Читать книгу The Ned M'Keown Stories - William Carleton - Страница 7

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Ned M'Keown's house stood exactly in an angle, formed by the cross-roads of Kilrudden. It was a long, whitewashed building, well thatched and furnished with the usual appurtenances of yard and offices. Like most Irish houses of the better sort, it had two doors, one opening into a garden that sloped down from the rear in a southern direction. The barn was a continuation of the dwelling-house, and might be distinguished from it by a darker shade of color, being only rough-cast. It was situated on a small eminence, but, with respect to the general locality of the country, in a delightful vale, which runs up, for twelve or fourteen miles, between two ranges of dark, well-defined mountains, that give to the interjacent country the form of a low inverted arch. This valley, which altogether, allowing for the occasional breaks and intersections of hill-ranges, extends upwards of thirty miles in length, is the celebrated valley of the “Black Pig,” so well known in the politico-traditional history of Ireland, and the legends connected with the famous Beal Dearg.*

* The following extract, taken from a sketch by the author

called “The Irish Prophecy-man,” contains a very appropriate

illustration of the above passage. “I have a little book

that contains a prophecy of the milk-white hind an' the

bloody panther, an' a foreboding of the slaughter there's to

be in the Valley of the Black Pig, as foretould by Beal

Derg, or the prophet wid the red mouth, who never was known

to speak but when he prophesied, or to prophesy but when he

spoke.”

“The Lord bless an' keep us!—an' why was he called the Man

with the Red Mouth, Barney?”

“I'll tell you that: first, bekase he always prophesied

about the slaughter an' fightin' that was to take place in

the time to come; an', secondly, bekase, while he spoke, the

red blood always trickled out of his mouth, as a proof that

what he foretould was true.”

“Glory be to God! but that's wondherful all out. Well,

we'll!”

“Ay, an' Beal Deig, or the Red Mouth, is still livin'.”

“Livin! why, is he a man of our own time?”

“Our own time! The Lord help you! It's more than a thousand

years since he made the prophecy. The case you see is this:

he an' the ten thousand witnesses are lyin' in an enchanted

sleep in one of the Montherlony mountains.”

“An' how is that known, Barney?”

“It's known, Every night at a certain hour one of the

witnesses—an' they're all sogers, by the way—must come out

to look for the sign that's to come.”

“An' what is that, Barney?”

“It's the fiery cross; an' when he sees one on aich of the

four mountains of the north, he's to know that the same

sign's abroad in all the other parts of the kingdom. Beal

Derg an' his men are then to waken up, an' by their aid the

Valley of the Black Pig is to be set free forever.”

“An' what is the Black Pig, Barney?”

“The Prospitarian church, that stretches from Enniskillen to

Darry, an' back again from Darry to Enniskillen.”

“Well, well, Barney, but prophecy is a strange thing, to be

sure! Only think of men livin' a thousand years!”

“Every night one of Beal Derg's men must go to the mouth of

the cave, which opens of itself, an' then look out for the

sign that's expected. He walks up to the top of the

mountain, an' turns to the four corners of the heavens, to

thry if he can see it; an' when he finds that he cannot, he

goes back to Beal Derg. who, afther the other touches him,

starts up and axis him, 'Is the time come?' He replies, 'No;

the man is, but the hour is not!' an' that instant they're both asleep again. Now, you see, while the soger is on the mountain top, the mouth of the cave is open, an' any one may go in that might happen to see it. One man it appears did, an' wishin' to know from curiosity whether the sogers were dead or livin', he touched one of them wid his hand, who started up an' axed him the same question, 'Is the time come?' Very fortunately he said, 'No;' an' that minute the soger was as sound in his trance as before.” “An', Barney, what did the soger mane when he said. 'The man is, but the hour is not?'” “What did he mane? I'll tell you that. The man is Bonyparty, which manes, when put into proper explanation, the right side; that is, the true cause. Larned men have found that out.”

That part of it where Ned M'Keown resided was peculiarly beautiful and romantic. From the eminence on which the house stood, a sweep of the most fertile meadowland stretched away to the foot of a series of intermingled hills and vales, which bounded this extensive carpet towards the north. Through these meadows ran a smooth river, called the Mullin-burn, which wound its way through them with such tortuosity, that it was proverbial in the neighborhood to say of any man remarkable for dishonesty, “He's as crooked as the Mullin-burn,” an epithet which was sometimes, although unjustly, jocularly applied to Ned himself. This deep but narrow river had its origin in the glens and ravines of a mountain which bounded the vale in a south-eastern direction; and after sudden and heavy rains it tumbled down with such violence and impetuosity over the crags and rock-ranges in its way, and accumulated so amazingly, that on reaching the meadows it inundated their surface, carrying away sheep, cows, and cocks of hay upon its yellow flood. It also boiled and eddied, and roared with a hoarse sugh, that was heard at a considerable distance.

On the north-west side ran a ridge of high hills, with the cloud-capped peek of Knockmany rising in lofty eminence above them; these, as they extended towards the south, became gradually deeper in their hue, until at length they assumed the shape and form of heath-clad mountains, dark and towering. The prospect on either range is highly pleasing, and capable of being compared with any I have ever seen, in softness, variety, and that serene lustre which reposes only on the surface of a country rich in the beauty of fertility, and improved, by the hand of industry and taste. Opposite Knockmany, at a distance of about four miles, on the south-eastern side, rose the huge and dark outline of Cullimore, standing out in gigantic relief against the clear blue of a summer sky, and flinging down his frowning and haughty shadow almost to the firm-set base of his lofty rival; or, in winter, wrapped in a mantle of clouds, and crowned with unsullied snow, reposing in undisturbed tranquillity, whilst the loud voice of storms howled around him.

To the northward, immediately behind Cullimore, lies Althadhawan, a deep, craggy, precipitous glen, running up to its very base, and wooded with oak, hazel, rowan-tree, and holly. This picturesque glen extends two or three miles, until it melts into the softness of grove and meadow, in the rich landscape below. Then, again, on the opposite side, is Lumford's Glen, with its overhanging rocks, whose yawning depth and silver waterfall, of two hundred feet, are at once finely and fearfully contrasted with the elevated peak of Knockmany, rising into the clouds above it.

From either side of these mountains may be seen six or eight country towns—the beautiful grouping of hill and plain, lake, river, grove, and dell—the reverend cathedral (of Clogher)—the white-washed cottage, and the comfortable farm-house. To these may be added the wild upland and the cultivated demesne, the green sheep-walk, the dark moor, the splendid mansion, and ruined castle of former days. Delightful remembrance! Many a day, both of sunshine and storm, have I, in the strength and pride of happy youth, bounded, fleet as the mountain foe, over these blue hills! Many an evening, as the yellow beams of the setting sun shot slantingly, like rafters of gold, across the depth of this blessed and peaceful valley, have I followed, in solitude, the impulses of a wild and wayward fancy, and sought the quiet dell, or viewed the setting sun, as he scattered his glorious and shining beams through the glowing foliage of the trees, in the vista, where I stood; or wandered along the river whose banks were fringed with the hanging willow, whilst I listened to the thrush singing among the hazels that crowned the sloping green above me, or watched the splashing otter, as he ventured from the dark angles and intricacies of the upland glen, to seek his prey in the meadow-stream during the favorable dusk of twilight. Many a time have I heard the simple song of Roger M'Cann, coming from the top of brown Dunroe, mellowed, by the stillness of the hour, to something far sweeter to the heart than all that the labored pomp of musical art and science can effect; or the song of Katty Roy, the beauty of the village, streaming across the purple-flowered moor,

“Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains.”

Many a time, too, have I been gratified, in the same poetical hour, by the sweet sound of honest Ned M'Keown's ungreased cartwheels, clacking, when nature seemed to have fallen asleep after the day-stir and animation of rural business—for Ned was sometimes a carman—on his return from Dublin with a load of his own groceries, without as much money in his pocket as would purchase oil wherewith to silence the sounds which the friction produced—regaling his own ears the while, as well as the music of the cart would permit his melody to be heard, with his favorite tune of Cannie Soogah.*

* “The Jolly Pedlar,”—a fine old Irish air.

Honest, blustering, good-humored Ned was the indefatigable merchant of the village; ever engaged in some ten or twenty pound speculation, the capital of which he was sure to extort, perhaps for the twelfth time, from the savings of Nancy's frugality, by the equivocal test of a month or six weeks' consecutive sobriety, and which said speculation he never failed to wind up by the total loss of the capital for Nancy, and the capital loss of a broken head for himself. Ned had eternally some bargain on his hands: at one time you might see him a yarn-merchant, planted in the next market-town upon the upper step of Mr. Birney's hall-door, where the yarn-market was held, surrounded by a crowd of eager country-women, anxious to give Ned the preference, first, because he was a well-wisher; secondly, because he hadn't his heart in the penny; and thirdly, because he gave sixpence a spangle more than any other man in the market.

There might Ned be found; with his twenty pounds of hard silver jingling in the bottom of a green bag, as a decoy to his customers, laughing loud as he piled the yarn in and ostentatious heap, which in the pride of his commercial sagacity, he had purchased at a dead loss. Again you might see him at a horse-fair, cantering about on the back of some sleek but broken-winded jade, with spavined legs, imposed on him as “a great bargain entirely,” by the superior cunning of some rustic sharper; or standing over a hogshead of damaged flaxseed, in the purchase of which he shrewdly suspected himself of having overreached the seller—by allowing him for it a greater price than the prime seed of the market would have cost tim. In short, Ned was never out of a speculation, and whatever he undertook was sure to prove a complete failure. But he had one mode of consolation, which consisted in sitting down with the fag-end of Nancy's capital in his pocket, and drinking night and day with this neighbor and that, whilst a shilling remained; and when he found himself at the end of his tether, he was sure to fasten a quarrel on some friend or acquaintance, and to get his head broken for his pains.

None of all this blustering, however, happened within the range of Nancy's jurisdiction. Ned, indeed, might drink and sing, and swagger and fight—and he contrived to do so; but notwithstanding all his apparent courage, there was one eye which made him quail, and before which he never put on the hector;—there was one, in whose presence the loudness of his song would fall away into a very awkward and unmusical quaver, and under whose glance his laughing face often changed to the visage of a man who is disposed to anything but mirth.

The fact was this: Whenever Ned found that his speculation was gone a shaughran, (*Gone astray) as he termed it, he fixed himself in some favorite public house, from whence he seldom stirred while his money lasted, except when dislodged by Nancy, who usually, upon learning where he had taken cover, paid him an unceremonious visit, to which Ned's indefensible delinquency gave the color of legitimate authority. Upon these occasions, Nancy, accompanied by two sturdy “servant-boys,” would sally forth to the next market-town, for the purpose of bringing home “graceless Ned,” as she called him. And then you might see Ned between the two servants, a few paces in advance of Nancy, having very much the appearance of a man performing a pilgrimage to the gallows, or of a deserter guarded back to his barrack, in order to become a target for the muskets of his comrades. Ned's compulsory return always became a matter of some notoriety; for Nancy's excursion in quest of the “graceless” was not made without frequent denunciations of wrath against him, and many melancholy apologies to the neighbors for entering upon the task of personally securing him. By this means her enterprise was sure to get wind, and a mob of the idle young men and barefooted urchins of the village, with Bob M'Cann, “a three-quarter clift” * of a fellow—half knave, half fool, was to be found, a little below the village, upon an elevation of the road, that commanded a level stretch of half a mile or so, in anxious expectation of the procession. No sooner had this arrived at the point of observation, than the little squadron would fall rearward of the principal group, for the purpose of extracting from Nancy a full and particular account of the capture.

* This is equal to the proverb—“he wants a square,” that

is, though knavish not thoroughly rational; in other words,

a combination of knave and fool. Bob, in consequence of his

accomplishments, was always a great favorite in the village.

Upon some odd occasions he was a ready and willing drudge at

everything, and as strong as a ditch. Give him only a good

fog-meal—which was merely a trifle, just what would serve

three men or so—give him, we say, a fog-meal of this kind,

about five times a day, with a liberal promise of more, and

never was there a Scotch Brownie who could get through so

much work. He knew no fatigue; frost and cold had no power

over him; wind, sleet, and hail he laughed at; rain! it

stretched his skin, he said, after a meal—and that, he

added, was a comfort. Notwithstanding all this, he was

neither more nor less than an impersonation of laziness,

craft, and gluttony. The truth is, that unless in the hope

of being gorged he would do nothing; and the only way to get

anything out of him was, never to let the gorge precede the

labor, but always, on the contrary, to follow it. Bob's

accomplishments were not only varied, but of a very elevated

order, and the means of holding him in high odor among us.

Great and wonderful, Heaven knows, did we look upon his

endowments to be. No man, wise or otherwise, could “hunt the

brock,” alias the badger, within a hundred miles of Bob; for

when he covered his mouth with his two hands, and gave forth

the very sounds which the badger is said to utter, did we

not look upon him—Bob—with as much wonder and reverence as

we would have done upon the badger himself? Phup-um-phup—

phup-um-phup—phup-um—phup-um—phup-um-phup. Who but a

first-rate genius could accomplish this feat in such a

style? Bob could crow like a cock, bark like a dog, mew like

a cat, neigh like a horse, bray like an ass, or gobble like

a turkey-cock. Unquestionably, I have never heard him

equalled as an imitator of birds and beasts. Bob's crack

feat, however, was performing the Screw-pin Dance, of which

we have only this to say, that by whatsoever means he became

acquainted with it, it is precisely the same dance which is

said to have been exhibited by some strolling Moor before

the late Queen Caroline. It is, indeed, very strange, but no

less true, that many of the oriental customs are yet

prevalent in the remote and isolated parts of Ireland. Had

the late Mr. O'Brien, author of the Essay on Irish Round

Towers, seen Bob perform the dance I speak of, he would have

hailed him as a regular worshipper of Budh, and adduced his

performance as a living confirmation of his theory. Poor

Bob! he is gone the way of all fools, and all flesh.

“Indeed, childher, it's no wonder for yez to enquire! Where did I get him, Dick?—musha, and where would I get him but in the ould place, a-hagur; with the ould set: don't yez know that a dacent place or dacent company wouldn't sarve Ned?—nobody but Shane Martin, and Jimmy Tague, and the other blackguards.” *

* The reader, here, is not to rely implicitly upon the

accuracy of Nancy's description of the persons alluded to.

It is true the men were certainly companions and intimate

acquaintances of Ned's, but not entitled to the epithet

which Nancy in her wrath bestowed upon them. Shane was a

rollicking fighting, drinking butcher, who cared not a fig!

whether he treated you to a drink or a drubbing, indeed, it

was at all times extremely difficult to say whether he was

likely to give you the drink first or the drubbing

afterwards, or vice versa. Sometimes he made the drubbing

the groundwork for the drink and quite as frequently the

drink the groundwork for the drubbing. Either one or other

you were sure to receive at his hands; but his general

practice was to give both. Shane, in fact, was a good-

humored fellow, well liked, and nobody's enemy but his own.

Jemmy Tague was a quiet man, who could fight his corner,

however, if necessary. Shane,was called Kittogue Shane, from

being left-handed. Both were butchers, and both, we believe,

alive and kicking at this day.

“And what will you do with him, Nancy?”

“Och! thin, Dick, avourneen, it's myself that's jist tired thinking of that; at any rate, consamin' to the loose foot he'll get this blessed month to come, Dick, agra!”

“Throth, Nancy,” another mischievous monkey would exclaim, “if you hadn't great patience entirely, you couldn't put up with such threatment, at all at all.”

“Why thin, God knows it's true for-you, Barney. D'ye hear that, 'graceless?' the very childhre making a laughing-stock and a may-game of you!—but wait till we get under the roof, any how.”

“Ned,” a third would say, “isn't it a burning shame for you to break the poor crathur's heart this a-way? Throth, but you ought to hould down your head, sure enough—a dacent woman! that only for her you wouldn't have a house over you, so you wouldn't.”

“And throth, and the same house is going, Tim,” Nancy would exclaim, “and when it goes, let him see thin who'll do for him; let him thry if his blackguards will stand to him, when he won't have poor foolish Nancy at his back.”

During these conversations, Ned would walk on between his two guards with a dogged-looking and condemned face; Nancy behind him, with his own cudgel, ready to administer an occasional bang whenever he attempted to slacken his pace, or throw over his shoulder a growl of dissent or justification.

On getting near home, the neighbors would occasionally pop out their heads, with a smile of good-humored satire on their faces, which Nancy was very capable of translating:

“Ay,” she would say, addressing them, “I've caught him—here he is to the fore. Indeed you may well laugh, Kitty Rafferty; not a one of myself blames you for it.—Ah, ye mane crathur,” aside to Ned, “if you had the blood of a hen in you, you wouldn't have the neighbors braking their hearts laughing at you in sich a way; and above all the people in the world, them Rafferty's, that got the decree against us at the last sessions, although I offered to pay within fifteen shillings of the differ—the grubs!”

Having seen her hopeful charge safely deposited on the hob, Nancy would throw her cloak into this corner, and her bonnet into that, with the air of a woman absorbed by the consideration of some vexatious trial; she would then sit down, and, lighting her doodeen, (* a short pipe) exclaim—

“Wurrah, wurrah! but it's me that's the heart-scalded crathur with that man's four quarters! The Lord may help me and grant me patience with him, any way!—to have my little honest, hard-earned penny spint among a pack of vagabonds, that don't care if him and me wor both down the river, so they could get their skinful of drink out of him! No matther, agra, things can't long be this a-way; but what does Ned care?—give him drink and fighting, and his blackguards about him, and that's his glory. There now's the landlord coming down upon us for the rint; and unless he takes the cows out of the byre, or the bed from anundher us, what in the wide earth is there for him?”

The current of this lecture was never interrupted by a single observation from Ned, who usually employed himself in silently playing with “Bunty;” a little black cur, without a tail, and a great favorite with Nancy; or, if he noticed anything out of its place in the house, he would arrange it with great apparent care. In the meantime, Nancy's wrath generally evaporated with the smoke of the pipe—a circumstance which Ned well knew; for after she had sucked it until it emitted a shrill, bubbling sound, like that from a reed, her brows, which wore at other times an habitual frown, would gradually relax into a more benevolent expression—the parenthetical curves on each side of her mouth, formed by the irascible pursing of her lips, would become less marked—the dog or cat, or whatever else came in her way, instead of being kicked aside, or pursued in an underfit of digressional peevishness, would be put out of her path with gentler force—so that it was, in such circumstances, a matter of little difficulty to perceive that conciliation would soon be the order of the day. Ned's conduct on these critical occasions was very prudent and commendable: he still gave Nancy her own way; never “jawed back to her;” but took shelter, as it were, under his own patience, until the storm had passed, and the sun of her good humor began to shine out again. Nancy herself, now softened by the fumes of her own pigtail, usually made the first overtures to a compromise, but, without departing from the practice and principles of higher negotiators; always in an indirect manner: as, “Biddy, avourneen,” speaking to her niece, “maybe that crathur,” pointing! to Ned, “ate nothing to-day; you had better, agra! get him the could bacon that's in the cupboard, and warm for him, upon the greeshaugh, (* hot embers) them yallow-legs (* a kind of potato) that's in the colindher; though God he knows it's ill my common (* It's ill-becoming—or it ill becomes me, to everlook his conduct)—but no matther, ahagur! There's enough said, I'm thinking—give them to him.”

On Ned seating himself to his bacon and potatoes, Nancy would light another pipe, and plant herself on the opposite hob, putting some interrogatory to him, in the way of business—always concerning a third person, and still in a tone of dry ironical indifference: as—

“Did you see Jimmy Connolly on your travels?”

“No.”

“Humph! Can you tell us if Andy Morrow sould his coult?”

“He did.”

“May be you have gumption enough to know what he got for him?”

“Fifteen guineas.”

“In troth, and it's more nor a poor body would get; but, anyway, Andy Morrow desarves to get a good price; he's a man that takes care of his own business, and minds nothing else. I wish that filly of ours was dockt; you ought to spake to Jim M'Quade about her: it's time to make her up—you know, we'll want to sell her for the rint.”

This was an assertion, by the way, which Ned knew to have everything but truth in it.

“Never heed the filly,” Ned would reply, “I'll get Charley Lawdher (* A blacksmith, and an honest man) to dock her—but it's not her I'm thinking of: did you hear the news about the tobacky?”

“No; but I hope we won't be long go.”

“Well, any how, we wor in luck to buy in them three last rowls.”

“Eh?—in luck? death-alive, how, Ned?”

“Sure there was three ships of it lost last week, on their way from the kingdom of Swuzerland, in the Aist Indians, where it grows: we can rise it thruppence a-pound now.”

“No, Ned! you're not in airnest?”

“Faith, Nancy, you may say I am; and as soon as Tom Loan comes home from Dublin, he'll tell us all about it; and for that matther, maybe it may rise sixpence a-pound; any how we'll gain a lob by it, I'm thinking.”

“May I never stir, but that's luck! Well, Ned, you may thank me for that, any way, or sorra rowl we'd have in the four corners of the house; and you wanted to persuade me against buying them; but I knew betther—for the tobacky's always sure to get a bit of a hitch at this time o' the year.”

“Bedad, you can do it, Nancy: I'll say that for you—that is, and give you your own way.”

“Eh!—can't I, Ned? And, what waa betther, I bate down Pether M'Entee three-ha'pence a-pound afther I bought them.”

“Ha! ha! ha!—by my sannies, Nancy, as to market-making, they may all throw their caps at you, you thief o' the world; you can do them nately!”

“Ha! ha! ha! Stop, Ned; don't drink that water—it's not from the garden-well. I'll jist mix a sup of this last stuff we got from the mountains, till you taste it: I think it's not worse nor the last—for Hugh Traynor's * an ould hand at making it.”

* Hugh, who, by the way, is still living, and, I am glad to

hear, in improved circumstances, was formerly in the habit

of making a drop of the right sort.

This was all Ned wanted: his point was now carried; but with respect to the rising of the tobacco, the less that is said about it the bettor for his veracity.

Having thus given the reader a slight sketch of Ned and Nancy, and of the beautiful valley in which this worthy speculator had his residence, I shall next proceed to introduce him to the village circle, which, during the long winter nights, might be found in front of Ned's kitchen-fire of blazing turf, whose light was given back in ruddy reflection from the bright pewter plates, that were ranged upon the white and well-scoured dresser in just and gradual order, from the small egg-plate to the large and capacious dish, whereon, at Christmas and Easter, the substantial round of corned beef used to rear itself so proudly over the more ignoble joints at the lower end of the table.

Seated in this clear-obscure of domestic light—which, after all, gives the heart a finer and more touching notion of enjoyment than the glitter of the theatre or the blaze of the saloon—might be found first, Andy Morrow,* the juryman of the quarter-sessions, sage and important in the consciousness of legal knowledge, and somewhat dictatorial withal in its application to such knotty points as arose out of the subjects of their nocturnal debates. Secondly, Bob Gott, who filled the foreign and military departments, and related the wonderful history of the ghost which appeared to him on the night after the battle of Bunker's-hill. To him succeeded Tom M'Roarkin, the little asthmatic anecdotarian of half the country—remarkable for chuckling at his own stories. Then came old M'Kinny, poacher and horse-jockey; little, squeaking, thin-faced Alick M'Kinley, a facetious farmer of substance; and Shane Fadh, who handed down, traditions and fairy tales. Enthroned on one hob sat Pat Frayne, the schoolmaster with the short arm, who read and explained the newspaper for “old Square Colwell,” and was looked upon as premier to the aforesaid cabinet; Ned himself filled the opposite seat of honor.

One night, a little before the Christmas holidays in the year 18—, the personages just described were seated around Ned's fire, some with their chirping pints of ale or porter, and others with their quantum of Hugh Traynor, or mountain-dew, and all with good humor, and a strong tendency to happiness, visible in their faces. The night was dark, close, and misty; so dark, indeed, that, as Nancy said, “you could hardly see your finger before you.” Ned himself was full of fun, with a pint of porter beside him, and a pipe in his mouth, just in his glory for the night. Opposite to him was Pat Frayne, with an old newspaper on his knee, which he had just perused for the edification of his audience; beside him was, Nancy, busily employed in knitting a pair of sheep's-grey stockings for Ned; the remaining personages formed a semicircular ring about the hearth. Behind, on the kitchen-table sat Paddy Smith, the servant-man, with three or four of the gorsoons of the village about him, engaged in an under-plot of their own. On the other, a little removed from the light, sat Ned's two nieces, Biddy and Bessy Connolly, former with Atty Johnson's mouth within whisper-reach of her ear, and the latter seated close to her professed admirer, Billy Fulton, her uncle's shopman.* This group; was completely abstracted from the entertainment which was going forward in the circle round the fire.

* Each pair have been since married, and live not more

happily than I wish them. Fulton still lives in Ned's house

at the Cross-roads.

“I wondher,” said Andy Morrow, “what makes Joe M'Crea throw down that fine ould castle of his, in Aughentain?”

“I'm tould,” said M'Roarkin, “that he expects money; for they say there's a lot of it buried somewhere about the same building.”

“Jist as much as there's in my wig,” replied Shane Fadh, “and there's ne'er a pocket to it yet. Why, bless your sowl, how could there be money in it, whin the last man of the Grameses that owned it—I mane of the ould stock, afore it went into Lord Mountjoy's hands—sould it out, ran through the money, and died begging afther'? Did none of you ever hear of—

'———————— Ould John Grame,

That swally'd the castle of Aughentain?'”

“That was long afore my time,” said the poacher; “but I know that the rabbit-burrow between that and Jack Appleden's garden will soon be run out.”

“Your time!” responded Shane Fadh, with contempt; “ay, and your father's afore you: my father doesn't remimber more nor seeing his funeral, and a merry one it was; for my grandfather, and some of them that had a respect for the family and his forbarers, if they hadn't it for himself, made up as much money among them as berried him dacently any how—ay, and gave him a rousin' wake into the bargain, with lashins of whiskey, stout beer, and ale; for in them times—God be with them every farmer brewed his own ale and beer;—more betoken, that one pint of it was worth a keg of this wash of yours, Ned.”

“Wasn't it he that used to appear?” inquired M'Roarkin.

“Sure enough he did, Tom.”

“Lord save us,” said Nancy, “what could trouble him, I dunna?”

“Why,” continued Shane Fadh, “some said one thing, and some another; but the upshot of it was this: when the last of the Grameses sould the estate, castle, and all, it seems he didn't resave all the purchase money; so, afther he had spint what he got, he applied to the purchaser for the remainder—him that the Mountjoy family bought it from; but it seems he didn't draw up writings, or sell it according to law, so that the thief o' the world baffled him from day to day, and wouldn't give him a penny—bekase he knew, the blaggard, that the Square was then as poor as a church mouse, and hadn't money enough to thry it at law with him; but the Square was always a simple asy-going man. One day he went to this fellow, riding on an ould garran, with a shoe loose—the only baste he had in the world—and axed him, for God's sake, to give him of what he owed him, if it was ever so little; 'for,' says he, 'I huve not as much money betune me and death as will get a set of shoes for my horse.'”

“'Well,' says the nager, 'if-you're not able to keep your horse shod, I would jist recommend you to sell him, and thin his shoes won't cost you any thing,' says he.

“The ould Square went away with tears in his eyes—for he loved the poor brute, bekase they wor the two last branches of the ould stock.”

“Why,” inquired M'Kinley, in his small squeaking voice, “was the horse related to the family?”

“I didn't say he was related to the fam——

“Get out, you shingaun!” (* Fairy-like, or connected to the fairies) returned the old man, perceiving by the laugh that now went round, the sly tendency of the question—“no, nor to your family either, for he had nothing of the ass in him—eh? will you put that in your pocket, my little skinadhre (* A thin, fleshless, stunted person.)—ha! ha! ha!”

The laugh was now turned against M'Kinley.

Shane Fadh proceeded: “The ould Square, as I was tellin yez, cried to find himself an' the poor baste so dissolute; but when he had gone a bit from the fellow, he comes back to the vagabone—'Now,' says he, 'mind my words—if you happen to live afther me, you need never expect a night's pace; for I here make a serous an' solemn vow, that as long as my property's in your possession, or in any of your seed, breed, or gineration's, I'll never give over hauntin' you an' them, till you'll rue to the back-bone your dishonesty an' chathery to me an' this poor baste, that hasn't a shoe to his foot.'

“'Well,' says the nager, 'I'll take chance of that, any way.'”

“I'm tould, Shane,” observed the poacher, “that the Square was a fine man in his time, that wouldn't put up with sich treatment from anybody.”

“Ay, but he was ould now,” Shane replied, “and too wakely to fight.—A fine man, Bill!—he was the finest man, 'cepting ould Square Storey, that ever was in this counthry. I hard my granfather often say that he was six feet four, and made in proportion—a handsome, black-a-vis'd man, with great dark whiskers. Well! he spent money like sklates, and so he died miserable—but had a merry birrel, as I said.”

“But,” inquired Nancy, “did he ever appear to the rogue that chated him?”

“Every night in the year, Nancy, exceptin' Sundays; and what was more, the horse along with him—for he used to come ridin' at midnight upon the same garran; and it was no matther what place or company the other 'ud be in, the ould Square would come reglarly, and crave him for what he owed him.”

“So it appears that horses have sowls,” observed M'Roarkin, philosophically, giving, at the same time, a cynical chuckle at the sarcasm contained in his own conceit.

“Whether they have sowls or bodies,” replied the narrator, “what I'm tellin' you is truth; every night in the year the ould chap would come for what was indue him; find as the two went along, the noise of the loose shoe upon the horse would be hard rattlin', and seen knockin' the fire out of the stones, by the neighbors and the thief that chated him, even before the Square would appeal at all at all.”

“Oh, wurrah!” exclaimed Nancy, shuddering with terror. “I wouldn't take anything and be out now on the Drumfarrar road*, and nobody with me but myself.”

*A lonely mountain-road, said to have been haunted. It is on

this road that the coffin scenes mentioned in the Party

fight and Funeral is laid.

“I think if you wor,” said M'Kinley, “the light weights and short measures would be comin' acrass your conscience.”

“No, in troth, Alick, wouldn't they; but may be if you wor, the promise you broke to Sally Mitchell might trouble you a bit: at any rate, I've a prayer, and if I only repated it wanst, I mightn't be afeard of all the divils in hell.”

“Throth, but it's worth havin', Nancy: where did you get it?” asked M'Kinley.

“Hould your wicked tongue, you thief of a heretic,” said Nancy, laughing, “when will you larn anything that's good? I got it from one that wouldn't have it if it wasn't good—Darby M'Murt, the pilgrim, since you must know.”

“Whisht!” said Frayne: “upon my word, I blieve the old Square's comin' to pay tis a visit; does any of yez hear a horse trottin' with a shoe loose?”

“I sartinly hear it,” observed Andy Morrow.

“And I,” said Ned himself.

There was now a general pause, and in the silence a horse, proceeding from the moors in the direction of the house, was distinctly heard; and nothing could be less problematical than that one of his shoes was loose.

“Boys, take care of yourselves,” said Shane Fadh, “if the Square comes, he won't be a pleasant customer—he was a terrible fellow in his day: I'll hould goold to silver that he'll have the smell of brimstone about him.”

“Nancy, where's your prayer now?” said M'Kinley, with a grin: “I think you had betther out with it, and thry if it keeps this old brimstone Square on the wrong side of the house.”

“Behave yourself, Alick; it's a shame for you to be sich a hardened crathur: upon my sannies, I blieve your afeard of neither God nor the divil—the Lord purtect and guard us from the dirty baste!”

“You mane particklarly them that uses short measures and light weights,” rejoined M'Kinley.

There was another pause, for the horseman was within a few perches of the crossroads. At this moment an unusual gust of wind, accompanied by torrents of rain, burst against the house with a violence that made its ribs creak; and the stranger's horse, the shoe still clanking, was distinctly heard to turn in from the road to Ned's door, where it stopped, and the next moment a loud knocking intimated the horseman's intention to enter. The company now looked at each other, as if uncertain what to do. Nancy herself grew pale, and, in the agitation of the moment, forgot to think of her protecting prayer. Biddy and Bessy Connolly started from the settle on which they had been sitting with their sweethearts, and sprung beside their uncle, on the hob. The stranger was still knocking with great violence, yet there was no disposition among the company to admit him, notwithstanding the severity of the night—blowing, as it really did, a perfect hurricane. At length a sheet of lightning flashed through the house, followed by an amazing loud clap of thunder; while, with a sudden push from without, the door gave way, and in stalked a personage Whose stature was at least six feet four, with dark eyes and complexion, and coal-black whiskers of an enormous size, the very image of the Squire they had been describing. He was dressed in a long black surtout, which him appear even taller than he actually was, had a pair of heavy boots upon and carried a tremendous whip, large enough to fell an ox. He was in a rage on entering; and the heavy, dark, close-knit-brows, from beneath which a pair of eyes, equally black, shot actual fire, whilst the Turk-like whiskers, which curled themselves up, as it were, in sympathy with his fury, joined to his towering height, gave him altogether, when we consider the frame of mind in which he found the company, an appalling and almost supernatural appearance.

“Confound you, for a knot of lazy scoundrels,” exclaimed the stranger, “why do you sit here so calmly, while any being craves admittance on such a night as this? Here, you lubber in the corner, with a pipe in your mouth, come and put up this horse of mine until the night settles.”

“May the blessed mother purtect us!” exclaimed Nancy, in a whisper, to Andy Morrow, “if I blieve he's a right thing!—would it be the ould Square? Did you ever set your eyes upon sich a”—

“Will you bestir yourself, you boor, and' not keep my horse and saddle out under such a torrent?” he cried, “otherwise I must only bring him into the house, and then you may say for once that you've had the devil under your roof.”

“Paddy Smith, you lazy spalpeen,” said Nancy, winking at Ned to have nothing to do with the horse, “why don't you fly and put up the gintleman's horse? And you, Atty, avourneen, jist go out with him, and hould the candle while he's doin' it: be quick now, and I'll give you glasses a-piece when you come in.”

“Let them put him up quickly; but I say, you Caliban,” added the stranger, addressing Smith, “don't be rash about him except you can bear fire and brimstone; get him, at all events, a good feed of oats. Poor Satan!” he continued, patting the horse's head, which was now within the door, “you've had a hard night of it, my poor Satan, as well as myself. That's my dark spirit—my brave chuck, that fears neither man nor devil.”

This language was by no means calculated to allay the suspicions of those who were present, particularly of Nancy and her two nieces. Ned sat in astonishment, with the pipe in his hand, which he had, in the surprise of the moment, taken from his mouth, his eyes fixed upon the stranger, and his mouth open. The latter noticed him, and stretching over the heads of the circle, tapped him on the shoulder with his whip:—

“I have a few words to say to you, sir,” he said.

“To me, your honor!” exclaimed Ned, without stirring, however.

“Yes,” replied the other, “but you seem to be fastened to your seat: come this way.”

“By all manner of manes, sir,” said Ned, starting up, and going over to the dresser, against which the stranger stood.

When the latter had got him there, he very coolly walked up, and secured Ned's comfortable seat on the hob, at the same time observing—

“You hadn't the manners to ask me to sit down; but I always make it a point of conscience to take care of myself, landlord.”

There was not a man about the fire who did not stand up, as if struck with a sudden recollection, and offer him a seat.

“No,” said he, “thank you, my good fellows, I am very well as it is: I suppose, mistress, you are the landlady,” addressing Nancy; “if you be, I'll thank you to bring me a gill of your best whiskey—your best, mind. Let it be as strong as an evil spirit let loose, and as hot as fire; for it can't be a jot too ardent such a night as this, for a being that rides the devil.”

Nancy started up instinctively, exclaiming, “Indeed, plase your honor's reverence, I am the landlady, as you say, sir, sure enough; but, the Lawk save and guard us! won't a gallon of raw whiskey be too much for one man to drink?”

“A gallon! I only said a gill, my good hostess; bring me a gill—but I forget—I believe you have no such measure in this country; bring me a pint, then.”

Nancy now went into the bar, whither she gave Ned a wink to follow her; and truly was glad of an opportunity of escaping from the presence of the visitor. When there, she ejaculated—

“May the holy Mother keep and guard us, Ned, but I'm afeard that's no Christian crathur, at all at all! Arrah, Ned, aroon, would he be that ould Square Grame, that Shane Fadh, maybe, angered, by spakin' of him?”

“Troth,” said Ned, “myself doesn't know what he is; he bates any mortal I ever seen.”

“Well, hould agra! I have it: we'll see whether he'll drink this or not, any how.”

“Why, what's that you're doin'?” asked Ned.

“Jist,” replied Nancy, “mixin' the smallest taste in the world of holy wather with the whiskey, and if he drinks that, you know he can be nothing that's bad.” *