deducing rules of practice from the sub- 
 lime and immutable truths which he contem- 
 plated. Satisfied to let his imagination roam 
 through the boundless sea of being, he bestowed 
 comparatively little thought on the necessity of 
 fulfilling with exactness, the part allotted to him- 
 self in the universal scheme, and used the light 
 afforded him, rather for the gratification of an 
 active spirit than for the direction of his cour§e 
 through life. His silence, however, and his 
 habits of application, produced a strong impres- 
 sion of his learning on the rustics in his neigh- 
 bourhood, and they looked on him as one of the 
 profoundest scholars in the world. 
 
 There lived at this time in B , a 
 
 family of the name of Renahan, who were 
 looked upon as amongst the leading denizens of 
 the place. Mary, the eldest daughter of the 
 house, was, in her seventeenth year, considered
 
 156 THE BARBER OF BANTRr, 
 
 one of the wonders of the village. Her beauty 
 was the subject of praise amongst the young, and 
 her genuine piety and modesty amongst the old. 
 Of the former, all had not the opportunity of 
 judging, for Mary Renahan (who was too 
 humble to aspire to the magnificence of a bonnet) 
 took care never to appear unhooded in the public 
 streets ; and he who by any chance had seen her 
 countenance, was accustomed to tell it as an 
 adventure worth recording to his companions 
 in the evening. Mary was rich, cheerful, and 
 handsome; it was therefore the subject of general 
 amazement, when the rumour spread that she 
 was about to become the bride of the poor, the 
 melancholy, and the ungainly Godfrey O'Berne. 
 
 Such, however, was the truth. Let who will 
 divine the cause, the gay and gentle Mary 
 Renahan gave up, without hesitation, her liberty 
 and her affections into the hand of one who was 
 regarded by the rest of her companions either 
 with ridicule or fear. 
 
 From the day of his marriage, Godfrey
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 157 
 
 O 'Berne seemed to have renounced his specula- 
 tive habits, and became practically industrious. 
 He was attentive to his business, and began to 
 laugh and jest with his customers in such a 
 manner as to remind them of his father. To 
 him belonged the economy of the basin and the 
 strop, the scissors and the curling iron. His part 
 it was to amuse the minds, while he trimmed the 
 whiskers of his customers ; and to enlighten the 
 interior of the heads that came beneath his 
 hand, w^hile he reduced the outside to the 
 standard of fashion and of grace. The regula* 
 tion of the domestic department was committed 
 exclusively to the management of Mrs. O'Berne, 
 who was as attentive to the minor affairs of the 
 little establishment as she was to the happiness 
 and comfort of her lord. An over rigid economy, 
 however, was not the fault of either master or 
 mistress; and while custoim increased, and com- 
 forts multiplied, the case was exactly the reverse 
 with the hundred pounds which the latter had 
 brought her husband as a dowry, and which they
 
 158 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 had set apart at first, in order that it might 
 perform for their eldest daughter the same good 
 office which it had done for Mrs. O'Berne. 
 
 Still all was gay and happy at the barber's. 
 As a husband and a father he had more than 
 the average share of happiness, and less than 
 the average share of care. His wife seemed well 
 contented with the portion of enjoyment which 
 their means afforded her; and his three children 
 were promising in mind and frame. Mortimer, 
 the eldest, could already make a decent " pot- 
 hook" in his copy-book, and the others knew as 
 much of letters as Cadmus himself at twice 
 their age, or as Charlemagne is said to have 
 done while he was shaking Europe from the 
 Baltic to the Alps. 
 
 Occasionally, in the long summer evenings, 
 Godfrey would take down his violin, on which he 
 was a tolerable proficient, and, in the absence of 
 professional employment, enliven the house with 
 some old national air, to which his wife would 
 sometimes add the melody of a tolerable voice. 
 
 %
 
 THE BAllBER OF BA:NTRY. 159 
 
 More frequently they would devote the evening 
 to a walk through the village, where their decent 
 appearance attracted general notice. Indeed 
 they were not without being censured for over- 
 daintiness of dress by some of those sharp-eyed 
 individuals, who, when they can discover nothing 
 to ridicule in a neighbour's meanness, had rather 
 find the contrary fault than let him pass 
 unwounded. 
 
 Nor were these the only annoyances from 
 which the comforts of the barber received a 
 slight alloy. That class of young persons 
 inhabiting the purlieus of most towns and vil- 
 lages, who are emphatically distinguished by the 
 epithet of " the blackguards^^' seemed, with that 
 mischievous instinct which enables men to dis- 
 tinguish what is ludicrous in human avocations, 
 to have marked out O'Berne for their especial 
 amusement. Sometimes they would snatch a new 
 toy or a wedge of bread from the hands of his 
 children as they stood gaping at the open door ; 
 at others, they chalked uncivil nick-names on
 
 160 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 his pannels ; or else (and this was the unkindest 
 cut of all) a whole gang of them would watch an 
 opportunity when he and his wife were walking 
 in all their finest through the village on a Sunday 
 evening, and set up in full chorus the popular 
 ballad: — 
 
 Mullins the barber grew so grand, 
 
 He listed in the Sligo band ; 
 
 Mullins the barber grew so great, 
 
 He knocked his nose against the gate, &c. 
 
 But notwithstanding these unavoidable morti- 
 fications, peace still abode on the household of 
 O'Berne, and the tranquillity of his mind 
 received no worldly shock that could bear an 
 instant's comparison with the sum of his enjoy- 
 ments.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It was on a Saturday evening, and the shop 
 was thronged, as usual, with a crowd of hairy 
 heads and chins, as rough as hedge-hogs with the 
 stubble of the week. On the operating chair 
 sat Molony, the blacksmith, the napkin tucked 
 beneath his massive jaws, and his chin already 
 white from ear to ear, adding a two-fold grim- 
 ness to the smoke and ashes that encased the 
 upper portion of his countenance. A thought- 
 ful silence for some time prevailed, while the 
 eyes of all watched with a lazy admiration the 
 skill with which the barber's razor flew along 
 the blacksmith's spacious jaws, demolishing, at 
 every stroke, a long flourishing harvest, and 
 leaving behind it a fair and glossy surface. At 
 length, Mac Namara the carpenter, who was one
 
 16^ THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 of the village dandies, and waited to have his 
 hair brought into form, broke silence as follows : 
 
 '* Well, of all de tings dat ever was done to 
 me, dat's de last I could ever bear — to have 
 anoder man shave me. Not meanin** de laste 
 asparagement to Mr. O'Berne, nor to his pro- 
 fession eider — but de iday of anoder man takin' 
 me be de nose, an' sweepin' a razhure up me troat, 
 is what I never could abide de toughts o' doin\" 
 
 '* When you have a beard at all, Tom Mac," 
 said O'Reilly the cooper, taking a pipe from his 
 mouth, and looking over his shoulder at the 
 speaker, " it may come to your turn to talk of 
 shaving it." 
 
 '' Surely, surely, Ned. Well den, it's come 
 to your turn to talk of it, any way, and to do 
 
 it— for I declare dere isn't a chin in B • 
 
 stands more in need o' de razure." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Tom. There's this difference 
 betune you an' me, that you shave to get a 
 beard, an' I shave to get rid of it." 
 
 The conversation dropped, but there was a
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 163 
 
 portion of it which was not forgotten. A 
 weak imagination is easily irhpressed. With all 
 his learning and capacity, it was long before 
 O'Berne could get rid of the horrid idea which 
 was suggested by the carpenter's random words. 
 His mind, though well enough supplied Avith 
 knowledge, was not subdued to any wholesome 
 discipline ; and such minds are often the prey 
 of every wandering fancy. From time to time 
 he would start as the foolish thought suggested 
 itself to his imagination, and shudder, as if the 
 carpenter's words showed any thing more than 
 an extravagant caprice. 
 
 Still these were weaknesses known only to 
 himself, and his general prosperity continued 
 unabated. Most minds, as well as bodies, have 
 their peculiar constitution, and their peculiar 
 ailment, or " idiosyncrasy," which it requires the 
 hand of a nice and delicate counsellor to deal 
 with. Instead of despising the crowd of morbid 
 thoughts, which arising like clouds, would gra- 
 dually overshadow his whole imagination, as he
 
 164 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 dwelt on those expressions of the carpenter, 
 O'Berne encouraged, examined, and brooded on 
 them, until at length they communicated some- 
 thing like a settled tinge to his whole character. 
 Could such individuals be brought to understand 
 how much of misery they might avoid by a 
 moderate degree of habitual and generous self- 
 restraint, the world would be spared a great deal 
 of woe, and more, perhaps, of crime. 
 
 To this state of mind an accidental circum- 
 stance added a prodigious force. At a little 
 
 distance from B , there resided a family, 
 
 of the name of Danaher, hovering between 
 the frontiers of gentility and of that rank to 
 which the O^Bernes belonged. They lived 
 in an equivocal looking house which they 
 dignified with the title of Rath Danaher, held 
 a pew at the chapel, and were looked upon as 
 a kind of " half-quahty." As they were near 
 relations of Mrs. O'Berne, the latter and her 
 husband were occasionally guests at the Rath, 
 and contributed on festival days to make the
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 165 
 
 evenings pass merrily away. At this period 
 the clouds of superstition still rested like a 
 gloomy fog upon the minds of the poorer 
 peasantry (as they do in all countries where 
 education is retarded), nor were there wanting 
 some in the rank immediately above them who 
 participated in their credulity. In all such 
 fancies, the Danahers were, from first to last, 
 profoundly versed. They wore charms and 
 spells ; they never began a journey, or a new 
 piece of work, on a Saturday ; they kept no 
 pigeons about the house; they would not hurt, 
 a weasel for the world ; they always took off 
 their hats when a cloud of dust went by them 
 on the road ; they read " dhrame-books " and 
 consulted fortune-tellers, and practised number- 
 less rites of the most absurd and unmeaning 
 kind. Night after night, when the fire blazed 
 cheerfully upon the hearth, it was their wont 
 to gather round it in a circle, and interchange 
 their gloomy tales of supernatural agency, while 
 even the youngest members of the group were
 
 166 THE Bi^RBER OF BANTRV. 
 
 suffered to drink, undisturbed, at the foul and 
 soul-empoisoning stream, that flowed from the 
 hag-ridden imaginations of the story-tellers. 
 Ghosts, fairies, witches, murderers, and demons, 
 glided with a horrid and hair-stiffening influence 
 through all their narratives, and when the 
 listeners retired for the night, it was to hurry 
 to their beds with alarmed and shuddering 
 nerves, and to supply the frightful fancies of 
 their waking moments, by still more frightful 
 dreams. 
 
 One evening, while a conversation of this 
 kind proceeded at the fireside of Rath-Danaher, 
 the O'Bernes were of the company. Godfrey, 
 surprised at the extent to which they carried 
 their superstitious credulity, undertook to dis- 
 abuse them of their fears. He talked learnedly 
 of the nature of spirit and of matter, — of second 
 causes, and of the absurdity of supposing that 
 the divine Being would suffer the ordinary laws 
 of nature to be violated on occasions so fan- 
 tastical and useless. 
 
 f
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 167 
 
 " I do not know how to make you under- 
 stand," said he, " that such an event could not 
 happen without a direct infraction of the present 
 order of things, which is a miracle to be wrought 
 by the hand of Omnipotence alone. That it 
 may happen, as He who made the law can alter 
 it, I do not offer to deny ; but to believe that 
 it does commonly happen, and without cause or 
 meaning, is to turn the exception into the rule. 
 Spirit, as it is an immaterial substance, has neither 
 colour, nor sound, nor smell, nor any quality 
 which can make it perceptible to our senses. 
 Granting that they exist in myriads around us? 
 it is still impossible, according to the ordinary 
 laws of nature, that they can do us either phy- 
 sical injury or physical good. What communion 
 they may hold with the mind, as that is likewise 
 immaterial, has nothing to say to the purpose. 
 It is possible they may suggest either good or 
 evil to the soul (as rehgion even teaches us they 
 do) ; but that, without supposing a miracle, they 
 can pinch the body black and blue, transport it
 
 168 THE BARBER OF BANTRY* 
 
 from place to place, affright the senses with extra- 
 ordinary sights and sounds, is against the common 
 order of nature. The Deity must clothe them with 
 material faculties before they can produce material 
 effects."" 
 
 " Well, Mr. O'Berne/* said Robert Danaher, 
 a young man, who having attended a course of 
 surgical lectures in Dublin, conceived himself 
 entitled to his share of authority on metaphysical 
 questions, and who was, moreover, perhaps the 
 only person present who understood half what 
 the barber said — " I do not know that any 
 miracle at all is necessary to the purpose. It 
 is an undisputed fact, that spirit does act on 
 matter. The Deity, who is a pure spirit, sus- 
 tains all things, both material and the contrary, 
 in their daily courses — and we know that in the 
 human being, the mind directs and regulates 
 the movements of the body at its pleasure. 
 Why may not the spirit, separated from its 
 clay, possess the same influence over the matter 
 that surrounds it which it once held over that
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 169 
 
 with which it was united in the human frame ? 
 For my part, as it is a mystery to me by what 
 means my will directs my arm to extend or to 
 contract itself, I would not presume to say that 
 the same spiritual will, when separated by death 
 from this frame of flesh and blood, may not pos- 
 sess a similar influence over the wind that moans 
 by my window, the candle that is burning on my 
 table, or the silent air that favours my midnight 
 slumbers. I know not how the effect is produced 
 in the one case any more than in the other ; but 
 when I know that the one eff*ect does take place,, 
 I should be far from asserting that it would 
 require an infraction of the natural harmony to 
 produce the other." 
 
 " Ye may talk as ye will," said Kitty Dana- 
 her, " but fractions or no fractions, the spirits 
 are abroad as regular as the sun goes down. 
 Our John can tell you that^ on a market night 
 last year, after selling some cattle in New 
 Auburn, he was mounting his horse at the 
 door of the Harp and Shamrock, when three 
 
 VOL. I. t
 
 170 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 times, one after another, he fell over on the 
 other side, without one near (that he could 
 see) to give him a shove, and the poor old 
 mare standing as quiet as a lamb.*" 
 
 O'Berne, who supposed that there might be 
 reasons for John's unsteadiness after leaving 
 the Harp and Shamrock, apart from outward 
 agents, either spiritual or material, was not so 
 much struck by this example, as he was by 
 the argument which it seemed intended to, 
 illustrate. He remained for a long time silent, 
 while each of the family in turn poured out 
 some fearful tale of supernatural agency in 
 order to subdue his incredulity. They did 
 not, however, succeed in convincing him. He 
 continued to express his contempt for the ridicu- 
 lous legends that they sought to thrust upon him, 
 admitting only the possibility of such appearances, 
 as formed their leading subject. 
 
 '^ I can assure you of one circumstance, at 
 all events," said Mrs. Danaher, *' which took 
 place beneath this very roof. Mr. Andrew
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 171 
 
 Finnucane the apothecary, to whom Robert 
 served his time, was speaking one night, as 
 you, are of the folly of believing in such stories, 
 when we all warned him to be careful of what 
 he said, as he did not know the moment he 
 might have reason to change his mind. He 
 laughed, but when he woke next morning he 
 found himself lying with -his head where his 
 heels ought to be." 
 
 This tale brought on a fresh torrent of 
 similar anecdotes. The evening passed away, 
 and the barber and his wife returned home- 
 It was in some weeks after, that the former, 
 returning late from the neighbouring city, was 
 obliged to take a bed for the night at an inn 
 on the roadside. The stillness of the night 
 and the loneliness of the place, for it was 
 situate in one of those dreary flats which the 
 road traversed on its way to the western coast, 
 and tenanted only by an old woman and her 
 son, brought to his recollection the discourse 
 which had passed in his presence at Rath 
 
 i2
 
 172 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 Danaher. The instinct of the supernatural is 
 one, which perhaps nobody, except some con- 
 science-seared criminal, whose heart is hard to 
 every natural feeling, can ever wholly lay aside. 
 It is implanted in us for the best of purposes, 
 and though we may abuse it, as we do the 
 best emotions, to our ruin, it is not the less 
 intended for our good. O'Berne, though he 
 had his weaknesses, was by no means super- 
 stitious ; yet he could not avoid bearing testi- 
 mony in his own heart to the existence of the 
 universal instinct as he gazed through his 
 small window upon the wide and starlit heath 
 that lay before it, and which was, in itself, a 
 prospect sufficient to have awakened lonesome 
 and melancholy thoughts. Still feeling a con- 
 tempt for such terrors as those which preyed 
 upon the household of Rath Danaher, he 
 confessed, however, a sufficient degree of 
 nervousness to lock the door of his sleeping 
 room inside, and to make fast the window, to 
 make " assurance doubly sure." He then knelt
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 173 
 
 down, as usual, prayed with somewhat more 
 than usual earnestness, and went to rest. His 
 sleep was sound and dreamless as the sleep 
 of a weary man is wont to be, but a surprise 
 awaited him in the morning which made him 
 almost doubt the evidence of his senses. On 
 opening his eyes, he was astonished to perceive 
 that the window which, when he went to rest, 
 stood behind the head of his bed, and a little 
 at the side, stood now directly opposite, as if 
 it had made a circuit of the chamber in the 
 night! He arose, and his perplexity increased. 
 He found himself now lying with his feet 
 toward the head of the bed, the pillow and 
 all the bed furniture beino- reversed in the 
 same way, and even his silver watch still 
 lying as he had placed it under the bolster, 
 but having participated in the general change 
 of position. His astonishment was excessive. 
 The bed had no appearance of the disturbance 
 which such a change might be expected to 
 make. It even seemed as if he had slept
 
 174 THE BAKBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 without motion through the night ; and but 
 that his recollection of the contrary was distinct, 
 he would have been persuaded that the whole 
 must be an error of his own. The door was 
 locked, and the window fastened, as he had 
 left them, but in no place could he find his 
 clothes, which he had laid on the preceding 
 night, upon the chair at his bedside. After 
 thoroughly searching the room without success, 
 he was about to summon the people of the 
 house, in order to make inquiries from them, 
 when his eye fell upon the old pormanteau 
 which he had brought with him from home. 
 It seemed more full than it had been when 
 he took it off his horse on the preceeding 
 eve. He opened it. Wonder on wonder ! 
 There was the whole suit folded, brushed, 
 and made up with an exactness that was 
 admirable ! Every article was in its place, 
 and every buckle made fast with just the 
 proper degree of tightness. The barber was 
 perfectly bewildered. The mysterious agent,
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 175 
 
 whose prerogative he had disputed in the case 
 of Mr. Andrew Finnucane, had sought an 
 opportunity of vindicating, in his case also, 
 the slighted power that was allotted him. So 
 would the Danahers have construed the story, 
 and for that reason, the barber determined for 
 the present to say nothing of the circumstance 
 to them, or to anybody else. 
 
 For many months the circumstance continued 
 unexplained, and its impression, from the very 
 force of constant thinking on it, began to ^row 
 faint on the barber's mind. Again there w^s 
 a party at Rath Danaher, and again the 
 barber and his wife were of the number of 
 the guests. The conversation on this evening 
 happened to turn on the superstition of the 
 Fetch, or warning spirit which shows itself, 
 say the country people, in the likeness of some 
 person doomed to die, at some short period 
 before his death.* Numberless instances were 
 
 * Our friend Mr. Barnes O'Hara, has given such celebrity 
 to this superstition, that there is no need of a more particular 
 description.
 
 176 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 related of such appearances, and again Mr. 
 O'Berne expressed his total incredulity. In 
 a fortnight after, as he was passing through 
 
 B , he was met by Mr. Guerin, (the father 
 
 of Peter Guerin, whose exploits at " the great 
 House," the reader will find in another volume). 
 He was surprised to see that Mr. Guerin, 
 with whom he was always on the most friendly 
 terms, now passed him by with an offended 
 air. Nor did he make his appearance as usual 
 on Saturday evening at the barber''s shop, in 
 order to have his beard and hair made decent 
 for the ensuing Sabbath. A neighbour solved 
 the mj^stery. 
 
 ''Why, Mr. O'Berne," said he, "Peter 
 Guerin says there's no spakin' to you now, 
 youVe grown so grand."" 
 
 " I had much the same complaint to make 
 of himself, "" replied the barber. " He wouldn't 
 speak to me in the street when I saluted him."' 
 
 " That's dhroU ! " said the peace-maker. It^s 
 the very account he gives o' you. He says
 
 THE BAIIBER OF BANTllY. 177 
 
 that he was standin' at his shop doore th' 
 other morning about six o'clock, just afther 
 day brake, an' that you walked by, lookin' him 
 sthraight in the face, an' without ever takin' 
 any notice, although he axed you how you wos 
 as plain as could be." 
 
 The instant the man had concluded his 
 account, O'Berne recollected the recent con- 
 versation at Rath Danaher. He had not, he 
 
 knew, for years before been in B^ , or any 
 
 where outside his own door at so early an hour 
 as six in the morning; and he had not th^ 
 slightest recollection of the rencontre, to which 
 Mr. Guerin referred. What was it then, that 
 the latter had seen ? The Danahers would 
 have found a ready answer, and in spite of 
 himself he felt a creeping through his nerves 
 as he remembered the prediction with which 
 the appearance was supposed to be associated. 
 He had sufficient promptitude of mind, however, 
 to keep his secret from transpiring. 
 
 "Mr. Guerin may be sure," said he, ''that 
 
 i3
 
 178 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 he is the last man in B I would think of 
 
 treating in that way. I have no recollection 
 whatever of passing him by at any time in 
 that manner, and I'm sure I never had the 
 least idea of doing such a thing/' 
 
 The village Mr. Harmony who received 
 this explanation, lost no time in conveying it 
 to the proper quarter, and peace was re- 
 established between the barber and his friend. 
 In spite of himself, some occasional qualms, 
 respecting the state of his health would cross 
 the mind of the former, and this new adventure 
 gave threefold strength to that already related. 
 As time rolled by, however, and he found his 
 bodily vigour undiminished, his courage rose, 
 and he began to make inquiry respecting the 
 nature of the superstition. It was then he 
 learned for the first time, that the appearance, 
 when seen early in the morning, was supposed 
 to predict a long life to the individual wJiose 
 semblance it assumed. 
 
 There is no time when cne is more inclined
 
 THE BAllBER OF BANTRY. 179 
 
 to admit the truth of a supernatural prediction 
 than when it coincides exactly with one's own 
 desires. The barber would not directly admit, 
 even to himself, that his incredulity was shaken 
 in the least degree, but it was certain that his 
 repugnance to conviction in this instance was not 
 so vivid as in the former. 
 
 Half a year had passed away, before the 
 spirit which had tormented him at the lonely 
 inn on the roadside, took any pains to confirm 
 the impression which had been made by its first 
 essay. It happened one night that the barber 
 slept at Rath Danaher, where he had turned in 
 from a violent storm of rain and wind. The 
 chamber which was allotted to him commanded 
 a lonely prospect of the river and distant 
 mountains, and the barber was forcibly reminded 
 of the adventures of the last night he had spent 
 away from home. In the same manner as he 
 had done on the former night, he fastened the 
 door and window-frame, before he went to rest. 
 Whether it was owing to a growing doubt of
 
 180 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 the reality of such appearances, or a state of 
 bodily indisposition, it was a long time now 
 before he could sleep. When he did so, how- 
 ever, his sleep, as usual, was sound and dream* 
 less. 
 
 After midnight, he awoke with a sense of 
 cold. The bed-clothes had all disappeared ! 
 Nothing but the grey striped tick remained 
 upon the bedstead, and on that he lay, exposed 
 to the sharp cold of a November night. By the 
 aid of some embers which still were burning on 
 the hearth, he was enabled to light a small 
 candle, which he had extinguished on going to 
 rest. He searched the room, but the fugitive 
 bed-clothes were nowhere to be seen. It was 
 impossible that this could be a trick of any 
 human being. The door and window were 
 fast as he had left them, and even if it were 
 possible for any body to have got in, the fact 
 that he should have been thus annoyed, at two 
 different houses, of which no one member 
 perhaps knew even the existence of the other.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 181 
 
 was in itself incredible. He was on the point 
 once more of giving up the search, when his 
 attention was directed to an old oak press which 
 stood in a corner of the room ; it was locked, 
 but the key was in the lock. The barber opened 
 it J and could scarcely believe his eyes ; there lay 
 the objects of his search, folded and laid upon 
 the shelves with as much order and exactness as 
 if they had never left the draper"'s counter. 
 The barber was thunderstricken. He felt no 
 terror, but he was stunned to the very soul ; he 
 walked, he struck his breast, he moved the 
 candle to and fro, in order to be satisfied that 
 it was not all a dream. But nothing could 
 change the facts, and with a bewildered mind 
 he laid the clothes upon the bed again, and 
 passed the remainder of the night in troubled 
 and interrupted slumbers. 
 
 In the meantime, perplexities of a less meta- 
 physical kind began to darken on the fortunes 
 of the barber ; and in common with his species 
 he felt in his turn the influence of those inferior
 
 182 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 causes to which for its own wise ends all-curbing 
 Providence seems often to abandon human 
 interests. A handsome house had been erected 
 on the opposite side of the road, about half-way 
 between the barber's dwelling and the village, 
 and speculation was exhausted as to its probable 
 use ; some said it was intended for a toll-house, 
 others for a shrine of Bacchus. Before the 
 point could be decided a typhus fever confined 
 O'Berne to his apartment and his bed, from 
 which he was unable to rise during the space of 
 a summer month. During this time (the first 
 period of affliction which they had ever known), 
 his wife attended him with a tenderness and 
 care that excited in his mind a deeper sentiment 
 of aff*ection and respect towards her than he had 
 ever felt before. What heart, be it high or 
 low, that ever yielded to affection, has not, like 
 that of the poor barber, experienced, either in 
 its bitterness or in its consolation, the truth so 
 delightfully sung since then by our national 
 poet ?
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTIIY. 183 
 
 When we first see the charm of our youth pass us by, 
 
 Like a leaf on the stream that will never return, 
 When our cup which had sparkled with pleasure so high 
 
 First tastes of the other — the dark flowing urn. 
 Then, then is the moment affection can sway, 
 
 With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew, 
 Love nursed among pleasures is faithless as they. 
 
 But the love born of sorrow, like sorrow is true. 
 
 Nor was the gratitude of 0''Berne on first 
 making this discovery, in its happier sense, less 
 tender or less true that he was but a village 
 barber. 
 
 On the first day of his convalescence, a new, 
 and it must be confessed, an unwelcome surprise 
 awaited the invalid. Walking with difficulty to 
 the low window, where his wife had placed a 
 chair, he looked out with strange and altered 
 eyes upon the healthy active world, that still 
 continued its career of growth, of bloom, and 
 of deca}'^, unchanging in design, though for ever 
 varying in effects. The sun still smote the 
 ripening grain ; the fresh wind shook the 
 boughs ; the noisy carmen rattled by to market,
 
 184 THE BARBEH OF BANTRV. 
 
 and the smaller birds, which least of Nature's 
 children seem known to sickness or to pain, 
 fluttered with vigorous wing and frequent 
 twitter about the leaves, and amid the branches 
 of the rustling elder. 
 
 But there was one sight, which from the 
 moment when it first had caught the barber's 
 eye, diverted him from every other thought. 
 The new house, above alluded to, had been 
 completed and inhabited during his illness, and 
 it was with astonishment and dismay, he per- 
 ceived that the inmate was no other than a rival 
 barber. He could not without anxiety contem- 
 plate the superior splendour displayed by this 
 new competitor. The front of the house was 
 handsomely dashed ; the pole, exceeding at 
 least by half the size of O'Berne's, was sur- 
 mounted by a gilded ball that shone like another 
 sun, while close beneath was fastened a long 
 banner of hair that flouted the winds as if 
 anticipating triumph. Above the lintel of the 
 door was a sign-board, executed in metropolitan 
 
 ^_
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 185 
 
 style, which announced the proprietors, (for it 
 seemed to be a partnership,) as " Fitzgerald and 
 O'Hanlon, late from Paris and Dublin, pro- 
 fessors of hair-cutting and perfuming," &c. 
 
 " Mary," said the convalescent to his wife, as 
 he surveyed this great display, " why didn't you 
 tell me there was a new barber set up since I 
 lay down ? " 
 
 "I didn't think of it," replied the wife, " what 
 matter can it be to us ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid time will show us that," said 
 O'Berne. " Wasn't Ireland big enough without 
 their coming to plant themselves, and their pole, 
 over-right my very door ? " 
 
 " What signifies themselves and their great 
 pole ? " replied the wife. " You have your 
 custom made, and the neighbours will stand by 
 you, I'll engage." 
 
 " That's not the way of the world," replied 
 the barber, '' and I'd be a fool if I thought it 
 would be the way with me ; there are some I
 
 186 THE BARBER OF BAN TRY. 
 
 know I can count upon. There's the black- 
 smith, because he has no capers that way, and 
 he says no one knows the sweep of his jaws but 
 myself; he'll stick to me; and there's my third 
 cousin, Pat Sheehy, the weaver, will stay by me 
 for blood'^s sake ; and a few more friends I may 
 be sure of; and perhaps others that will be 
 honest, as some will be rogues, without expect- 
 ing it ; but the rest, you'll find, will have their 
 notions. That golden ball will draw many an . 
 eye away, and where the eye goes the chin 
 and head will follow. But where's the use of 
 talking?" 
 
 The event even outstripped the anticipations 
 of the barber. The time lost by his own illness, 
 and that of his wife, who fell ill of the same 
 disease immediately on his recovery, accelerated 
 a catastrophe which he had too much cause to 
 fear. The villagers were unwilling to frequent 
 a house which had now for two months been 
 the seat of contagion. Party spirit also lent its
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 187 
 
 influence to the success of the new comers, and 
 O'Berne lost many a head and chin to pohtical 
 
 differences. 
 
 In fine, before the lapse of many years, extreme 
 and squalid misery descended on the dwelling 
 of the barber. By degrees, retrenchment followed 
 retrenchment, until what once were necessaries, 
 assumed the character of luxuries, too costly to 
 be thought of. The barber and his wife no 
 longer appeared abroad, except when it could 
 not be avoided, and at length that day was one 
 of joy to the family which saw them supplied 
 with a bare sufficiency of food. 
 
 From circle to circle, however, they descended 
 in the region of adversity, nor had they yet 
 arrived at the depths of the abyss. The rent of 
 their tenement ran into arrear, and they were 
 menaced more than once with an ejectment. 
 This was the only event which began to strike a 
 real gloom into the mind of the barber, already 
 weakened by misfortune, and the effects of sick- 
 ness. While it startled every affection of his
 
 188 THE BAllBER OF BANTllY. 
 
 heart, it awoke in all its force (as the heart in 
 its alarm will often do) the full power of an 
 imagination that prosperity had lulled into 
 comparative inaction. 
 
 The barber, though he had received the 
 
 same education, did not use it to the same 
 
 advantage as his wife. It perplexed, while it 
 
 soothed him, to observe the serenity with which 
 
 his wife sustained the adverse change in their 
 
 circumstances. She, who had sacrificed so much 
 
 for him, did not even seem to be conscious that 
 
 she had made any sacrifice whatever. Her 
 
 wealthy relatives were now all scattered and 
 
 burthened witii their own separate claims, and 
 
 could do nothing to assist the barber. Still, 
 
 in their distress, her concern seemed all for her 
 
 husband and her children. The sea is not 
 
 more necessarily agitated by the sighing of the 
 
 winter winds, than is a generous and religious 
 
 bosom by the accents of distress and sorrow in 
 
 a fellow being. So natural, so free from effort 
 
 or reluctance, appeared the affectionate concern 
 
 %.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 189 
 
 with which the gentle Mary exerted herself to 
 alleviate the sufferings of her husband and 
 her children. 
 
 At different times her gentle uncomplaining 
 conduct produced varying effects upon her hus- 
 band's mind. Sometimes, when his reflections 
 took a gloomy turn, the clear angelic serenity 
 of her looks would, with an influence like that of 
 gentle music, subdue his discontent, and restore 
 his thoughts to calmness and to order; at others, 
 when he beheld her sharing in their common 
 want, and remembered what she was, when slje 
 resigned abundance and respectability to unite 
 her earthly lot to his, his anguish far exceeded 
 what it was when he thought only of his own 
 privations. 
 
 " We are worse off now,*" he said to her, one 
 summer evening, as they sat before the open 
 window which looked upon their little orchard, 
 and watched the crows winging high above them 
 to the distant wood, '' our case is worse than 
 that of even the animals that are left without
 
 190 THE EARBEll OF BANTKY. 
 
 reason. The face of the round world is free 
 to them ; from the worm to the eagle all are 
 well provided for. The crow has his nest upon 
 the bough, and the hare has her form in the 
 furze, and their food is ready for them at morning 
 in the fields, or by the river, for no trouble 
 but the pains of seeking it. In the water, in 
 the air, or on the earth, food, clothing and a 
 home, are ready found for all. The goldfinch 
 has his painted feathers, and the robin his grain . 
 of seed, while our poor babes are perishing with 
 cold and hunger." 
 
 " For every pain we bear with true patience 
 in this life," said his wife, *' we shall receive 
 an age of glory and of happiness in the next.*" 
 
 " Yet who would murmur at a Providence 
 that is inscrutable," resumed O'Berne, in a fit 
 of sombre musing; "if men would only do 
 their duty by each other? But it is not, and 
 it never will be so. They say that if you take 
 a young bird unfledged from the nest, and set 
 it down alone in some field far away, where the
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 191 
 
 parents cannot find it, and leave it there and 
 watch it, they say there is no bird that passes, 
 of whatever kind, and hears its lonesome chirp, 
 that will not bring it a worm, or a mouthful of 
 some other food, until it gets strength to shift for 
 itself. But men, men must have laws to force 
 them even to do so much as will keep the breath 
 of life within the lips of their own kind."" 
 
 " All is well,"'^ said Mary, '^ while we keep 
 our own fidelitv. Let the storm blow as it will, 
 let all our prospects and our possessions go to 
 ruin, all still is well while heaven is not offended^ 
 Let us keep our hands unstained, and in His 
 name who distributed suffering and joy, let the 
 worst that will befal us. It is not want nor 
 plenty that can either give or take away our 
 peace of mind. To be contented with the will 
 heaven, and to strive to put it into practice, 
 is always in our power; and if we are not so 
 disposed in our distress, we may be certain 
 that we should not be so under any change
 
 192 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 whatever. Let us preserve our innocence, and 
 all is well."''' 
 
 '* You are very easily contented,"' said the 
 barber, with an angry look. " What were your 
 thoughts, two months since, when the fire seized 
 on the grocer's house next door, and we saw, 
 with our own eyes, the remains of an unhappy 
 infant dug out of the ruins ?"" 
 
 " 1 will tell you, Godfrey, what I thought," 
 replied his wife, " I trembled for myself when I 
 beheld it. He, said I, who has created the 
 world so fair, and filled it with so many bless- 
 ings, who has made that beautiful sun, and those 
 millions of shining stars, and who daily and 
 hourly shows his goodness and his mercy in new 
 acts of kindness to his creatures ; he too it is 
 who has permitted that sinless child to perish 
 by a frightful death. Let me therefore take 
 the warning, and beware in what condition I 
 fall into his hands, for if he thus afflicts the 
 innocent and good on earth, what should be done
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 193 
 
 with US? I speak to you in this way, dear 
 Godfrey, because I see you are beginning to 
 sink in spirits. Beware, my dear, dear husband ; 
 it is in our moments of gloom and melancholy, 
 as well as in those of thoughtless gaiety, that the 
 enemy of our souls endeavours to seduce us into 
 crime or madness." 
 
 As she said these words she laid her hand 
 caressingly upon her husband's shoulder. Moved 
 by the action as well as by the words with which 
 it was accompanied, O'Berne was softened, and 
 melted slowly into tears. • 
 
 " Read to me," said he, " and it may be 
 better." 
 
 His wife complied, and taking from the drawer 
 a copy of the Scriptures, began to read a portion 
 of the New Testament. Godfrey listened, and 
 it seemed to him as if he had never heard the 
 words before. For several days after he became 
 totally absorbed in the perusal of the volume; 
 the profound wisdom of its counsels, the majestic 
 simplicity of its narrative, and the stupendous 
 
 VOL. I, K
 
 194 THE BAUBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 nature of the events which it recorded, the 
 heartfelt spirit of prayer with which it was per- 
 vaded, the terrible solemnity of its warnings, 
 the melting tenderness of its promises, and the 
 striking nature of the examples by which both 
 were illustrated, made a deep and strong impres- 
 sion on the mind of the village philosopher. It 
 seemed to him as if he never before had heard 
 how all things were first called into existence ; 
 how murder entered first into the world, which, 
 until then, was the abode of love and happiness 
 He there heard the Deity delivering his law to 
 man, amid the lightnings and the thunders of 
 Mount Sinai ; he saw in the fate of Eli and his 
 sons, an example of the divine justice against 
 neglectful parents ; he dwelt with enchantment 
 on the mystical beauties of the story of Ruth, 
 and the marriage of Rebecca: and he traced 
 with astonishment and awe, the tremendous and 
 affecting history of the origin, the fall, and 
 restoration of his species, detailed in language 
 worthy of a subject so sublime. He read and
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 195 
 
 it astonished him to think how mechanical till 
 now had been the nature of his feeHngs and 
 his practice. What, was he then one of those 
 who really believed that the Divinity himself 
 had come on earth to teach his creatures, both by 
 word and by example, the real nature of moral 
 goodness ? to overthrow the worldly error which 
 ascribed to human pride the honours due to 
 virtue, and to introduce modesty, humility, 
 patience, and mildness, to the same rank in 
 human estimation which they had ever held in 
 the divine, and which men till then accorded id 
 false glory, ambition, revenge, and haughtiness 
 of soul? 
 
 The philosophic barber, however, while he 
 wondered how little hitherto he had felt the real 
 nature of the character he professed in society, 
 rather revolved these wonders in his intellect 
 than let them sink into his heart. His imagina- 
 tion became deeply impressed, and he brooded 
 by day and dreamed by night on what he had 
 been studying, until his whole mind became 
 
 K 2
 
 196 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 absorbed with the one engrossing subject. To 
 change the heart, it is not sufficient that the 
 mind should be excited. To create a spirit of 
 tenderness and love is of far greater importance 
 in the way of virtue, than to captivate the 
 fancy or amaze the understanding. 
 
 The impatience, therefore, with which he bore 
 the increasing perplexity in his affairs, was not 
 in any permanent degree diminished. A week 
 of extreme misery and privation, was closed by a 
 formal ejectment from the house in which he 
 lived. We pledge ourselves not to the trnth of 
 the events of the few days and nights imme- 
 diately succeeding, but relate them as they are 
 told in " our neighbourhood," reserving all com- 
 ment to the conclusion of the tale. It was a 
 Friday evening, and the family were to give 
 up possession before twelve on the following 
 Mondav. With a mind weakened by distress 
 and apprehension, the barber spent the day 
 pacing alone from room to room of the little 
 dwelling, like one distracted in his thoughts.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 197 
 
 " If it be true," said he, striking his forehead 
 with a burst of anger, -" if it be true, that imma- 
 terial things can hourly, as young Danaher 
 asserted, exert an influence over what is pas- 
 sible and material, why will they not interfere to 
 serve as well as to perplex and to annoy us ? 
 Why will not that power, whatever it may have 
 been, that visited me for my discomfort in that 
 lonely inn, and at Rath Danaher, present itself 
 again for my assistance, at a time when human 
 aid has left me at my last extremity ? " 
 
 His wife, who overheard these words, w^ 
 afraid that her husband's misfortunes were 
 beginning to affect his reason. 
 
 " Remember," she said, " that apart from 
 human aid, we have but one source of power 
 to which we can apply.'' 
 
 " I would apply to ANY," cried her husband 
 with a burst of frenzy, " from whatever source 
 assistance comes, I am ready to receive it." 
 
 Saying this, he rushed from the room. The 
 fit of passion having passed away, he was able
 
 198 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 to reflect with more distinctness on the nature of 
 what he had said, and his imagination froze at 
 the thought that it was possible he might yet be 
 taken at his word. Terror, in addition to the 
 former excitement, now seized upon his nerves, 
 and unfitted him for any settled thought. 
 He could only wait in hopeless silence the 
 passing of the shocking gloom that seized 
 upon his mind, without knowing how to 
 quicken its departure. 
 
 In this mood, say the storytellers, he retired 
 to rest. The chamber in which he slept looked 
 out upon the orchard, at the door of which, 
 some evenings before, the conversation already 
 recorded had taken place between the barber 
 and his wife. The bed was so placed that the 
 former could see as he lay down, on a moon- 
 light night, a considerable portion of the orchard 
 and the country lying far beyond it. Such a 
 night was that of which we speak ; it was be- 
 tween one and two o''clock, and in mid winter ; 
 when after a few hours' slumber, the view of the
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 199 
 
 orchard, with its moonlight paths, crossed by 
 the sharply defined shadows of the trees, came 
 slowly on his sight through the uncurtained 
 window. 
 
 For a time as he looked out upon the scene, 
 the barber could not tell if he were waking or 
 asleep, so indistinct and floating was the con- 
 sciousness that existed in his mind. All doubt 
 however ceased, or rather he ceased to question 
 what his actual condition was, when he beheld 
 a figure dressed in a grotesque suit of black, 
 advancing through the trees and approaching 
 the windows with a slow but steady pace. An 
 unaccountable influence held the barber motion- 
 less, until the stranger approached so near, that 
 his singular drapery almost appeared to touch 
 the glass. It seemed to the former as if an 
 iron hand were laid upon his breast and pressed 
 him to the bed. The moonlight faUing on the 
 back of the figure prevented him from seeing 
 with distinctness what the features were of this 
 unknown intruder on his premises, but the
 
 200 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 sense of horror which his presence excited was 
 almost insupportable. After a little time, the 
 figure slowly raised one hand, and retiring a 
 little from the window, waved it gracefully as 
 a sign for Godfrey to arise and follow. The 
 sequel is gathered from Godfrey's own indistinct 
 recollection of what took place. He could not, 
 he said, resist the summons: he got up like 
 one under the influence of some necromantic 
 power, hastily drew on his clothes, and pro- 
 ceeding to the window threw open the sash 
 and stepped out into the orchard. The figure 
 retired, still turning at intervals, and beckoning 
 with one hand until they had passed into the 
 open country. 
 
 On a sloping hill at the eastern side of the 
 village stood a grove of firs, shadowing a tract 
 of soil which once had been a burying-ground, 
 but in which no interment had taken place for 
 centuries before. Tradition only, and the half 
 obliterated remains that were sometimes dug out 
 of the soil, supplied the history of its former
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 201 
 
 uses, for neither monument nor grave-stone had 
 for a long period been discernible upon the 
 slope. Near the borders of this sombre grove 
 it was that O'Berne beheld the figure pause, 
 and seem to wait his arrival. Still moved by 
 the same irresistible influence the barber pressed 
 forward up the slope, fixing his eye upon the 
 stranger, and even eager for the conference, 
 which he anticipated with a dizzy sense of terror. 
 Nor were his wonder and his awe diminished, 
 when on turning round to address him, the 
 stranger revealed the countenance and figure of 
 his old master ! 
 
 k3
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 We pursue the barber's narrative as he is said 
 to have himself deUvered it. 
 
 " You said,"" (the stranger slowly and calmly 
 enunciated each syllable, like one who utters 
 words of the last importance,) — " that you were 
 ready to receive assistance from ANY source. 
 I am one who have both the will and the power 
 to afford it." 
 
 " And who are you ? "" the barber would have 
 said in turn, but his jaws, locked fast as if by 
 a fit of tetanus, refused to articulate the words. 
 His guide, however, seemed to understand his 
 thought. 
 
 "Who I am,"" said he, with a voice so inex- 
 pressibly mournful that it penetrated to the 
 hearer's soul, — '* is of no importance to your
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 203 
 
 present views or mine. Let it be enough for 
 you to know, and for me to tell you, that I can 
 procure you the assistance you require. Speak 
 therefore, and tell what thou wouldst have." 
 
 The barber replied at once: — • 
 
 " Food for my family and a certain home. 
 They are miserable ; if you can secure them 
 sustenance and shelter you shall have my grati- 
 tude. 
 
 ** I require it not,'"* replied the figure with a 
 smile of subtle scorn. " I seek not love but 
 service; I have it in my power to do all and 
 more for thee than thou requirest, but it is only 
 in furnishing the opportunity of which you must 
 yourself make use." 
 
 " And what shall be that opportunity ? 
 exclaimed the barber. 
 
 '' To-morrow thou shalt have the choice of 
 misery or joy. I do not press thee to decide 
 at once. Whenever the extremity may be at 
 hand, my power will not be distant." 
 
 With these strange words he vanished, and 
 
 M^
 
 204 THE liARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 the barber returned to his dwelling. Of his 
 adventures on the way home, or the manner 
 in which he obtained an entrance into his own 
 house, he had no recollection. On the following 
 morning he found himself in his bed as usual, 
 but could remember nothing of what took place 
 from the moment of the spirit's disappearance. 
 There were no corroborating signs in the 
 position of his dress, or in the state of the 
 window, that bore testimony to the reality of his 
 midnight excursion ; and he would have been 
 inclined, notwithstanding the regular train of the 
 occurrences, and the vivid impression he retained 
 of what had passed, to pronounce the whole a 
 dream, if it were not that the two former 
 mysterious events which had befallen him, left 
 his reason far more open to an admission of 
 supernatural agency. 
 
 The day which followed was the same in 
 which, as set forth in a preceding portion of 
 this narrative, Mr. Moynehan the tax-gatherer, 
 left home to dine at Castle Tobin. It was a
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 205 
 
 trying one to Godfrey, on more than one 
 account. Not one of the inmates of the 
 dwelhng had tasted food since they arose, and 
 at night the cries of the younger children 
 rent the father's breast. To complete the 
 dreariness and discomfort of the scene, the night 
 was gusty and full of showers, and the sound 
 of the inclement weather breaking against the 
 doors and windows seemed to give promise of 
 the destitution which awaited them when they 
 should no longer own the shelter of a roof. 
 
 Emaciated even more by wasting thoughts 
 than by the want of necessary food, the barber 
 sat in the chair, which now but rarely held a 
 customer, attending m silence (if he attended at 
 all), to the consolatory expressions that were 
 now and then addressed to him by his wife, and 
 weaving vain conjectures on the future. 
 
 "Talk you of comfort?" he said, looking 
 backward on the latter with a ghastly smile. 
 " Have you the wallet ready, then? and the
 
 206 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 wattle and tin can ? and the slate and voster for 
 Mortimer to study in the dyke on summer days, 
 when we all sit down together by the roadside 
 in the shade, away from the dust of the horses' 
 feet and the carriage wheels, while we ask the 
 gentlefolks for charity as they roll by ? not 
 forgetting the linen caps for the girls, and all 
 the beggar's furniture? Have you all that 
 ready, since you talk of comfort?"" 
 
 " Even if it came to that," replied his wife, 
 with a tone of slight severity mingled with 
 affection, " I trust we all have resignation to 
 endure it."" 
 
 " It would be less a burthen to my mind," 
 said the barber, " that you had asked me ' why 
 I brought you to this misery ?' rather than to 
 hear you speak so kindly. And why, why did 
 I do so ? Why did I not leave you where I 
 found you, happy and prosperous in your 
 father's house ? *" 
 
 At this moment one of the younger children 
 
 %
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. '207 
 
 which had crept from its pallet of straw, took 
 Godfrey by the coat, and looking up with a 
 pallid face and crying accent said : — 
 
 " Father, Ellen is hungry." 
 
 If those who make themselves miserable about 
 fancied evils, could know the pangs that rent the 
 heart of O'Berne at this instant, it is probable 
 they would look upon their own condition with 
 a more contented eye. In the agony of his soul 
 the unhappy man bent down his head, and half 
 murmured between his teeth : — 
 
 " If the opportunity now were offered me 
 again, I would not, I think, reject it." 
 
 He had scarcely framed these words in his 
 own mind, when the tramping of horse's hoofs 
 was heard approaching the door, and soon after 
 a loud knocking with a whip handle made the 
 panel echo through the house. 
 
 " Hollo ! ho I ho ! Who's within ? Open, I 
 say ! O'Berne where are you ? Are your razors 
 ready ? "
 
 208 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 " They have got a new method of shaving, 
 They have got a new method of shaving — 
 Oh, I wouldn't lie under that razor, 
 For all that lies under the sun. 
 
 " O'Berne, I say ! Godfrey, bring out the 
 light ! " 
 
 '"Tis Mr. Moynehan the tax-gatherer's 
 voice," said Mary. 
 
 " And drunk," added the barber. 
 
 " May heaven forgive him ! " 
 
 " Why — CBerne, I say ! Are you asleep, or 
 dead ? Open ! open the door ! 
 
 *' Over the mountain and over the moor, 
 Barefoot and wretched I wander forlorn. 
 My father is dead, and my mother is poor, 
 And I weep for the days that wiU never return. 
 Pity, kind gentlefolks 
 
 " Come — come — barber, this is no joke." 
 The door was opened, and Mr. Moynehan 
 made his appearance, wrapped in a dark frieze 
 travelling coat, which glistened with rain, as did 
 the fresh and well-nurtured countenance of the 
 owner. In one hand he held the bridle of his 
 
 %
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 209 
 
 horse, which seemed inclined to follow him into 
 the house. 
 
 '* How are you ? how are you ?" said the tax- 
 gatherer, as he staggered forwards, — " no com- 
 pHments at all at present, do you see ? I'm 
 come to stay the night with you, for 'tis rather 
 late and windy." 
 
 " You have chosen but a poor house for your 
 lodging, sir," said the barber. 
 
 " No matter for that ; many a better fellow 
 often slept in a worse. So that you find a dry 
 corner for my horse, you may put myself any 
 where, do you see ? " 
 
 " Mortimer," said the barber, " take the 
 gentleman's horse round to the little cow-house, 
 and see him well rubbed for the night." 
 
 "And hark you?" said the tax-gatherer, 
 setting his arms " a-kimbo," and endeavouring 
 to keep his balance while he gazed on Mor- 
 timer, *' before you do so, my young hero, give 
 me that portmanteau that's fastened behind the 
 saddle. That's right," he added, as the boy
 
 210 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 complied, " King George would have a crow 
 to pluck with me if I let anything happen to 
 them. And hark in your ear^another thing — I 
 took more than a glass too much at Castle 
 Tobin ; no matter — a set of rogues — They have 
 their reasons for tempting me to exceed."" 
 
 "Mary," said the barber, "put the children 
 to bed, and shut the door.*" 
 
 " Good night, Mrs. O'Berne — good night — 
 And liark you — Mrs. O'Berne, I see you're 
 shocked to see me as I am, but 'tis my weak- 
 ness, that and a little tender heartedness about 
 the making out of an inventory — I confess it — 
 if an honest hospitable country gentleman, sends 
 me, in a good-natured sort of way, a sack of 
 corn for that poor animal abroad, and. then 
 omits all mention of his own neat riding nag, 
 I haven't the heart to charge him with it. Good 
 Mrs. O'Berne, I protest to you, there is not a 
 single four-wheeled carriage, nor a gig, nor a 
 riding horse in the whole neighbourhood of 
 B . Those are all phantoms that we
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 211 
 
 meet every day upon the roads— phantoms 
 Madam — phantoms — I have the best authority 
 for it — the word of the owners themselves — all 
 ghosts of greyhounds — ghosts of pointers, ghosts 
 of spaniels, terriers, servants, and all. Oh, Mrs. 
 O'Berne, there's nothing in the island but ghosts 
 and rogues ! There's that attorney — no matter 
 who — he's an honest fellow to be sure, and keeps 
 a capital bottle of whiskey ; he had the 
 assurance last week, after putting blank — blank 
 — blank — against horses, carriages, and servants, 
 to turn about as he handed me the paper, and 
 offer me a ride in his own curricle as far as the 
 village. And I protest to you the ghost of a 
 curricle carried us both uncommonly well. As 
 for the great men of the county, I can't for the 
 life of me tell how they manage with two 
 hearths and six windows. There's a place that 
 shall be nameless — I donH say 'tis Castle Tobin 
 now, where I can count four-and-twenty 
 windows as I ride up the avenue ; but on 
 entering I cannot persuade Tob — the owner I
 
 ^12 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 mean, that it has more than quarter the number 
 Assessed taxes ! assessed rogues and swindlers ! 
 But good night, these things must not continue 
 — Pray for me, — your prayers 1 think, are heard. 
 As for that husband of yours — he deals in 
 witchcraft." 
 
 "Who, I?"' cried the barber, starting from 
 a fit of gloomy musing. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! observe how he starts. Look 
 at him, Mrs. O'Berne. I would not trust my 
 life with that fellow across the street."*' 
 
 Godfrey gathered his brows and looked darkly 
 on the ground. 
 
 "Look at him,"" continued the taxgatherer, 
 laying his hand on Mrs. O'Berne's arm, and 
 pointing with the other to her husband, who, in 
 an attitude of ghastly anger, looked backward 
 in his face. " There are men who go through 
 life straight, like the handle of my whip; and 
 there are others that, like the lash, will take 
 any crooked bend you give it. Look at him 
 how he eyes the portmanteau ! "
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 213 
 
 Again the barber started. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Come, come, O'Berne, I did but 
 jest. You must learn to take a joke." 
 
 Mrs. CBerne retired, and the taxgatherer 
 remained with her husband in the kitchen. 
 During the foregoing conversation, a dreadful 
 struggle had been taking place within the mind 
 of the latter. The gold ! Mr. Moynehan, in his 
 random jest, had harped his thought aright. 
 That portmanteau would secure his family for 
 ever against all fear of indigence. Terrified by 
 the workings of his own breast, and desirous tg 
 remove a temptation which he feared might 
 grow too strong for his already flickering virtue, 
 he approached the taxgatherer and said, with 
 a hoarse and mournful energy of voice and 
 manner : — 
 
 " Mr. Moynehan, it is as your friend I 
 advise you to return home to night. There are 
 evil minds abroad, hearts weakened by affliction, 
 and imable to resist the deadly thoughts that 
 want and melancholy whisper to them in the
 
 214 THE BARBER OF BANTRY". 
 
 silence of the night. Be wise, therefore, and 
 return to your house at once." 
 
 " Return to my house ! '' cried the tax- 
 gatherer, setting both his hands upon his sides, 
 and looking on the barber with a stare of high 
 defiance. " And who are you, sir, that order 
 me to return to my house ? I shall stay where 
 I am, sir, and you may frown and grind your 
 teeth as you will, sir, but I shall not be ordered 
 off by you. And I will tell you more. 111 have . 
 myself shaved to night ; so get your apparatus 
 ready on the instant."' 
 
 " To night ! "" said O' Berne, " pray do not say 
 to night. It is already one o'clock." 
 
 But Mr. Moynehan, hke many who have not 
 a perfect possession of their reason, was obsti- 
 nate. He insisted on being shaved, and took 
 his seat in the centre of the room, while the 
 barber, with trembling knees, and a mind 
 shaken to its foundation by its own internal 
 struggles, prepared the implements necessary 
 to the task that was allotted him.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 215 
 
 " These things must have an end, O'Berne," 
 the tax-gatherer resumed, as he loosened his 
 neck-cloth and laid it on the back of the chair. 
 "I cannot continue long to lead this life — 'tis 
 bad — 'tis wicked — 'tis unchristian. My good 
 lady is for ever lecturing me about it, and I 
 believe she's right. I promised her this morn- 
 ing that this should be the last time I would 
 ever dine from home again, and I am resolved 
 to keep my word, I am resolved to " 
 
 Here he began to grow drowsy as he sat, 
 and continued nodding in his chair, while he^ 
 spoke in interrupted sentences — 
 
 " Yes — she's right — the women are right 
 after all about these matters — they are more 
 doc — do — docile — well — I'll mend. She hinted 
 that I might begin too late — but no — to-morrow 
 morning will be time enough — to night it would 
 be late indeed — Cas — Ca — Castle To — Tob — 
 Tobin — farewell — I'll mend — I'll re — form — I'll 
 —I'll— To morrow I'll begin— I'll " 
 
 He dropped his head upon his breast and fell
 
 216 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 fast asleep. The storm had now subsided, and 
 the moon by fits, as on the preceding night, 
 gleamed brightly on the earth. The barber 
 opened the door, which looked into the orchard. 
 The picture was one which might have made 
 a spectator tremble, if there had been a spec- 
 tator there. O' Berne, with his worn and 
 haggard countenance, standing at the open 
 door, and looking with wild eyes and ghastly 
 teeth into the moonlit orchard. The tax- - 
 gatherer sleeping, with his neck-cloth laid aside, 
 and his head hanging back in the profound 
 repose of drunkenness — the hour late — the 
 niffht favourable — and the instruments, which 
 might as readily be made to serve the 
 purposes of destruction as of utility, lying open 
 on the barber's table. Let us close the scene 
 upon this horrible tableau.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 In less than two iiours after she had first 
 retired to rest, the sleep of Mrs. O'Berne, 
 which had been disturbed by frightful dreams, 
 was altogether broken by the sound of a foot- 
 step in her room. Looking up, she beheld 
 her husband, with an end of candle lighted in 
 his hand, looking pale and terrified. In 
 answer to her question, he said, thaf the tax- 
 gatherer had not yet retired to rest. She fell 
 asleep again and did not wake till morning. 
 Her husband then informed her, that Mr. 
 Moynehan, notwithstanding all his persuasions, 
 had insisted on leaving the house on the 
 preceding night, and taking the road to his 
 own residence, which was well known to be 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 infested by foot-pads. But he had good news 
 also for her ear. Before leaving the house, 
 he had lent him a sum which would be more 
 than sufficient to re-establish them in all their 
 former comfort. But this was to be kept a 
 secret. 
 
 There was something in the manner of her 
 husband, as he gave her this account, which 
 perplexed and pained her. It was not gloomy, 
 as before, but unequally and fitfully joyous. 
 He laughed, and his laughter was broken by 
 a spasmodic action of the frame, as if a searing 
 iron had suddenly been applied to a part of 
 it. Mrs. O'Berne now feared, from many 
 things her husband said, that the unexpected 
 generosity of the tax-gatherer might produce 
 an effect as dangerous to her husband's mind 
 as his previous poverty. 
 
 In the evening, while Mary sat musing on 
 what had passed, her husband, who had gone 
 out on business, suddenly entered the house 
 with a hurried and agitated look.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTKY. 219 
 
 "I was right," said he "in warning Mr. 
 Moynehan not to take that road last night." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " His horse was found this morning near 
 the village, but without a rider." 
 
 Mrs. O'Berne clasped her hands with a 
 silent gesture of affright. 
 
 " I tell you truth — and there was blood upon 
 the saddle-cloth — blood, Mary." 
 
 " He was murdered, then ? " 
 
 " Why so — who told you that ? How do 
 you know it ? " * 
 
 " What else does it look like ? What else 
 do they think of it ? " 
 
 " Think ! Oh, they think as you do — but 
 it is all conjecture." 
 
 " Let him have perished as he may," said 
 Mary, hurried onward by the dreadful tidings 
 into an energy unusual to her disposition, "it 
 is certain at least that he has perished. O 
 fearful Providence ! It was a heart of stone 
 that took him in his fit of sin ! " 
 
 L 2
 
 S20 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 "Be charitable, wife," said the barber angrily. 
 
 "I should be so, indeed. I thank you for 
 the counsel. If he was murdered, then, may 
 heaven forgive his murderer! '"^ 
 
 " Pray for him,"" said the barber, " but not 
 that way. Perhaps the wretch was crazed 
 with want or hunger — perhaps he was strongly 
 tempted — and that when ruin was threatening 
 him on one side and the temptation assailed 
 him on the other — and the opportunity — and 
 the silence — and the night — perhaps he could 
 not hold his hand — but what of that.? — Our 
 children shall not starve, at all events — 1 have 
 the gold — the gold.'"* 
 
 And he laughed with a shocking levity. 
 
 "" Yes, we have reason to rejoice,'^ replied 
 his wife, with calmness — " but the widow — the 
 poor widow ! To night, while the wind is 
 howling about her house, how lonesome is her 
 heart, and low within her ! They had one 
 child, a boy ; and she is often looking at him, 
 now, and asking herself if the story can be
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. S21 
 
 true— Oh, wretched man! Had he, who did 
 the deed, no wife, no family, to care for, when 
 he made a widow and an orphan at a blow? 
 And all for a little dross ! '** 
 
 u Well— well,'' said the barber, hurriedly, 
 " perhaps he means to pay it back again as 
 soon as he can, and to lay the bones in conse- 
 crated ground. What more can the poor 
 wretch do now ? Oh, wife, they say such 
 money is easily earned, but he who did it 
 knows better."" 
 
 "To night," continued Mary, following up 
 her own train of thought, " while the servants 
 are whispering in the kitchen, she is lying on 
 her bed, with the child close by her, and 
 listening to every fresh account they bring her 
 of her loss. To see a husband, or a wife, go 
 calmly to their doom— to tend them in their 
 last sickness — to read them holy lessons— to 
 pray for them aloud when they are dying or 
 when they are dead — that's happiness to what 
 she feels to night, although when you were
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 sick I thought it would be misery. She must 
 not even know that he lies in holy ground/' 
 
 " But perhaps he shall in time. Let us talk 
 no more of this, to-night at least." 
 
 " Aye, Godfrey, it is best; blood will speak, 
 if it should burst the grave for it," 
 
 There was a cobbler in B— — ,who, like 
 our barber, could scarcely obtain as many half- 
 pence by his awl, as might procure him a suffi- 
 ciency of the cheapest food. Yet, however he 
 was enabled to procure the means, the fellow was 
 a habitual drunkard. It was his practice when 
 intoxicated, to take his post at the village cross, 
 and, putting his hands under his leather apron, to 
 commence a string of vociferous abuse against all 
 the inhabitants of the place, without exception. 
 The out-pouring usually continued five or six 
 hours without intermission, from exordium to 
 peroration, greatly to the scandal of the regular 
 inhabitants, and to the entertainment of the 
 little urchins of the place who gathered round 
 him in a circle, iii order to chorus his monologue
 
 THE BAJIBER OF BANTRY. 223 
 
 with their shrill hurras. Yet, at other times, the 
 unfortunate wretch could be as decent and well 
 conducted as any individual in the place, and he 
 might have been, as the world goes, an estimable 
 character, if the fascination of strong drink had 
 not an influence over him which it appeared 
 almost impossible for him to resist. 
 
 Within a fortnight after the occurrence just 
 related, it happened that this cobbler was sitting 
 at work in his miserable hut, and singing, as he 
 made his lap-stone ring, when he was surprised 
 to see the barber cross his threshold. The latter, 
 having closed the door behind him, and shoved 
 
 in the bolt, approached the man of patches with 
 a serious countenance. 
 
 " Shanahan," said he, '' I have something 
 serious to say to you, and it may be for your 
 advantage, provided you promise to keep it 
 secret .'' 
 
 " Sacret, Mr. O'Berne ? As to keepin' a 
 sacret, providin' its nothin' agin law or con- 
 science, I'll keep a sacret with any man brathin', 
 though 'tis I says it, that oughtn't."
 
 224 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 ^' It is not against law or conscience. Listen 
 then. For three nights successively, within the 
 last fortnight, I dreamed of money in a certain 
 place that I will name to you, provided you 
 promise to assist me in obtaining it." 
 
 " Assist you ! I'll engage I will so, an"* wel- 
 come. An' is this what you call something 
 sarious to say to me ? Now I call it something 
 pleasant — an' joyful— an"* delightful P' exclaimed 
 the cobbler, springing from his seat, as he com- 
 pleted the climax. — " Come away, an** let us lay 
 hands on it at once." 
 
 " No — no—'' said the barber, " not so fast. 
 The search must be made at night. I will call 
 on you myself about eleven o'clock, and be ready 
 to come with me. I have not even mentioned it 
 to my wife, for fear she might have some scruples 
 about using the money. The spot is not far 
 distant, though lonesome enough. I will tell you 
 where it is when I come at night." 
 
 O'Berne was true to his appointment ; and on 
 this night it was, that in the presence of the 
 cobbler, he dug up in a lonesome ruin, within less 
 
 %
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. S25 
 
 than a quarter of a mile of the village, that 
 treasure, for the possession of which he had 
 accounted to his wife in a very different manner. 
 A moderate portion of the prize easily bribed 
 the cobbler to keep silence, until it should suit 
 O'Berne's convenience to call on him to give 
 testimony of the manner in which he had ob- 
 tained the money. 
 
 Soon after, the barber and his family left the 
 
 neighbourhood of B , where they were 
 
 not heard again of for more than a score of 
 years. 
 
 f. S
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Young Edmund Moynehan was brought up 
 with all the care that could possibly be bestowed 
 on the education of a child. He was carefully 
 preserved, in his early years, from all access of 
 superstition. He heard none of those garrulous 
 tales which too often haunt the nursery, and 
 bespeak future victims to weakness of mind, 
 almost in the very cradle. In the mean time, 
 the true spirit of religion was deeply impressed 
 upon his heart ; and his practice was the more 
 fervent in proportion as it was more enlightened. 
 He grew apace, and in time inherited the office 
 which had proved so fatal to his father. He 
 exercised it, however, in a very different manner. 
 He took no bribes, and he allowed no false 
 returns. The astonishment which such a line
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 227 
 
 of conduct excited about B ^ was pro- 
 portioned to the novelty of the provocation. 
 Almost every tax-payer joined in abuse of 
 Edmund Moynehan» Many called him a mean, 
 exact, prying fellow ; and a few of Uie more 
 fiery gentry even talked of ''calling him out;" 
 but he did not alter his course, and they found 
 themselves under the necessity of being as exact 
 as himself. In all other respects, he was what 
 his father had been in his earlier and happier 
 days. 
 
 He had reached his three and twentieth year 
 without meeting any adventure out of the ordi- 
 nary course of rural life, in the rank in which 
 he moved. He yet retained a strong recollection 
 of his parent, and he felt, without the least 
 emotion of revenge, a strong desire to investigate 
 the mystery of his disappearance. 
 
 One evening he was standing at the window 
 of the small parlour which looked out (for he 
 now occupied the dwelling first owned by his 
 father,) on the waters of the Shannon. Although
 
 228 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 the sun shone bright, a westerly gale drove 
 fiercely along the surface of the stream, and 
 confined the fishing craft to their moorings by 
 the windward beach. The narrow-pinioned 
 fishers hovering above the broken waves, by 
 their screams and rapid motion added much 
 to the interest of the scene. Occasionally a 
 bulky cormorant flew with outstretched neck 
 along the surface of the bay, while the pleasure 
 boat (which Moynehan sometimes used in his 
 days of leisure), tossed and tugged at her anchor 
 by the shore. 
 
 Living, notwithstanding his occupation, in 
 comparative solitude, with few objects to interest 
 his thoughts in any remarkable degree, it is not 
 surprising that young Moynehan often dwelt 
 with undiminished interest upon the mystery of 
 his father's fate. That violence, and human 
 violence, had been employed in his destruction, 
 he entertained no doubt. Of greater enterprize 
 and firmness than his father had been, he only 
 uanted footing for the inquiry, and the total
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 2^9 
 
 absence of this was what often lay heavy at his 
 heart. 
 
 A portrait of his father, rudely finished, yet 
 with sufficient resemblance to correspond with 
 his recollection of the original, was suspended 
 against the wall. Oppressed with the reflections 
 which crowded on his mind, as he gazed on the 
 familiar features, he left the house and hurried 
 to the strand, where he paced for some time in 
 silence along the margin of the water. His boat- 
 man was employed in repairing the keel of a small 
 skiff, which was used as a kind of tender on the 
 pleasure boat. Near him. Rick LilHs, grown 
 grey with years, and somewhat bowed by care, 
 was leaning against a huge block of stone, and 
 observing the boatman at work. 
 
 " The young masther looks as if he was put 
 out a little," said the boatman. 
 
 " Ah, little admiration he should," replied the 
 old herdsman, '' It is fourteen years and better 
 now since we lost the ould one. Many's the 
 time since I repented that I didn't go \^ith him
 
 230 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 that night, or make him go with me. But when 
 a man's hour'*s come they say the world wouldn't 
 put it ofF. I might well know them hills were 
 no place for any one to be thravelling at night, 
 let alone such a night as that ; but he wouldn't 
 be said by me. I hard of a thing happening 
 among them hills before, that was enough to 
 make any body look about him before he'd 
 venture among 'em late at night/' 
 
 " What was that ?" 
 
 '' I'll tell you. You know Jerry Lacey, the 
 pedler, that used to go through the counthry 
 formerly sellin' ribbons, an' rings, an' snuff-boxes, 
 an' things that way, at the great houses an' 
 places along the road ?" 
 
 " You mean him that has a shop now over- 
 right where O'Berne the barber lived formerly 
 atB ?" 
 
 '* I do — the very man, He was thravellin' 
 from Cork, an' he took the conthrary way 
 through the same mountains that my masther 
 (rest his sowl !) an' myself went that night.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 231 
 
 Well, if he did, it come late upon him, an* he 
 turned off the road, thinkin' to make a short 
 cut, an' he lost his way in the mountains, an' it 
 was midnight before he met a human christian, 
 or one ha'p'orth. * What'll become o' me at all, 
 I wondher,' says Jerry ; ' 'twas the misforthinate 
 hour I ever turned off o' you, for one road,' 
 says he. Well, on he went, an' in place o' 
 comin' to any place, 'tis lonesomer an' lonesomer 
 the road was gettin'upon him, till at last he hard 
 a nize, as it were, o' somebody hammerin' at a 
 little distance. So he med towards the 7iize. 
 Well, 'tisn't long till he come to a little lonesome 
 cabin without e'er a windy in front, and a rish 
 light burnin' within, an' the doore half open, an' 
 the ugliest man ever you see sittin' upon a stool 
 in the middle of the floore, and he havin' a 
 tinker's anvil on his lap, an' he makin' sauce- 
 pans. 
 
 *' ' Bless all here,' says Jerry, pushing in the 
 door. 
 
 *' The little man med him no answer, only
 
 232 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 looked up sthraight in his face, an' tould him to 
 come in an' shet the doore. 
 
 " * An^ what do you want now ?' says the little 
 tinker, when Jerry done what he bid him. 
 
 " ' Sh either, then, for the night, plase your 
 lordship/ says Jerry, thinkiii' it betther to be 
 civil. 
 
 " ' Take a sate by the fire,' says the tinker, 
 ' an' we'll see what's to be done.' 
 
 " ' That your reverence may lose nothin' by 
 it,' says Jerry, dhrawin' a chair. ' Them that 
 give the sthranger shelther in this world, 
 won't be left without it themselves in the 
 next.' 
 
 *' Well, there they sat. There was a pot 
 boihng over the fire, an' it had a smell o' mait, 
 which, I'll be bail, Jerry wasn't sorry to find. 
 So afther a while, the tinker went out, as he 
 said, to dig a handful o' pzaties to have with the 
 mait, an' tould Jerry for his life not to touch one 
 ha'p'orth about the place, an' above all things, 
 not to look into the pot, for if he'd daar do it, 4
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 2SS 
 
 the mutton 'ud be spiled. Well, hardly was he 
 outside the doore, when Jerry was a'most ready 
 to faint, wantin' to know what was in the pot. 
 So as there was ne'er a windee, and the doore 
 fast shet, he thought he'd take one dawny peep. 
 * Never welcome himself an' his pot,' says Jerry, 
 ' if he hadn't to say any thing about it, sure I 
 wouldn't care one bane what was in it. I'm kilt 
 from it, for a pot,' says he, ' fixin' his two eyes 
 upon it. I won"'t look at it at all at all,' says he, 
 ' 'tis up at the dhresser I'll look, an"* I'll whistle 
 the Humours o' Glin, an' who knows but I'd 
 shkame away the thoughts of it till himself 'ud 
 come in.' So he turned his back to the fire, and 
 began whistling. * 'Tis bilin' greatly, what- 
 somever it is,' says he by an' by. ' Ah sure 
 what hurt is there in one peep ? How will he 
 ever find it out ? A likely story indeed, that the 
 mutton 'ud be spiled by one look. He's an 
 ould rogue, that's what he is, an' I'll have a peep 
 in spite o' the Danes.' So he went to the fire- 
 side, and he ruz the lid. There was a great
 
 234 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 Steam, an' the wather bilin' tantivy. "I'm in 
 d bread o' my life/ says Jerry. * What'll I do 
 at all, if he pins me in the fact? No matther, 
 here goes any way,* an' he stuck down a flesh- 
 fork into the wather. Well, I'll go bail he 
 opened his eyes wide enough, when he drew up 
 upon the points o' the fork a collop of a man's 
 hand ■ " 
 
 " Eyeh, Rick, howl!" 
 
 " I'm only tellin' you the story as I hard it 
 myself. Sure I wasn't by." 
 
 " Do you mane to persuade me a thing o' that 
 kind ever happened ?'' 
 
 " Can't you hear my story ? what do I know 
 only as I hear ? ' Well,' says Jerry, an' he 
 lookin' at his 'prize, ' here's a state,' says he ; 
 ' here's purty work ; what in the world will 
 become o' me, now at all,' says he, ' I'll letdown 
 the pot-lid any way. ' 
 
 '^ Well, hardly all was right, when the tinker 
 come in. 
 
 " ' Did you look in the pot ? ' says he.
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRT. 235 
 
 " ' Oh, my lord,' says Jerry, ' what for 'ud 
 I be lookin' in it ? ' 
 
 " ' Are you hungry ? ' 
 
 " ' Not much, my lord.' 
 
 a i Will you take a cup o' the broth ? ' 
 
 " Well, Jerry thought he'd dhrop, when he 
 hard him axin' him to take a cup o' the broth. 
 
 " * Not any, we're obleest to your reverence,' 
 says he, bowin' very polite. 
 
 " ' What'll you do then .?' says the tinker. 
 
 "• ' I'll stay as I am, with your lordship's good 
 will.' ^ ^ 
 
 " ' There's a bed within, in the room, there ; 
 may-be you like to take a stretch on it ? ' 
 
 " < Why then, I believe I will, plase your 
 reverence,' says Jerry, ' as I'm tired.' 
 
 " So he took his pack, an' away with him into 
 the room, as if he was walkin' into the mouth of 
 a tiger. He didn't like to go to bed, although 
 there was the nicest bedstead in a corner, with 
 white dimity curtains, an' a fine soft tick, an' the 
 room nately boorded, an' soundin' as if there
 
 236 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 was a kitchen under it. So he rowled himself 
 in his great coat, an' sat down in a corner 
 waitin' to see what 'ud happen, bein' in dhread 
 he'd fall asleep, if he sthretched upon the bed. 
 The moon was shinin' in the windee, when about 
 twelve o'clock, as sure as you're standin' there, 
 he tould my father, he seen the bed sinkin' in 
 the ground. Oh, his heart was below in his 
 shoe ! * Wasn't it the good thought o' me,' 
 says he, * not to go to bed ? I declare to my 
 heart,' says he, ' I'll make a race while he's 
 below ! ' So out he started, an' I'll engage 'tis 
 long till he was caught goin' through the. 
 mountains at night again," 
 
 " Dear knows, that's a wondherful story," 
 said the boatman. '' But asy ! what boat is 
 that, I wondher, runnin' in for the little creek ? 
 Some jot^ or another, maybe dhruv in by the 
 wind, an' she comin' in from Cove." 
 
 On nearer approach, however, the vessel 
 seemed too small to answer this conjecture. She 
 was a little cutter, of about ten or twelve tons
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 237 
 
 burthen, with snow white sails, close-reefed, and 
 drenched to the peak with spray. Casting 
 anchor near the shore, a small boat was lowered 
 from the stern, into which two persons entered, 
 and proceeded to land. On reaching the shore, 
 one left the boat, while the other, pushing off 
 into the breakers, which even here ran high, 
 returned to the cutter. The stranger, who 
 remained, was a man deeply " declined into 
 the vale of years," wrapped in an old plaid 
 cloak, and wearing a cap of seal-skin. He 
 stooped much, and walked with so much diffi-^ 
 culty, that but for a stick, on which he leaned, 
 it would have been impossible for him to have 
 maintained his upright position. Perceiving 
 him about to take the road leading to the 
 interior, young Moynehan approached, and 
 politely asked him to his house for the night, 
 as it was usual to do with any stranger who 
 travelled in these lonely districts. The only 
 inn, he informed him, at which he could obtain 
 accommodation, was at such a distance that it
 
 238 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 would fatigue him extremely to reach it on foot 
 that day. The same accommodation he offered 
 for his boatman. 
 
 There was in the stranger's manner of accept- 
 ing the courtesy, an air of deep humility and 
 deprecation, that indicated habitual suffering. 
 He trembled like one in a fit of palsy, and bowed 
 low, supporting himself by grasping his stick 
 with both hands, while he murmured forth his 
 thanks. The same deep gratitude he showed 
 for every trivial attention that was paid him on 
 his entering the house. It seemed as if he 
 thought the humblest attitude he could assume 
 was far above his pretensions, and no exertions 
 that either the widow or her son could make, 
 were sufficient to draw him into free and unem- 
 barrassed conversation throughout the evening. 
 He sat as far apart as possible from every indi- 
 vidual that was present, bowed with the utmost 
 respect at every word that was addressed to 
 him, as if it were a favour of the last importance. 
 Two or three times, Edmund Moynehan saw,
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 239 
 
 or fancied he saw, the eyes of the stranger rest 
 upon his features with an expression of inquiry, 
 which, however, instantly disappeared as soon 
 their glances met. After Mrs. Moynehan had 
 retired for the night, he endeavoured to lead 
 their guest into more familiar dialogue, and to 
 invite him to confidence, by showing him an 
 example. 
 
 " You must excuse my mother's retiring so 
 early,"" said Edmund, " she always does so, 
 since my father's death. We are rather a lonely 
 family at present."" • 
 
 " Indeed, Sir?" said the stranger with a 
 smile. 
 
 " You are probably new to this country ? " 
 asked Edmund. 
 
 " Indeed Sir, much the same. It is now so 
 long since I left it, that I may well be called a 
 stranger." 
 
 '' Ah, then it is not likely that you are ac- 
 quainted with our misfortune. I never like, of 
 course, to allude to it, in the presence of my
 
 240 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 mother, but now that she is gone, it may furnish 
 you with some kind of apology for the sorry 
 entertainment you have met to-night."" 
 
 The stranger bowed low, but made no reply, 
 and Edmund (who loved to talk of his father's 
 unaccountable disappearance), gave him a full 
 detail of all the circumstances respecting it, 
 which had come to his own knowledge. The 
 stranger seemed to listen with the deepest 
 interest, but like one who was habituated to 
 feelings of a still deeper kind than any which 
 the narrative was calculated to excite, in the 
 mind of an uninterested person. 
 
 •' There are few circumstances attending my 
 father's death," said Edmund, '•' supposing him 
 to have perished, and indeed it would be idle 
 to think otherwise, which are to my mind so 
 painful as its suddenness. Even at this distance 
 of time, and with my slight remembrance of my 
 father, it is surprising to myself what sHght 
 circumstances will bring his fate, in all its force, 
 upon my mind. The other day, I happened to 
 
 ■^
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 241 
 
 be present in the cottage of a tenant, who lay 
 in his death-sickness, endeavouring with all the 
 power of his heart and mind, to review and 
 anticipate the coming judgment on the whole. 
 When I saw him piously receiving the rites of 
 his religion, and dying at last amid the audible 
 prayers of his family, how keenly did the 
 thought of my father's murder penetrate my 
 soul, when I compared it with this peaceful 
 parting ! " 
 
 Edmund paused, but the stranger made no 
 remark. ^ 
 
 " Still," continued Edmund, " I would not 
 exchange his lot with that of his murderer." 
 
 " No, no — oh, no," replied the stranger. 
 
 " To be sure," said Edmund, " I can but 
 guess what the remorse attending such a crime 
 should be, but even from conjecture, I wonder 
 how a human being could prefer the custody of 
 such a torturing secret, even to detection and 
 ignominy." 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 S42 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 " Hanging,*" said the stranger, " is such a 
 horrid death." 
 
 "But can it, short as the anguish is, be 
 anything so horrible as the remorse for such a 
 deed?" 
 
 " Oh, no, I said not that,"" replied the 
 stranger, " for sure I am — at least I think — 
 that were the innocent truly to know what it is 
 to feel remorse, they would never steep their 
 hands in crime. But they know nothing of it — 
 books — legends — all are painted flame to the 
 fire of genuine remorse in a bosom that is 
 capable of feeling it." 
 
 " If such be your opinion," said Edmund, 
 " how do you account for the apparent indif- 
 ference in which many live who are known to 
 have perpetrated the most appalling crimes?" 
 
 " I know not," said the stranger; " that such 
 is the fact appears indisputable, but I cannot 
 account for it on natural reasons. Yet dreadful 
 as it is to feel remorse, so far at least as one may
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 243 
 
 guess, to do nothing but tremble for the future, 
 and nothing but shudder at the past ; to lie on a 
 restless bed and find no comfort in the daylight, 
 nor in the sight of friends' faces, or the hearing 
 of familiar conversation ; I should still prefer 
 remorse in its most poignant form, to the 
 dreadful insensibility that you describe." 
 
 " You, then,'** said Edmund, '* would not be 
 one of those who prefer remorse to reparation ? '* 
 
 " How can I answer you ? " replied the 
 stranger. " Death, certahi death is a thing so 
 terrible to contemplate with a steady eye." 
 
 '' It would appear indeed, " said Edmund, 
 " as if there were persons who could find it 
 easier to inflict than to endure it." 
 
 At this moment the stranger, who scarcely 
 seemed to be in health during the whole con- 
 versation, complained of fatigue, and expressed 
 a wish to go to rest. Edmund ordered a light, 
 and the servant went before to prepare the 
 room. 
 
 " There's no sin, I hope, Sir," said the old 
 
 M 2
 
 244 THE BARBER OF P.ANTRY. 
 
 man, turning round with difficulty as he slowly 
 walked towards the chamber door ; " There's no 
 sin after all, I hope, that may not meet forgive- 
 ness. Even you, Sir, I am sure, could forgive 
 the man who has injured you so nearly, provided 
 he were humbly to beg forgiveness at your feet. 
 How much more reasonably might he hope for 
 mercy at its very source ? " 
 
 " The difference is essential,'^ answered 
 Edmund. " I am far from feeling personal 
 resentment against the author of my father's 
 death. I do not mean to boast that I am free 
 from even the first impulses of passions that are 
 common to our nature, but as there are pangs 
 that pierce too deep for tears — as there is bliss 
 too exquisite for laughter — so also there are 
 injuries that in their very magnitude exclude 
 all thought of self-redress — that in a peculiar 
 manner seem to make vengeance (as sure it is 
 in every case) an usurpation of the divine pre- 
 
 rogative." 
 
 The stranger retired, and Edmund soon after
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY, 
 
 245 
 
 followed his example. He liad not yet, however, 
 closed his eyes, when the door opened, and a 
 head was protruded into the apartment. It 
 was that of old Rick Lillis. 
 
 " Whist ! Misther Edmund ! " 
 
 " Well, Rick ? " 
 
 " Are you asleep, Sir ? " 
 
 " How could I answer your call if I were ? " 
 
 " Sure enough, Sir," said Rick, coming in 
 and closing the door behind him. " Do you 
 know that sthrange jettleman. Sir?" 
 
 " Not I. Do you know anything of him ? '\ 
 
 " Oh, no, Sir, only I just stepped in to 
 mention a dhroll thing I seen him doing that 
 
 surprised me " 
 
 " Doing ? When ? Is he not in his room .? " 
 " He was, Sir, an' I seen the candle shinin' 
 there when I was walkin' down the lawn to go 
 home for the night, but of a sudden it moved, 
 an' out it come to the parlour. " I declare to 
 my heart," says I, '* I'll go back an' see what 
 that lad wants out in the parlour again. So I
 
 246 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 crep up to the windee, an' I jest tuk off my hat 
 this way an* peeped in, and sure there I seen 
 him plain enough. An' what do you think was 
 he doin; Sir ? " 
 
 '«How can I tell?" 
 
 " Sure enough. Well, he had the candle ruz 
 up in his hand, an' he viewin' the pecthur — 
 your poor father's pecthur that was — again the 
 wall, an' if he did, afther viewin' it all over, he 
 med towards the table, an' down he sat, an' 
 covered his face this way with his two hands for 
 as good as a quarter of an hour ; an' when he 
 done thinkin', or whatsomever he was doin', he 
 ruz up again an' tuk out a little pocket book an' 
 wrote something; but, just at that moment, it so 
 happened that I hot the pane o' glass with the 
 lafe o' my hat unknownst, an' he started like a 
 little robineen, which I did also, an' run for the 
 bare life, round by the haggart an' in the 
 kitchen doore in dhread o' my life he'd ketch 
 me. An' that's my story." 
 
 " It is curious,"''' said Moynehan. '' Were "^
 
 THE BAllBER OF BANTRY. 247 
 
 you able to learn from his boatman who they 
 were ? " 
 
 " Not a word, Sir. Many an offer I med, 
 but it's no use for me," 
 
 On the following morning, to the astonish- 
 ment of all the family, the stranger was no- 
 where to be found. The bed appeared as if it 
 had been slept in, but there was no other trace 
 remaining of their visitor. All inquiry was 
 vain ; and they ceased at length to speak of 
 what had taken place.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 What was more singular, the manner of the 
 stranger'*s disappearance was as much a secret 
 to himself as to any body else. He had gone to 
 rest on the preceding night in the bed which was 
 assigned to him, nor did he wake till after sun- 
 rise on the following morning. What then was 
 his astonishment and terror to find himself 
 fully dressed, wrapped in his cloak, and lying in 
 a meadow on the roadside, within more than a 
 mile from the river, and in sight of the village 
 
 of B ! Ashamed, however, to return 
 
 to his hostess and her son, after so singular an 
 adventure, and not knowing how he could obtain 
 credit for the truth, he pursued his way without 
 interruption.
 
 THE BARBER OF BAXTRY. 249 
 
 It happened in a few months after, that 
 Edmund Moynehan returning late from a 
 journey, called into Rath Danaher, where he was 
 acquainted. In the course of the evening, the 
 conversation turned upon a report then preva- 
 lent about B , respecting a "haunted 
 
 house" in the outskirts of the place, which had 
 once, they said, been tenanted by a barber of 
 the name of O'Berne, but in consequence of 
 having got an ill-name, had for a long time con- 
 tinued uninhabited. The barber and his wife, 
 they understood, had died abroad, but, more thanir 
 once of late, strange noises had been heard about 
 the place at night, and one person in particular 
 distinctly averred that he had seen the ghost of 
 the barber himself, with a light in his hand, 
 going through all his professional evolutions as 
 if attending and entertaining customers. One 
 or two, they said, on the strength of this report, 
 had had the courage to sit up alone at night to 
 question the phantom, but in vain, for they had 
 neither seen nor heard any thing supernatural. 
 
 M S
 
 J250 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 So highly was Edmund's curiosity excited by 
 this account, that he immediately formed the 
 resolution to watch with Lillis for the appearance 
 of the phantom. The moment he announced 
 this determination, he became, as may be sup- 
 posed, the hero of the company. All crowded 
 about him describing the fearful nature of the 
 sounds which had been heard, and advising him 
 to give up the idea as rash and foolish. At one 
 time, they said, steps as of hoofs iron-shod were 
 heard resounding through the house ; at another, 
 whispers and sighs were audibly breathed in the 
 very face of the listener ; while at other times, a 
 heavy pace was heard descending the stairs, and 
 at every landing place a leap that shook the walls 
 to their foundation and made every door upon 
 that story fly open as if burst by lightning. 
 
 It may be easily supposed that, of the two, 
 Rick Lillis was not the more desirous to put 
 this audacious experiment in execution. He 
 was encouraged, however, on understanding that 
 the boatman was to be of the party. On the
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. ^51 
 
 following evening, the three set out together to 
 the barber's house. The night was falling fast, 
 but a bright crescent supplied the place of the 
 declining day-light. The barber's house had 
 all the appearance of a long deserted tenement. 
 The windows were broken, the shutters shut, 
 the little flower-plots overgrown with weeds, and 
 the wood-work of the building crushed and 
 worm-eaten. On entering the house, Rick and 
 the boatman proceeded to make two large fires, 
 one for themselves in an inner room, the other 
 for Edmund Moynehan, in that which had here- 
 tofore served the purpose of a kitchen. In each 
 there was a table laid with lights and materials 
 for supper. In what had been the kitchen 
 young Moynehan remained alone, having given 
 directions to his two attendants, whatever they 
 might see or hear, not to intrude on him uncalled. 
 As this was the chamber which had especially 
 the fame of being '' haunted," Rick felt no 
 inclination whatever to dispute his commands, 
 and would even have been better pleased that 
 the prohibition had been wholly unconditional.
 
 252 THE BARBER OF BAMTKY. 
 
 Night had long fallen, and the two fellow- 
 servants, encouraged by the absence of any 
 thing which could give countenance to the 
 awful rumours they had heard, began to con- 
 verse with freedom, while they laid hands on the 
 cheer which had been laid before them. Rick, 
 in the meantime, exerted all his eloquence and 
 all his ghostly lore in labouring to shake the 
 obstinate incredulity of his companion, who could 
 and would admit no possibility of the truth of 
 such a rumour. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, at last, in indignation, 
 "if you were to see it yourself would you 
 believe it ? " 
 
 " I would." 
 
 " 'Tis a wondher. An' you won't believe 
 other people when they sees it. Don't they say 
 many a time, that if a man buries money, or if he 
 didn't pay his debts before he died, or wronged 
 any body, he'll be troubled that way, an' risin' 
 ever an' always till " 
 
 He paused, for at this moment a noise was 
 heard at the door of the room in which they
 
 THE IJARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 sat. It opened, and a sight appeared which froze 
 the very heart of Rick, and even appalled for a 
 time the incredulous mind of the boatman. A 
 figure wearing a barber's apron, and bearing in 
 its hands a basin and other professional imple- 
 ments, was seen distinctly to advance into the 
 lighted room, and slowly moved towards where 
 the watchers sat. Rick muttered a fervent 
 ejaculation. 
 
 " I'll spake to it," said the boatman. 
 
 " A' Tim, eroo ! Tim a-vourneen ! " 
 
 " Do you mind his eyes ? " said Tim . 
 
 " Blazin' like two coals o' fire," said Rick. 
 " A' Tim, what'll become of us ! — Oh, wisha, 
 wisha ! " 
 
 " ni spake to it," said Tim. 
 
 " A' Tim, don't asthore ! The less you say 
 to it the betther, till the third time of it comin', 
 an' if I wait for the third time, I'll give you 
 lave to say my name isn't Rick Lillis." 
 
 The figure passed slowly by, and into the
 
 254 THE BARBER OF BANTRV. 
 
 room in which young Moynehan sat. While 
 this event proceeded, the latter was occupied with 
 thoughts of an absorbing kind. The loneliness 
 of the place, and the purpose for which he had 
 come thither, threw him naturally into a mood 
 of melancholy reflection, and his thoughts gra- 
 dually fixed themselves upon his father's story, 
 which always occupied the deepest place in his 
 mind. He regretted extremely that he had not 
 taken greater pains to search after their strange 
 guest, whose conduct respecting the portrait, toge- 
 ther with his unceremonious departure, had indi- 
 cated something more than an accidental interest. 
 While he pursued these thoughts, the door of 
 the inner room was, opened and it required all 
 his presence of mind to enable him to maintain 
 his resolution. The barber's ghost was there 
 indeed before his eyes ! One glance, however, 
 at the old man's countenance was sufficient to 
 re- assure him, while at the same time it touched 
 as if with an electric tangent the deepest feelings
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTllY. 255 
 
 of his nature. The figure, differing only in attire, 
 was that of the old man to whom they had given 
 a nighf s lodging a short time before ! 
 
 Edmund paused ; he held his very breath 
 with caution, while the figure, with dreamy eyes, 
 and measured thoughtful action, set about the 
 task which he seemed to have in hand. His 
 motion, however, although soft, was not so noise- 
 less as to intimate the presence of a spiritual 
 being. He laid aside the basin, took out a 
 razor which appeared covered with rust, and 
 seemed to whet it for some moments. He then 
 paused for a long time, and seemed to suffer 
 under the infliction of some excruciating doubt. 
 
 "Thou shalt not steal!" — he said in a 
 whisper — " thafs true ! But must our children 
 perish ? " 
 
 He paused, and Edmund lent his whole mind 
 to listen. 
 
 " Mary !" continued the barber, '* lay by 
 that prayer book, and attend to me. Mary, I 
 say ! True — true ! she is asleep — they are all
 
 256 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 asleep but he and I. Who'll find it out ? 
 None — none — there is no fear." 
 
 Here he set a chair and seemed as if watch- 
 ing the movements of another person. 
 
 " Honesty ? " said he, still speaking in broken 
 whispers, '* what's that? Is it justice? That 
 my babes should starve while he — besides — 'tis 
 public — the public money — a mere grain — a 
 drop — Oh ! all the gold ! what a heap ! what a 
 heap of gold ! Here's riches ! Where's the . 
 evil ! 'Tis nothing to the state, and we shall 
 
 never want again." 
 
 It then suddenly appeared as if his thoughts 
 had taken a wholly new direction, for he put on 
 a hurried manner, and exclaimed with great 
 rapidity, but yet in whispered accents — 
 
 '' What's to be done ? — He wakes ! He will 
 search the house and all will be discovered. I 
 know it — the pear-tree in the orchard — Is it 
 locked again, and the stones as heavy as the 
 gold ?— Thief ?— hark ! Who calls me thief ? " 
 
 Here he shrunk upon himself with so much
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 257 
 
 terror as to contract his figure to nearly half its 
 usual height. " Oh, yes — all that is past ! I 
 can no longer look them in the face." Again 
 his manner changed, and, sinking on his knees, 
 he fixed his eyes upon the ground, as if arrested 
 by some object of rivetting interest. " Who 
 has done this ? " he said in a whisper. " Quite 
 stiff and cold ! and the portmanteau gone ! 
 Oh, misery ! what a night ! how ill begun, 
 and ended immeasurably worse — let him lie 
 there awhile — we'll find a time to bury it. But 
 the gold ! yes ! yes ! — the gold ! the gold ! the 
 gold ! We are safe at last — our children shall 
 not starve." 
 
 Here he held up his hands as if in exultation, 
 and burst into a loud and lengthened fit of 
 laughter, while he hugged his arms close, as 
 if they held a treasure, and his countenance 
 was convulsed between extreme delight and 
 biting agony. After a little time, he started 
 as if some new thought had struck him.
 
 258 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 " The razor — " he said " the razor — where 
 did I leave it ? *' 
 
 Edmund, however, had secured what he 
 now considered the dumb but fatal witness 
 of its owner's guilt. The distress of the 
 sleeper seemed extreme at not finding it, but 
 again his thoughts appeared to run into a 
 new direction, and after muttering something 
 more about the orchard and the pear-tree, he 
 advanced to the kitchen door and opened it. 
 Edmund quickly followed, but the door was fast 
 before he reached, nor could all his strength 
 or dexterity avail to open it. Conceiving the 
 quantity of evidence hardly sufficient to take 
 any decided step upon the instant, he waited 
 until morning, when he hastened to lay the 
 whole before a neighbouring magistrate. It 
 was determined, in order, by the number of 
 witnesses, to add as much as possible to the 
 evidence already procured, to watch for another 
 night in the deserted house, in the expectation 
 
 *
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 259 
 
 of a second ghostly visit from its former owner. 
 The police supplied by the magistrate were 
 stationed in the garden, while Edmund, now 
 without light or fire, awaited, in a secret corner 
 of the kitchen, the appearance of him whom he 
 strongly suspected to be his father's murderer. 
 He was not disappointed. About midnight 
 the barber came, but not, as on the preceding 
 night, a walking sleeper. He entered wide 
 awake — wrapt in his cloak, and followed by a 
 man whom Edmund easily recognised as the 
 boatman who had spent the night with him at 
 their house. 
 
 "You shall be well rewarded," said the 
 barber, "but be secret. I will show you 
 where the body lies that I told you of — but 
 remember there are the deepest reasons for 
 keeping secret the whole story of my friend's 
 death, and though I wish to have him laid 
 in holy ground, it would be evil and not good 
 to have it talked of."
 
 £60 THE BxVRBER OF BAN TRY. 
 
 " Never fear," said the boatman, *' only show 
 the spot.*" 
 
 The barber accordingly led the way to the 
 garden. Edmund followed to the pear-tree, 
 at the root of which they dug up the soil, 
 setting their spades in the direction indicated 
 by the old man. In a short time he saw 
 them raise from the earth the bones of a human 
 figure, which they placed in a linen cloth upon 
 the ground. Closing in the grave, they took, 
 the cloth between them, and were in the act 
 of retiring from the orchard, when Edmund 
 advanced upon the path before them and com- 
 manded them to halt. 
 
 " Who's there ? '"* exclaimed the barber. 
 
 " The son of your victim," answered Edmund ; 
 " of him whom you murdered with this razor, 
 and whose bones you are conveying hence — 
 you are our prisoner." 
 
 The barber had scarcely heard these words 
 when he sunk, overpowered by terror, at the
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 261 
 
 feet of his accuser. The assistant, affrighted at 
 what was said, was about to fly, when he was 
 intercepted by the magistrate's police, who 
 brought the whole party before that functionary 
 on the following morning. The latter, having 
 heard the whole of the circumstances, was about 
 to issue a warrant of committal, when the barber, 
 who had not said a word in his own defence 
 during the whole of the proceedings, requested 
 at length to be heard in explanation. His wish 
 was instantly complied with, and the deepest 
 silence and attention prevailed while he spoke as 
 follows : — 
 
 " It will surprise you, Mr. Magistrate, and 
 you, Mr. Moynehan, to learn, that notwith- 
 standing all this weight of circumstance, I am 
 not guilty of the offence with which you charge 
 me. When I have proved my innocence, as I 
 ghall do, my case will furnish a strong instance 
 of the fallibility of any evidence that is indirect 
 in a case where human life is interested. All 
 the circumstances are true — my extreme neces-
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 sity — his midnight visit to my house — his dis- 
 appearance on that night, accompanied by signs 
 of violence — my subsequent increase of wealth — 
 and the seeming revelation of my walking dream, 
 as overheard by Mr. Moynehan — and yet I am 
 not guilty of this crime. If you will have 
 patience to listen, I will tell you how far my 
 guilt extended, and where it stopt." 
 
 He then detailed the circumstances preceding 
 the nocturnal visit of the deceased tax-gatherer,' 
 disguising nothing of his poverty, nor of the 
 many temptations by which he was beset. 
 
 " Still," said he, " I tell you a simple truth 
 when I assert that during the whole time of this 
 visit, while he lay sleeping in the chair, and 
 while I held the razor in my hand, so shocking 
 a thought as that of taking a fellow-creature's 
 life never once, even for an instant, crossed my 
 mind. But there was another temptation which 
 did suggest itself, and to which I did give way. 
 The portmanteau, containing the money, lay on 
 a chair near the window — he slept profoundly
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 — I took the key from bis pocket — I removed 
 the money, which was chiefly in gold and silver, 
 and filling the two bags in which it was con- 
 tained with small pebbles of about an equal 
 weight, I replaced the portmanteau as it was 
 before. I then awoke him with difiiculty, and 
 fearful of being discovered if he remained till 
 morning, persuaded him to resume his journey. 
 " He had scarcely left the house when I 
 found myself seized with an unaccountable 
 terror at the idea of detection and ignominy. 
 Accordingly, abstracting from the sum a few 
 pieces of silver for present uses, I made fast the 
 remainder in a bag, and hurried out into the air 
 uncertain whither to direct my steps. I ran 
 across the neighbouring fields with the design of 
 seeking out some place of concealment for my 
 treasure. An old ruin within a short distance 
 of the village suggested itself as a favourable 
 spot for my design, and thither accordingly I 
 hastened. In an obscure corner of the building 
 I deposited the money, and returned to my own
 
 264 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 
 
 house with a mind distracted by anxiety and 
 remorse. 
 
 " On my way home, I heard voices, and the 
 sound of horses' feet, in a field upon my right. 
 I listened, and the words I caught seemed to be 
 those of people who were exercising and leaping 
 horses. Soon after, a horse without a rider left 
 the field at full gallop. The sounds ceased, and 
 in a short time I saw two horsemen gallopping 
 from the place. Strange as it may seem, I have 
 the proof of what I am about to state, and let 
 it warn you. Sir, and all who are in power, to 
 weigh well the grounds on which they decide 
 the guilt or innocence of the wretches whom 
 they judge. I entered the field, and found there, 
 lying at a short distance from the ditch, the 
 body of the tax-collector, newly dead, with a 
 dreadful wound upon the head, and the port- 
 manteau gone ! My first impulse — I know not 
 therefore — was to conceal the work of murder. 
 Favoured by the night, which still continued 
 stormy, I conveyed the body to my own orchard.
 
 THE BAliBER OF BANTRY. S65 
 
 where I gave it temporary interment in the 
 spot from which I was last night detected in 
 the act of seeing it removed. It would be 
 vain to tell what poignancy this dreadful addi- 
 tion to the terrors of the night imparted to my 
 remorse. I felt almost as if I had been myself 
 the author of his destruction, and the apparent 
 certainty, likewise, that the detection of the 
 crime which I had committed, would be suffi- 
 cient to convict me also in the eyes of all judges 
 of that which I had not^ made my life one 
 protracted thought of fear and misery." ^ 
 
 Here the barber related, with feelings of the 
 deepest shame, the device which he had adopted 
 of digging up the treasure in the presence of the 
 cobbler, in order to throw a veil over the real 
 origin of his new prosperity. 
 
 " Still," said he, " I could not be at rest 
 amid the scenes which continually reminded me 
 of that terrible event. The consciousness of 
 meanness joined to guilt added the poignancy of 
 self-contempt to the deeper anguish of remorse. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 ^66 THE BARBER OF BANTR.Y, 
 
 I left the country, and sought refuge in change 
 of scene from my fears and my remembrances, 
 
 " But it was in vain. I could not find repose, 
 for I carried my violated conscience still about 
 me. Every new article I purchased for the use 
 of my family— every fresh morsel of food that I 
 lifted to my lips, seemed like a new and aggra- 
 vated theft. I would at this time have given the 
 whole world for a friend to whom I could confide 
 the secret that destroyed me. 1 thought of 
 making a full disclosure to my wife, but she was 
 far too good and holy to be the depository of 
 such a confidence. 
 
 " I entered into trade, and was successful, and 
 in my success, for a time, I lost something of my 
 inward agony. I will not weary you, gentle- 
 men, by a long detail of the means by which I 
 became acquainted with the names of the real 
 perpetrators of the more heinous offence. They 
 were two persons who dined in company with 
 Mr. Moynehan at Castle Tobin, on the evening 
 previous to his disappearance. One died in
 
 THE BARBER OF BANTRY. 267 
 
 Ireland soon after the occurrence — the other, 
 Wilham Cusack (commonly called Buffer), died 
 abroad, and left this written confession of their 
 common guilt, which I obtained as you shall hear. 
 " The hand of Providence began to press 
 upon my house. One member after another of 
 my family dropped into the grave, until I 
 remained alone in the world with my remorse 
 for a companion. Misfortune humbled me — I 
 sought relief at length at the right source, and 
 revealed the whole to a clergyman who attended 
 me in a dangerous illness. It was through his. 
 means that document came into my possession — 
 and it is in fulfilment of his injunction that I 
 have now come to make restitution of the money 
 which I have so long retained." 
 
 Strange as the barber's defence appeared to 
 Edmund and the magistrate, it was fully sub- 
 stantiated in the sequel by the testimony of the 
 clergyman who had placed the confession, for 
 his security, in the hands of O'Berne. The 
 mode of his detection by Edmund Moynehan 
 
 N 2
 
 268 THE BARBER OF BAN TRY. 
 
 relieved the barber from an apprehension which 
 had long sat next to his remorse upon his min d* 
 This was the fancy that he had been haunted 
 by an evil spirit who disturbed him in his 
 sleep, and had on one occasion engaged him in 
 a fatal compact. It now appeared that him- 
 self, in his somnambulism, had performed all 
 those feats which had so much perplexed him, 
 and that his midnight excursion to the fir-grove 
 was but a dream to which he never would have 
 paid attention, but for the corroboration afforded 
 to it, by the other mysterious occurrences. 
 There was no prosecution instituted on the 
 minor offence, and the barber continued long 
 after to lead a penitential life in the neighbour- 
 hood. The house, however, has long been 
 razed (as we have already mentioned) to the 
 earth, and it is legend alone that preserves the 
 memory of its situation amongst the neighbour^ 
 \ng villagers.
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE.
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 Stan' out, my skin I 
 
 I dinner' d wi' a lord ! 
 
 Burns. 
 
 " Molly ! Molly, I tell you ! " 
 
 " Who's there ? " 
 
 '' A' Molly, eroo, open the doore." 
 
 " Who's there, again ? " 
 
 " What wJids there, woman ! 'Tis 1 that's 
 there. What talks it is ! " 
 
 " O dear ! O dear, masther Pether, is it 
 you ? Stay a minute, until I'll light a rish, 
 an' ril let you in this instant. O dear ! dear ! " 
 
 The foregoing dialogue passed between Peter 
 Guerin, lately a " daleing man " in our village, 
 who was looked up to as one of our principal 
 citizens, and his solitary domestic, Molly
 
 270 THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 Hagerty. Peter was one of those quiet, con- 
 tented characters, who feel no desire to move 
 a step out of the course which has been traced 
 out for them from childhood. His father and 
 grandfather tenanted the small house and shop 
 which remained in his possession during his 
 life, but are now among the " ruins " of the 
 place. The family succeeded each other, as 
 wave follows wave, each pursuing in turn the 
 same unvaried course, and passing away without 
 leaving mark or sign behind it. For the last ' 
 forty years, winter and summer, with the excep- 
 tion of a few occasional fits of illness, has 
 Peter Guerin been observed every morning (as 
 regular as the six o"'clock bell summoned the 
 labourers to their work at the neighbouring 
 "Great House"") taking down the shuts from his 
 shop-window, and arranging his humble store of 
 merchandise for the traffic of the day. Peter 
 may be very ignorant, but more might be said 
 for him than for many who are very learned. 
 He has his own round of duties which he 
 performs with the exactness of a soldier. He
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 271 
 
 never yet was missed out of the right corner 
 of his pew at chapel on a Sunday, except in 
 case of serious illness aforesaid; there never 
 was a collection at the doors to which Peter 
 did not contribute his halfpenny ; at Easter and 
 Christinas his half-crown is amongst the first 
 presented to his parish priest, and the like sum 
 he patriotically disburses once a year " to keep 
 O'Connell going."" Peter never was seen intoxi- 
 cated in his life; he never was known to refuse 
 assistance which he could afford to a fellow 
 creature in distress, and there is not an indi- 
 vidual in the village who can say that Peter' 
 Guerin ever wronged him either in purse or 
 character. Such has been the tenour of Peter 
 Guerin's public hfe. With whatever virtues 
 his more secret course has been adorned (and 
 doubtless they are many), as Peter chooses to 
 keep a veil upon them^ we will not undertake 
 to lift it. 
 
 We have, however, left Peter Guerin stand- 
 ing too long at his own door. It was opened
 
 272 THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 at length by old Molly, his only housekeeper 
 (for Peter was never married), and he entered 
 with a disappointed and meditative look. 
 
 " That's right, Molly,'"* he said, " I see you 
 have a good fire, an' dear knows 'twas wan tin' 
 to me. Teir me now, have you a bone o' mait 
 or a roast piatie in the house that a man could 
 ait ? " 
 
 '' A** masther, didn't they give you any thing 
 at the Great House ? " . 
 
 " Do what I bid you, Molly, first, get me 
 something to ait, an' when that's done, you 
 may ask me as many questions as you like." 
 
 While Molly complied with his directions, 
 Peter Guerin laid aside his hat and walking- 
 stick (the constant, and generally the only, 
 companion of his excursions), and took his seat 
 at the fireside, where a table was soon spread 
 with some roast potatoes and the relics of a 
 piece of bacon. 
 
 " If ever I dine out at the Great House again, 
 Molly, it's no matther," said her master, as he
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 273 
 
 addressed himself to the homely fare before 
 him, with an energy that did not say much for 
 Lord Peppercorn'*s hospitality. " I never met 
 so many misfortunes, in all my life before, as I 
 did this blessed day/' 
 
 " O vo ! vo ! masther, aVa gal, do I hear 
 you say so ? A' what happened you ? or what 
 carried you there at all ?" 
 
 "I'll tell you then, Molly, what carried me 
 there, an' what carries many a one where they 
 have no business goin', an' that's folly. Listen 
 hether, an' I'll tell you how it was. You know 
 I have a brother in the army, Captain James 
 Guerin, that's abroad in foreign parts?" 
 
 " I know, a-chree." 
 
 " Well, it seems he come across a young 
 brother o' Lord Peppercorn's abroad, in Paris, 
 an' he had it in his power to do him a service 
 in money matthers. I can't say I know the 
 rights of the matther all out, but it was some- 
 thing I know about a Palli/ Roi/al, an' he saved 
 young Peppercorn (that's his lordship's brother) 
 
 N 3
 
 2'74< THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 a mint o' money. Well, Captain Peppercorn 
 wrote home to his lordship, statin' how hand- 
 some Jim thrated him, an' makin' mention 
 likewise that he had a brother in this village 
 (manin' myself), and that he hoped his lord- 
 ship, in regard o' what Jim done, would show 
 him some 'tintion. Well, I knew nothing, be 
 coorse, of all this ; so what was my serprize, 
 when I seen Lord Peppercorn's coach an' four, 
 a'^fortnit ago, dhraw up oppozzit the doore 
 abroad, an' who should walk out of it, an' 
 into my shop, only my Lord Peppercorn him- 
 self. So I made a great bow. ' Mr. Guerin, 
 I presume,' says he, afther makin' another. 
 ' No presumption in life, my lordship,' says 
 I, ' Peter Guerin is my name.' ' I suppose 
 you did not get my ticket, Mr. Guerin,' says 
 he, ' I was not fortunate enough to find you 
 at home the day I called before.' ' What 
 ticket, plase my lordship's grace ? "* says I. 
 An' hardly I said the word, when I remembered 
 you ga' me an ally blasther card with Lord
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 275 
 
 Peppercorn's name wrote out upon it in copper 
 plate, that we didn"'t know from Adam what 
 it was for. So I told him I got it. 'Well, 
 Mr. Guerin,' says he, 'we hoped to have the 
 pleasure o' seein' you at Peppercorn Hall before 
 now.** ' Why so, my lord ? ' says I. « Why,' 
 says he, laughing, ' I thought you would do 
 me the favour to return the visit.' * O, whaix, 
 plase my lordship,** says I, ' I haven't time for 
 goin** about that way. Business must be 
 minded, my lord. It's short the house would 
 
 be over my head if that*'s the way I looked 
 
 • 
 
 to it.' ' Well,' says he, laughing very hearty 
 (he's a mighty good-humoured kind o' man), 
 ' you'll give us the pleasure of your company 
 some day or other that you may be disengaged.'' 
 ' Is it any thing the ladies would want in 
 our line, my lord?** says I. 'O no,' says he, 
 ' we wish that you should dine with us and let 
 us have the pleasure of seeing you.' Well, I 
 thought that the dhrollest thing ever I hear. 
 * Sure,' says I to meself, * isn't the shop doore
 
 276 THE GRl^AT HOUSE. 
 
 open to 'em every day o' the whole year if they 
 wanted to see me. Abn't I to be seen here be 
 the whole parish, every day, as puncthial as the 
 post ? I knows what it is, 'says I, ' they 
 wants to see my manners, anV says I, ' if they 
 does, I'm not one bit in dhread of 'em. I 
 was taught atin' and dhrinkin,' says I, 'before 
 any in that house was born, an' that's an art,' 
 says I, ' that's like swimmin' in wather, when 
 once a man learns it, he never whorgets it afther.' 
 So I up an' tould my lordship, I'd go dine with 
 him with the greatest o' pleasure. ' An' 
 whisper hether, my lord, ' says I ; ' may be any o' 
 the ladies would like to see something new in 
 my line. I have the dawniest pattherns jest 
 come in last night by the jingle.' Well, I 
 thought he'd dhrop down, laughin'. ' O bring 
 what you please with you, Mr. Guerin,' says he, 
 ' so that you bring yourself. Well, what day 
 shall it be ? ' So I began to think. ' Plase my 
 lordship,' says I, ' as this is a Saturday, we'll 
 split the difference between this and Sunday
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 277 
 
 week, an' call it a Wednesday.' * Very well,' 
 says Lord Peppercorn, ' a Wednesday let it be. 
 Good morning) Mr. Guerin.' — So I bowed and 
 wished him a good mornin', an' he made for the 
 coach and four, an' dhrov away at a great rate. 
 " Well, Molly, Wednesday come, that's this 
 dayman' as I knew the Great House was some 
 miles out o' the town, I determined in my own 
 mind to start airly, lest I'd be late for dinner. 
 So about twelve o'clock to-day (afther spendin' 
 the mornin' over a 'Varsal Spellin' Book, 
 reharsin' the principles o' politeness), I put the 
 pattherns in my pocket for the ladies, an' I 
 shaved an' dressed, with my new blue coat an' 
 yallow vest, an' white caravat, an' cotton 
 stockin's, an"* my cassimer throwsers, an' my 
 new Carolina hat, an' away with me for the 
 Great House, with my stick in my hand, 
 determined in my own mind that if I was but a 
 poor dalein' man, still I'd show 'em I knew 
 what belonged to manners. Well, afther 
 walkin' about four small miles or better, I come
 
 ^78 THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 to a great big gate, where I seen two tall pillars 
 at each side of it, with a big stone dog a-top of 
 aich of 'ein, grinnin' down at me, and a 
 beautiful little house, just close inside the gate 
 among the threes, an' an old woman sittin' an' 
 knitten' a grey stockin' at the doore. ' God 
 bless your work, ma^am,' says I. ' An"* you too, 
 Sir,' says she. ' Pray, ma'am,' says I, spakin' 
 in to her through the bars o' the gate, ' can you 
 let me know, if you please, where is the Great 
 House ? ' ' This is it. Sir/ says she. ' O, then/ 
 says I, ' that's an aise to me, for that's the place 
 I'm lookin' for, an"* I'm tired from walkin'.' So 
 she got a grate big key an"* opened the gate. 
 Well, when I seen the two big grand gates 
 goin' back to let me in, I got a thremblin', an' 
 I thought I never would be able to act proper, 
 but I pulled up again — ' courage, Pether,' says 
 I, ' what are they but men an' women afther 
 all ? What would you do if it was a sperit or a 
 giant you had to face,' says I. * Manners, 
 Pether,' says I, ' don't have 'em makin' a song
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 279 
 
 o' you/ So I went in an' took a chair be the 
 fire-side. If they call this a Great House,' says 
 I to myself, ' my own is almost as big as it ! ' 
 
 '' There was no great signs of any prepara- 
 tions inside, nobody only the ould woman an' a 
 grey pusheen cat, and some chickens that were 
 in a coob at the other end o** the place. And, 
 as for dinner, I seen no signs of it, exceptin' a 
 pot o' piaties that was boilin' over the fire. 
 But it was a wiser man than me that said 
 
 ' Ax not many questions in a sthrange place 
 For fear you'd be apt to get a broken face — ' 
 
 so I kep' discoorsin' about the crops an' other 
 things until I was fairly tired, an' no one 
 showin' themselves, an"" I gettin' as hungry as 
 could be. ' Pi'ay, ma'am,' says I at last, 'can 
 you tell me is Lord Peppercorn at home?' 
 ' Oh, yes, Sir, ' says she, ' he is — it couldn't 
 be otherwise, for he's to have a great party o' 
 ladies an' gentlemen to dine with him to-day.* 
 ' Oh, well,' says I, in my own mind, * I see it's
 
 280 " THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 all right; they're only dhressin' or preparin' 
 some way, an' I suppose 111 shortly see some of 
 'em.' Well, I held on for as good as another 
 hour, convarsin' an' rubbin' down the pusheen 
 cat, until I thought they never would come. 
 ' Pray, ma'am,' says I again, ' can you tell me 
 will Lord Peppercorn soon be here ? ' ' Here, 
 Sir ! ' says she, quite surprised, ' a' what should 
 bring him here ? ' ' Why, I thought you tould 
 me ma'am, that this was the Great House.' 
 ' This the Great House ! ' says she, laughin' out 
 loud — ' O dear, Sir, this is only the porther's 
 lodge,' says she, ' the house itself is up the 
 aveny.' Well, I was sthruck of a hape. 
 ' Here's purty work, Pether,'' says I to myself, 
 ' two hours gone for nothin', an' I suppose there 
 won't be a morsel left for you to ait, an' you 
 afther walkin' four mile o' ground to overtake 
 it. Wait till I come dinin' out to a Great 
 House again. It's no matther.' 
 . " Well, Molly, I got up, an' I went along the 
 aveny the ould woman pointed out to me, an' if
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 281 
 
 I did, the sight was a'most took out o' my two 
 eyes with the beauty an' the glory o' the place. 
 Such posies, an' bushes, an' threes, and walks 
 up to the very steps o' the hall doore ! An' if 
 that wasn't a Great House, it'*s no matther. It 
 bate Blarney an' Castle Hyde to tatthers. 
 
 " Well, I knocked at the hall doore, an' it 
 was opened, an' if it was, there I seen the great 
 hall an"* the staircase before me, twice as broad 
 as the shop from counther to counther, aiqual to 
 a coort-house, an' a number of fine jettlemen 
 standin' with male in their hair, all over goold, 
 an** red velvet. ' Who are these now ? ' thinks 
 I in my own mind. ' I suppose some other 
 great lords that is invited to the party. O 
 Pether, Pether ! how will you ever know how 
 to behave yourself before such grand company 
 and in such a grand place ? Nothing would do 
 you but to go dinin' out among lords and 
 ladies.' 
 
 " Well, I made a low bow to the jettlemen in 
 the red velvet small-clothes. An' if I did, not
 
 282 THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 one bit o' pride had they, but made me another, 
 an' axed me name. ' My name, jettlemen,' 
 says I, makin' another bow, ' is Pether Guerin, 
 at your sarvice.' With that you never seen 
 people come about me so civil an"* so busy as 
 they done. ' Your hat, Mr. Guerin,** cries one. 
 ' Your stick, Mr. Guerin,' cries another. ' O 
 dear jettlemen,' says I, ' I'm quite ashamed o' 
 givin' ye so much throuble,' says I, puttin' a 
 hand to my side, an' bowing to 'em all round by 
 way o' manners. 
 
 " Well, when that was done, one o"* the jet- 
 tlemen ran up the staircase before me. ' Mr. 
 Guerin,'' says he, when he was above. ' Comin', 
 Sir,' says I, ' comin.' Well, when I got to 
 the head o' the stairs, there I found him, 
 standin' at an open doore, as if he was waitin' 
 for me. * What's wantin'. Sir ? ' says I, makin' 
 towards him. He said nothin', only smiled a 
 little, an' signed with his hand for me to go in 
 the doore. In I went, an' there, sure enough, 
 I found a few ladies an' jettlemen, but not half
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 283 
 
 SO grand, nor half so well behaved, as those 
 in the hall. Not one of 'em, exceptin' Lord 
 Peppercorn himself, had the manners to get off 
 o* their chairs when I come in, an' when I'd 
 bow to any of 'em, in place o** returning it, 
 they''d make a bob with their heads, just that 
 way, as if they had pokers in place o' back- 
 bones, 
 
 " ' I was in dhread, my lord,' says I, afther 
 lookin' about an' seein' no signs o' dinner, ' that 
 I was behind time.' ' Oh no,' says he, laughing, 
 ' we don't dine before seven, but I'm glad you 
 have come early.' ' Seven ! ' thinks I to meself, 
 ' that's near four hours from us yet at laste, an' I 
 a'most perisht with the hunger, afther the long 
 walk, an' not atin' a bit since eight o'clock that 
 mornin*. That's eleven hours fastin', clear ! 
 Murther, what'll I do at all ?— O wait till they 
 ketch me comin' to dine at a Great House 
 again.' 
 
 " Well, Molly, there I was, talkin' an' lookin' 
 about me, for four long hours, an' I gnawed
 
 281 THE GREAT HOUSE* 
 
 inwardly with the hunger, but be coorse I had 
 too much manners to spake of it. At last, when 
 I was a' most off, the doore opened, an' in come 
 one of the jettlemen in the red velvet small- 
 clothes, an' tould 'em dinner was on the table. 
 ' A canary couldn't sing sweeter,' says I to 
 meself, listening to him. So they all got up, 
 an' every jettleman gev his arm to a lady, an' 
 out they went in pairs as if it is to a dance they 
 were goin\ The dinner was there before us 
 laid an' all ; but, what I most admired, was the 
 jettlemen I before spoke of in the red velvet 
 small-clothes, who, though they were the 
 grandest of all the company, behaved like the 
 very lowest, takin' away the plates an' showin' 
 the greatest attintion to every one present. 
 
 " I took my sate amongst the rest. ' What'll 
 you take, Misther Guerin,' says Lord Pepper- 
 corn. ' Why, then, my lord,' says I, ' since 
 you're man o' the house, what you have yourself 
 must be the best, an' I'll take some o' that if you 
 plase.** So he ga** me a helpin'. Well, I
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 2So 
 
 declare it to you, Molly, hardly had I took the 
 second mouthful, when he looked over at me, 
 an' ' Mr. Guerin,' says he, ' Lady Peppercorn 
 is looking at you*.' 'Why, then, my lord,' 
 says I, not knowin' what he was at, ' she's 
 heartily welcome, an"* a purtier pair of eyes she 
 couldn't have to do it,' says I. So they all 
 burst out laughin'' in spite o' themselves, ' I 
 mean to say, Mr. Guerin,' says he, again, ' that 
 Lady Peppercorn will take wine with you.' 
 ' O, now I twig you, my lord,' says I, ' with a 
 heart and a half, my lady, hob-nob with you, if 
 you please ! Well, Molly, while I was talkin' to 
 Lady Peppercorn, what does one o' the jettle- 
 men in red velvet do, but slip in a hand 
 under my elbow, an' whip away the plate from 
 me, a'most before I touched what was upon it ! 
 I could ait him with a grain o' salt ! — but I was 
 ashamed to call for it again, an' before I could 
 ax for another helpin', the whole o' what was 
 
 * An old-fashioned mode of encouraging a bashful guest to 
 take wine with the lady of the house.
 
 £86 THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 on the table was cleared away. ' O, murther, 
 Pether,' says I to meself, ' is that all you're to 
 get to night?' But, the minute afther, there 
 was a fresh dinner laid, an' they all went to 
 work again as brisk as ever. 
 
 " Well, I got another cut o' mait, an' says I, 
 now there's hopes Til be let ait a bit in peace 
 an' quietness, when — ' Misther Guerin, will you 
 do me the honour of wine ? ' says Lord Pepper- 
 corn. ' With pleasure, my lord,' says I, bowin' 
 down to my plate, quite mannerly. So while I 
 was drinking wine with Lord Peppercorn, what 
 should 1 see only the same jettleman in the red 
 velvet, slippin' in a hand for the plate again, an' 
 I not havin** a morsel of it touched. So I laid a 
 hoult of it with the other hand. 'Aisyawhile, 
 Sir,' says I, ' if you plase, Pm not done with 
 that yet.' Well, they all began laughin' as if it 
 was a play, so that I thought some o"" the ladies 
 would dhrop off o' their chairs. An' then one 
 of the jettlemen began takin' wine with me an' 
 another, an' another afther that, so that I
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. S87 
 
 couldn''t find time to ait one morsel, before the 
 table was cleared again. 
 
 " ' You're done for now, Pether,' says I, 
 ' you'll be starved alive.' Sorrow bit, Molly, 
 but there was a third dinner brought in to 'em ! 
 O sorrow word of a lie ! ' Oh, I see how it is,' 
 says I, * when once they begin they never stop 
 aitin' here. Well, 'tis a bad wind blows nobody 
 good, I'll get something at last.' So I was 
 helped the third time, an' I had just took up 
 the knife an' fork, an' was goin' to begin in 
 
 airnest, when a jettleman that sot close by me, 
 
 • 
 
 said in a whisper — ' What did the ladies do to 
 you, Misther Guerin, that you would'nt ax any 
 of 'em to take wine ! ' ' Why so, Sir,' says I, 
 ' is that manners ? ' ' O, dear, yes,' says he, 
 ' dont you see all the jettlemen doin' it? ' An' 
 sure enough, so they wor. So, not to be unman- 
 nerl}^, I began, an' I axed 'em all round, one 
 after another, an' hardly I had the last of 'em 
 done, when down comes the jettleman in red 
 velvet, an' sweeps all away before 'em again
 
 288 THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 without sayin' this or that. There was no help 
 for it. 
 
 " There I sat, a'most dead. ' What'll they 
 bring in next, I wondher,'' says I. 'Twasn't 
 long until I seen 'em comin** an' layin' before 
 every one at table a great big glass o' could 
 spring wather. ' Cool comfort, Pether,' says I — 
 ' but here goes for manners."* So I drank it off. 
 When the jettleman seen I dhrank it, he filFd it 
 again, an' if he did, I dhrank it again to plase 
 him ; but seein' he was goin** to fill it again, I . 
 couldn't stand it any longer. ' No more o"* that 
 Sir,' says I, 'if you plase.' Well, I thought 
 they never would stop laughin'. But, Molly, I 
 thought the sighth would be took out o' my two 
 eyes, when I seen all the ladies and jettlemen 
 dippin' their hands in their glasses, an** washin' 
 'em before my face at the dinner table ! ' Well, 
 Pether,'says I, ' such manners as that you never 
 seen before this day any way.' 
 
 " Well, Molly, soon afther that, there was 
 fruit brought in, an' all I got to ait since I left
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 291 
 
 home at twelve o'clock to-day, was them two 
 tumblers o' could wather, an' some nuts that was 
 put oppozzit me afther dinner. But what I 
 admired very much was the conduct of the 
 ladies, who all got up an' went away very soon 
 afther the wine comin'on the table, I suppose for 
 fear they might be timpted to take more than 
 would be becomin' in females. I thought first the 
 jettlemen wor goin', for they all stood up ; but 
 I found afther that was only out o' manners. 
 
 " But, Molly, (to make a long story short) 
 there I was sittin' listenin' to 'em talkin', and 
 wonderin'' would we see the ladies any more,* 
 when all of sudden I hard a crash behind me, 
 as if the house was falling. ' O murther !' says 
 I, ' Pether, arn't your misfortunes over yet?' so 
 I jumped up, an' looked about, an' sure enough 
 there I seen the whole wall o* the room givin' 
 way. ' Run, my lord,' says I, lay in' a hoult o' 
 Lord Peppercorn by the arm, ' run for your 
 life.' So he only laughed. ' Does the sight o' 
 the ladies frighten you so much, Misther 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 288 
 
 THE CHEAT HOUSE. 
 
 without sayin' this or that. There was no help 
 for it. 
 
 " There I sat, a'most dead. ' What'll they 
 bring in next, I wondher,' says I. 'Twasn't 
 long until I seen *em comin' an' layin' before 
 every one at table a great big glass o' could 
 spring wather. ' Cool comfort, Pether,' says I — 
 ' but here goes for manners.'' So I drank it off. 
 When the jettleman seen I dhrank it, he filPd it 
 again, an' if he did, I dhrank it again to plase 
 him ; but seein' he was goin"* to fill it again, I 
 couldn't stand it any longer. ' No more o"" that 
 Sir,' says I, 'if you plase.' Well, I thought 
 they never would stop laughin'. But, Molly, I 
 thought the sighth would be took out o' my two 
 eyes, when I seen all the ladies and jettlemen 
 dippin' their hands in their glasses, an** washin' 
 'em before my face at the dinner table ! ' Well, 
 Pether,'says I, "^such manners as that you never 
 seen before this day any way.' 
 
 " Well, Molly, soon afther that, there was 
 fruit brought in, an' all I got to ait since I left
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 291 
 
 home at twelve o'clock to-day, was them two 
 tumblers o' could wather, an' some nuts that was 
 put oppozzit me afther dinner. But what I 
 admired very much was the conduct of the 
 ladies, who all got up an' went away very soon 
 afther the wine comin'on the table, I suppose for 
 fear they might be timpted to take more than 
 would be becomin' in females. I thought first the 
 jettlemen wor goin', for they all stood up ; but 
 I found afther that was only out o' manners. 
 
 " But, Molly, (to make a long story short) 
 there I was sittin' listenin' to 'em talkin', and 
 wonderin' would we see the ladies any more, 
 when all of sudden I hard a crash behind me, 
 as if the house was falling. ' O murther !' says 
 I, ' Pether, arn't your misfortunes over yet.^' so 
 I jumped up, an' looked about, an' sure enough 
 there I seen the whole wall o' the room givin' 
 way. ' Run, my lord,' says I, layin' a hoult o' 
 Lord Peppercorn by the arm, ' run for your 
 life.' So he only laughed. ' Does the sight o' 
 the ladies frighten you so much, Misther 
 
 VOL. r. o
 
 ^92 THE GREAT HOUSE. 
 
 Guerjin ? sa's lie. So I looked again, an' 
 Molly, sure enough, it is only now I seen that 
 the whole side of the room was nothin' but one 
 big doore ! O sorrow word of a lie ! There 
 they wor all inside, cakes an' flowers, an^ 
 lamps, an* tay-pots, and ladies, an' all — the 
 beautifullest show I ever pitched my two eyes 
 on ! We went into the other room. ' May be 
 I'd get something to ait at last,' says I. An' so 
 I did — two little cuts o' bread, not thicker than 
 the blade o' my knife. So says I, if I must go 
 home hungry, I'll see an' do a little business any 
 way ; there's so many ladies here, who knows 
 but I'd get some ordhers if I was to show my 
 pattherns. So I made up to Lady Peppercorn. 
 ' I got last night by the jingle, my lady,' says I, 
 ' some o' the dawniest pattherns you ever seen 
 in our place any way.' So I dhrew out the 
 book, an' laid it before her upon the table. 
 * May be,' says I, ' any o' the ladies would hke 
 to gi' me an ordher.' Well, Molly, 'twas as if 
 they never thought o' iaughin' till then. Indeed
 
 THE GREAT HOUSE. 293 
 
 Lady Peppercorn did not seem to like it, (I don't 
 know why,) but as for my lord himself, you'd 
 think he never seen such divarsion in his life. 
 
 *' Well Molly, at last they began to go away, 
 an' I did so in like manner. I found the jettle- 
 men in the red velvet small-clothes in the hall 
 below, aiqually civil as before, handin' me my hat 
 an' stick, an' openin' the doore for me, which I 
 acknowledged accordingly, bowing down, an 
 thankin' *em all round. But glad I was Molly, 
 to get away ; an' my hand to you, 'tis a long 
 time before they'll catch me dinin' inside o' the 
 Great House again. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITKFRMRS.
 
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