Title: The Station; The Party Fight And Funeral; The Lough Derg Pilgrim - Traits And Stories Of The Irish Peasantry, The Works of - William Carleton, Volume Three
Author: Carleton, William
Language: English
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THE WORKS OF WILLIAM CARLETON


VOLUME III.



TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY


PART II.


[Illustration: Frontispiece]

[Illustration: Titlepage]



CONTENTS:

     The Station.

     The Party Fight And Funeral.

     The Lough Derg Pilgrim.



THE STATION.


Our readers are to suppose the Reverend Philemy M’Guirk, parish priest
of Tir-neer, to be standing upon the altar of the chapel, facing the
congregation, after having gone through the canon of the Mass; and
having nothing more of the service to perform, than the usual prayers
with which he closes the ceremony.

“Take notice, that the Stations for the following week will be held as
follows:--

“_On Monday, in Jack Gallagher’s of Corraghnamoddagh_. Are you there,
Jack?”

“To the fore, yer Reverence.”

“Why, then, Jack, there’s something ominous--something auspicious--to
happen, or we wouldn’t have you here; for it’s very seldom that you
make part or parcel of this _present_ congregation; seldom are you here,
Jack, it must be confessed: however, you know the old classical proverb,
or if you don’t, I do, which will just answer as well--_Non semper ridet
Apollo_--it’s not every day _Manus_ kills a bullock; so, as you are
here, be prepared for us on Monday.”

“Never fear, yer Reverence, never fear; I think you ought to know that
the grazin’ at Corraghnamoddagh’s not bad.”

“To do you justice, Jack, the mutton was always good with you, only
if you would get it better killed it would be an improvement. Get Tom
McCusker to kill it, and then it’ll have the right smack.”

“Very well, yer Rev’rence, I’ll do it.”

“_On Tuesday, in Peter Murtagh’s of the Crooked Commons_. Are you there,
Peter?”

“Here, yer Reverence.”

“Indeed, Peter, I might know you are here; and I wish that a great many
of my flock would take example by you: if they did, I wouldn’t be so
far behind in getting in my _dues_. Well, Peter, I suppose you know that
this is Michaelmas?” *

     * Michaelmas is here jocularly alluded to as that period
     of the year when geese are fattest.

“So fat, yer Reverence, that they’re not able to wag; but, any way,
Katty has them marked for you--two fine young crathurs, only this year’s
fowl, and the ducks isn’t a taste behind them--she crammin’ them this
month past.”

“I believe you, Peter, and I would take your word for more than the
condition of the geese. Remember me to Katty, Peter.”

“_On Wednesday, in Parrah More Slevin’s of Mullaghfadh_. Are you there,
Parrah More?”--No answer. “Parrah More Sle-vin?”--Silence. “Parrah More
Slevin, of Mullaghfadh?”--No reply. “Dan Fagan?”

“Present, sir.”

“Do you know what keeps that reprobate from mass?”

“I bleeve he’s takin’ advantage, sir, of the frost, to get in his
praties to-day, in respect of the bad footin’, sir, for the horses in
the bog when there’s not a frost. Any how, betune that and a bit of a
sore head that he got, yer Reverence, on Thursday last in takin’ part
wid the O’Scallaghans agin the Bradys, I bleeve he had to stay away
to-day.”

“On the Sabbath day, too, without my leave! Well, tell him from me, that
I’ll make an example of him to the whole parish, if he doesn’t attend
mass better. Will the Bradys and the O’Scallaghans never be done with
their quarrelling? I protest, if they don’t live like Christians, I’ll
read them out from the altar. Will you tell Parrah More that I’ll hold a
station in his house on next Wednesday?”

“I will, sir; I will, yer Reverence.”

“_On Thursday, in Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy’s of the Esker_. Are you
there, Phaddhy?”’

“Wid the help of God, I’m here, sir.”

“Well, Phaddhy, how is yer son Briney, that’s at the Latin? I hope he’s
coming on well at it.”

“Why, sir, he’s not more nor a year and a half at it yet, and he’s got
more books amost nor he can carry; he’ll break me buying books for him.”

“Well, that’s a good sign, Phaddhy; but why don’t you bring him to me
till I examine him?”

“Why, never a one of me can get him to come, sir, he’s so much afeard of
yer Reverence.”

“Well, Phaddhy, we were once modest and bashful ourselves, and I’m glad
to hear that he’s afraid of his clargy; but let him be prepared for
me on Thursday, and maybe I’ll let him know something he never heard
before; I’ll open his eyes for him.”

“Do you hear that, Briney?” said the father, aside to the son, who knelt
at his knee; “you must give up yer hurling and idling now, you see.
Thank yer Reverence; thank you, docthor.”

“_On Friday, in Barny O’Darby’s, alias Barny Butters_. Are you there,
Barny?”

“All that’s left of me is here, sir.”

“Well, Barny, how is the butter trade this season?”

“It’s a little on the rise, now, sir: in a, month or so I’m expecting it
will be brisk enough. Boney, sir, is doing that much for us anyway.”

“Ay, and, Barny, he’ll do more than that for us: God prosper him at all
events; I only hope the time’s coming, Barny, when every one will be
able to eat his own butter, and his own beef, too.”

“God send it, sir.”

“Well, Barny, I didn’t hear from your brother Ned these two or three
months; what has become of him?”

“Ah, yer Reverence, Pentland done him up.”

“What! the gauger?”

“He did, the thief; but maybe he’ll sup sorrow for it, afore he’s much
oulder.”

“And who do you think informed, Barny?”

“Oh, I only wish we knew that, sir.”

“I wish I knew it, and if I thought any miscreant here would become an
informer, I’d make an example of him. Well, Barny, on Friday next: but I
suppose Ned has a drop still--eh, Barny?”

“Why, sir, we’ll be apt to have something stronger nor wather, anyhow.”

“Very well, Barny; your family was always a dacent and spirited family,
I’ll say that for them; but, tell me, Barny, did you begin to dam the
river yet? * I think the trouts and eels are running by this time.”

     * It is usual among the peasantry to form, about
     Michaelmas, small artificial cascades, called dams,
     under which they place long, deep, wicker creels,
     shaped like inverted cones, for the purpose of securing
     the fish that are now on their return to the large
     rivers, after having deposited their spawn in the
     higher and remoter streams. It is surprising what a
     number of fish, particularly of eels, are caught in
     this manner--sometimes from one barrel to three in the
     course of a single night!

“The creels are made, yer Reverence, though we did not set them yet; but
on Tuesday night, sir, wid the help o’ God, we’ll be ready.”

“You can corn the trouts, Barny, and the eels too; but should you catch
nothing, go to Pat Hartigan, Captain Sloethorn’s gamekeeper, and, if you
tell him it’s for me, he’ll drag you a batch out of the fish-pond.”

“Ah! then, you’re Reverence, it’s himself that’ll do that wid a heart
an’ a half.”

Such was the conversation which took place between the Reverend Philemy
M’Guirk, and those of his parishioners in whose houses he had appointed
to hold a series of Stations, for the week ensuing the Sunday laid in
this our account of that hitherto undescribed portion of the Romish
discipline.

Now, the reader is to understand, that a station in this sense differs
from a station made to any peculiar spot remarkable for local sanctity.
There, a station means the performance of a pilgrimage to a certain
place, under peculiar circumstances, and the going through a stated
number of prayers and other penitential ceremonies, for the purpose of
wiping out sin in this life, or of relieving the soul of some relation
from the pains of purgatory in the other; here, it simply means
the coming of the parish priest and his curate to some house in the
town-land, on a day publicly announced from the altar for that purpose,
on the preceding Sabbath.

This is done to give those who live within the district in which the
station is held an opportunity of coming to their duty, as frequenting
the ordinance of confession is emphatically called. Those who attend
confession in this manner once a year, are considered merely to have
done their duty; it is expected, however, that they should approach the
tribunal,* as it is termed, at least twice during that period, that is,
at the two great festivals of Christmas and Easter. The observance or
omission of this rite among Roman Catholics, establishes, in a great
degeee, the nature of individual character. The man who,frequents his
duty will seldom be pronounced a bad man, let his conduct and principles
be what they may in other respects; and he who neglects it, is looked
upon, by those who attend it, as in a state little short of reprobation.

     * That is, of confession--so going to confession is
     termed by the priests.

When the “giving out” of the stations was over, and a few more jests
were broken by his Reverence, to which the congregation paid the tribute
of a general and uproarious laugh, he turned round, and resumed the
performance of the mass, whilst his “flock” began to finger their beads
with faces as grave as if nothing of the kind had occurred. When mass
was finished, and the holy water sprinkled upon the people, out of a
tub carried by the mass-server through the chapel for that purpose, the
priest gave them a Latin benediction, and they dispersed.

Now, of the five individuals in whose houses the “stations” were
appointed to be held, we will select _Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy_ for
our purpose; and this we do, because it was the first time in which a
station was ever kept in his house, and consequently Phaddhy and his
wife had to undergo the initiatory ceremony of entertaining Father
_Philemy_ and his curate, the Reverend _Con M’Coul_, at dinner.

_Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy_ had been, until a short time before the period
in question, a very poor man; but a little previous to that event, a
brother of his, who had no children, died very rich--that is, for a
farmer--and left him his property, or, at least, the greater part of it.
While Phaddhy was poor, it was surprising what little notice he excited
from his Reverence; in fact, I have heard him acknowledge, that during
all the days of his poverty, he never got a nod of recognition or
kindness from Father Philemy, although he sometimes did, he said, from
Father Con, his curate, who honored him on two occasions so far as to
challenge him to a bout at throwing the shoulder-stone, and once to
a leaping match, at both of which exercises Father Con, but for the
superior power of Phaddhy, had been unrivalled.

“It was an unlucky day to him,” says Phaddy, “that he went to challenge
me, at all at all; for I was the only man that ever bate him, and he
wasn’t able to hould up his head in the parish for many a day afther.”

As soon, however, as Phaddhy became a man of substance, one would almost
think that there had been a secret relationship between his good
fortune and Father Philemy’s memory; for, on their first meeting, after
Phaddhy’s getting the property, the latter shook him most cordially by
the hand--a proof that, had not his recollection been as much improved
as Phaddhy’s circumstances, he could by no means have remembered him;
but this is a failing in the memory of many, as well as in that of
Father Philemy. Phaddhy, however, _was no Donnell_, to use his own
expression, and saw as far into a deal board as another man.

“And so, Phaddy,” said the priest, “how are all your family?--six you
have, I think?”

“Four, your Rev’rence, only four,” said Phaddy, winking at Tim Dillon,
his neighbor, who happened to be present--“three boys an’ one girl.”

“Bless my soul, and so it is indeed, Phaddy, and I ought to know it; an
how is your wife Sarah?--I mean, I hope Mrs. Sheemus Phaddhy is well: by
the by, is that old complaint of hers gone yet?--a pain in the stomach,
I think it was, that used to trouble her; I hope in God, Phaddhy,
she’s getting over it, poor thing. Indeed, I remember telling her, last
Easter, when she came to her duty, to eat oaten bread and butter
with water-grass every morning fasting, it cured myself of the same
complaint.”

“Why, thin, I’m very much obliged to your Rev’rence for purscribin’ for
her,” replied Phaddhy; “for, sure enough, she has neither pain nor ache,
at the present time, for the best rason in the world, docthor, that
she’ll be dead jist seven years, if God spares your Rev’rence an’ myself
till to-morrow fortnight, about five o’clock in the mornin’.”

This was more than Father Philemy could stand with a good conscience, so
after getting himself out of the dilemma as well as he could, he shook
Phaddhy again very cordially by the hand, saying, “Well, good-bye,
Phaddliy, and God be good to poor Sarah’s soul--I now remember her
funeral, sure enough, and a dacent one it was, for indeed she was a
woman that had everybody’s good word--and, between you and me, she made
a happy death, that’s as far as we can judge here; for, after all, there
may be danger, Phaddy, there may be danger, you understand--however,
it’s your own business, and your duty, too, to think of that; but I
believe you’re not the man that would be apt to forget her.”

“Phaddhy, ye thief o’ the world,” said Jim Dillon, when Father Philemy
was gone, there’s no comin’ up to ye; how could you make sich a fool of
his Rev’rence, as to tell im that Katty was dead, and that you had
only four childher, an’ you has eleven o’ them, an’ the wife in good
health?”

“Why, jist, Tim,” replied Phaddhy, with his usual shrewdness, “to tache
his Reverence himself to practise truth a little; if he didn’t know
that I got the stockin’ of guineas and the Linaskey farm by my brother
Barney’s death, do ye think that he’d notish me at all at all?--not
himself, avick; an’ maybe he won’t be afther comin’ round to me for a
sack of my best oats,* instead of the bushel I used to give him, and
houldin’ a couple of stations wid me every year.”

     * The priest accompanied by a couple of servants each
     with a horse and sack, collects from such of his
     parishioners as can afford it, a quantity of oats,
     varying with the circumstances of the donor. This
     collection--called _Questing_--is voluntary on the part
     of his parishioners who may refuse it it they wish;
     very few are found however, hardy enough to risk the
     obloquy of declining to contribute, and the consequence
     is that the custom operates with as much force as if it
     were legal and compulsory.

“But won’t he go mad when he hears you tould him nothing but lies?”

“Not now, Tim,” answered Phaddhy--“not now; thank God,--I’m not a poor
man, an’ he’ll keep his temper. I’ll warrant you the horsewhip won’t be
up now, although, afore this, I wouldn’t say but it might--though the
poorest day I ever was, ‘id’s myself that wouldn’t let priest or friar
lay a horsewhip to my back, an’ that you know, Tim.”

Phaddhy’s sagacity, however, was correct; for, a short time after this
conversation, Father Philemy, when collecting his oats, gave him a call,
laughed heartily at the sham account of Katty’s death, examined young
Briney in his Latin, who was called after his uncle, pronounced him very
cute, and likely to become a great scholar--promised his interest with
the bishop to get him into Maynooth, and left the family, after having
shaken hands with, and stroked down the heads of all the children.

When Phaddhy, on the Sunday in question, heard the public notice given
of the Station about to be held in his house, notwithstanding his
correct knowledge of Father Philemy’s character, on which he looked with
a competent portion of contempt, he felt a warmth of pride about
his heart, that arose from the honor of having a station, and of
entertaining the clergy, in their official capacity, under his own
roof, and at his own expense--that gave him, he thought, a personal
consequence, which even the “stockin’ of guineas” and the Linaskey farm
were unable, of themselves, to confer upon him. He did enjoy, ‘tis
true, a very fair portion of happiness on succeeding to his brother’s
property; but this would be a triumph over the envious and ill-natured
remarks which several of his neighbors and distant relations had taken
the liberty of indulging in against him, on the occasion of his good
fortune. He left the chapel, therefore, in good spirits, whilst Briney,
on the contrary, hung a lip of more melancholy pendency than usual, in
dread apprehension of the examination that he expected to be inflicted
on him by his Reverence at the station.

Before I introduce the conversation which took place between Phaddhy
and Briney, as they went home, on the subject of this literary ordeal, I
must observe, that there is a custom, hereditary in some Irish families,
of calling fathers by their Christian names, instead of by the usual
appellation of “father.” This usage was observed, not only by Phaddhy
and his son, but by all the Phaddys of that family, generally. Their
surname was Doran, but in consequence of the great numbers in that part
of the country who bore the same name, it was necessary as of old, to
distinguish the several branches of it by the Christian names of their
fathers and grandfathers, and sometimes this distinction went as far
back as the great-grandfather. For instance--Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy,
meant Phaddhy, the son of Sheemus, the son of Phaddhy; and his son,
Briney, was called, Brian Phaddy Sheemus Phaddy, or, _anglice_, Bernard
the son of Patrick, the son of James, the son of Patrick. But the custom
of children calling fathers, in a viva voce manner, by their Christian
names, was independent of the other more general usage of the
patronymic.

“Well, Briney,” said Phaddy, as the father and son returned home, cheek
by jowl from the chapel, “I suppose Father Philemy will go very deep in
the Latin wid ye on Thursday; do ye think ye’ll be able to answer him?”

“Why, Phaddhy,” replied Briney, “how could I be able to answer a
clargy?--doesn’t he know all the languages, and I’m only in the _Fibulae
AEsiopii_ yet.”

“Is that Latin or Greek, Briney?”

“It’s Latin, Phaddhy.”

“And what’s the translation of that?”

“It signifies the Fables of AEsiopius.”

“Bliss my sowl! and Briney, did ye consther that out of yer own head?”

“Hogh! that’s little of it. If ye war to hear me consther _Gallus
Gallinaceus_, a dunghill cock?”

“And, Briney, are ye in Greek at all yet?”

“No, Phaddhy, I’ll not be in Greek till I’m in Virgil and Horace, and
thin I’ll be near finished.”

“And how long will it be till that, Briney?”

“Why, Phaddhy, you know I’m only a year and a half at the Latin, and in
two years more I’ll be in the Greek.”

“Do ye think will ye ever be as larned as! Father Philemy, Briney?”

“Don’t ye, know whin I’m a clargy I will but I’m only a _lignum
sacerdotis_ yet, Phaddhy.”

“What’s _ligdum saucerdoatis_, Briney?”

“A block of a priest, Phaddhy.”

“Now, Briney, I suppose Father Philemy knows everything.”

“Ay, to be sure he does; all the languages’ that’s spoken through the
world, Phaddhy.”

“And must all the priests know them, Briney?--how many are they?”

“Seven--sartainly, every priest must know them, or how could they lay
the divil, if he’d, spake to them in a tongue they couldn’t understand,
Phaddhy?”

“Ah, I declare, Briney, I see it now; only for that, poor Father Philip,
the heavens be his bed, wouldn’t be able to lay ould Warnock, that
haunted Squire Sloethorn’s stables.”

“Is that when the two horses was stole, Phaddhy?”

“The very time, Briney; but God be thanked, Father Philip settled him to
the day of judgment.”

“And where did he put him, Phaddhy?”

“Why, he wanted to be put anundher the hearth-stone; but Father Philip
made him walk away with himself into a thumb-bottle, and tied a stone
to it, and then sent him to where he got a cooling, the thief, at the
bottom of the lough behind the house.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I’m thinking I’ll be apt to do, Phaddhy, when
I’m a clargy.”

“And what is that, Briney?”

“Why, I’ll--but, Phaddhy,don’t be talking of this, bekase, if it should
come to be known, I might get my brains knocked out by some of the
heretics.”

“Never fear, Briney, there’s no danger of that--but what is it?”

“Why, I’ll translate all the Protestants into asses, and then we’ll get
our hands red of them altogether.”

“Well, that flogs for cuteness, and it’s a wondher the clargy* doesn’t
do it, and them has the power; for ‘twould give us pace entirely. But,
Briney, will you speak in Latin to Father Philemy on Thursday?”

* I have no hesitation in asserting that the bulk of the uneducated
peasantry really believe that the priests have this power.

“To tell you the thruth, Phaddhy, I would rather he wouldn’t examine me
this bout, at all at all.”

“Ay, but you know we couldn’t go agin him, Briney, bekase he promised
to get you into the college. Will you speak some Latin, now till I hear
you?”

“Hem!--_Verbum personaley cohairit cum nomnatibo numbera at persona at
numquam sera yeast at bonis moras voia_.”

“Bless my heart!--and, Briney, where’s that taken from?”

“From Syntax, Phaddhy.”

“And who was Syntax--do you know, Briney?”

“He was a Roman, Phaddhy, bekase there’s a Latin prayer in the beginning
of the book.”

“Ay, was he--a priest, I’ll warrant him. Well, Briney, do you mind yer
Latin, and get on wid yer larnin’, and when you grow up you’ll have
a pair of boots, and a horse of your own (and a good broadcloth black
coat, too) to ride on, every bit as good as Father Philemy’s, and may be
betther nor Father Con’s.”

From this point, which usually wound up these colloquies between the
father and son, the conversation generally diverged into the more
spacious fields of science; so that by the time they reached home,
Briney had probably given the father a learned dissertation upon the
elevation of the clouds above the earth, and told him within how
many thousand miles they approached it, at their nearest point of
approximation.

“Katty,” said Phaddhy, when he got home, “we’re to have a station
here on Thursday next: ‘twas given out from the altar to-day by Father
Philemy.”

“Oh, wurrah, wurrah!” exclaimed Katty, overwhelmed at the consciousness
of her own incapacity to get up a dinner in sufficient style for such
guests--“wurrah, wurrah! Phaddhy, ahagur, what on the livin’ earth will
we do at all at all! Why, we’ll never be able to manage it.”

“Arrah, why, woman; what do they want but their skinful to eat and
dhrink, and I’m sure we’re able to allow them that, any way?”

“Arrah, bad manners to me, but you’re enough to vex a saint--‘their
skinful to eat and dhrink!’--you common crathur you, to speak that way
of the clargy, as if it was ourselves or the laborers you war spaking
of.”

“Ay, and aren’t we every bit as good as they are, if you go to
that?--haven’t we sowls to be saved as well as themselves?”

“‘As good as they are!’--as good as the clargy!! _Manum a yea agus a
wurrah!_*--listen to what he says! Phaddhy, take care of yourself,
you’ve got rich, now; but for all that, take care of yourself. You had
betther not bring the priest’s ill-will, or his bad heart upon us. You
know they never thruv that had it; and maybe it’s a short time your
riches might stay wid you, or maybe it’s a short time you might stay wid
them: at any rate, God forgive you, and I hope he will, for making use
of sich unsanctified words to your lawful clargy.”

     * My soul to God and the Virgin.

“Well, but what do you intind to do?---or, what do you think of getting
for them?” inquired Phaddy.

“Indeed, it’s very little matther what I get for them, or what I’ll do
either--sorrow one of myself cares almost: for a man in his senses, that
ought to know better, to make use of such low language about the blessed
and holy crathurs, that hasn’t a stain of sin about them, no more than
the child unborn!”

“So you think.”

“So I think! aye, and it would be betther for you that you thought
so, too; but ye don’t know what’s before ye yet, Phaddhy--and now take
warnin’ in time, and mend your life.”

“Why what do you see wrong in my life? Am I a drunkard? am I lazy? did
ever I neglect my business? was I ever bad to you or to the childher?
didn’t I always give yez yer fill to ate, and kept yez as well clad as
yer neighbors that was richer? Don’t I go to my knees, too, every night
and morning?”

“That’s true enough, but what signifies it all? When did ye cross
a priest’s foot to go to your duty? Not for the last five years,
Phaddhy--not since poor Torly (God be good to him) died of the mazles,
and that’ll be five years, a fortnight before Christmas.”

“And what are you the betther of all yer confessions? Did they ever mend
yer temper, avourneen? no, indeed, Katty, but you’re ten times worse
tempered coming back from the priest than before you go to him.”

“Oh! Phaddhy! Phaddhy! God look down upon you this day, or any man
that’s in yer hardened state--I see there’s no use in spaking to you,
for you’ll still be the ould cut.”

“Ay, will I; so you may as well give up talking about it Arrah, woman!”
 said. Phaddhy, raising his voice, “who does it ever make betther--show
me a man now in all the neighborhood, that’s a pin-point the holier of
it? Isn’t there Jemmy Shields, that goes to _his duty_ wanst a month,
malivogues his wife and family this minute, and then claps them to a
Rosary the next; but the ould boy’s a thrifle to him of a fast day,
afther coming from the priest. Betune ourselves, Katty, you’re not much
behind him.”

Katty made no reply to him, but turned up her eyes, and crossed herself,
at the wickedness of her unmanageable husband. “Well, Briney,” said she,
turning abruptly to the son, “don’t take patthern by that man, if you
expect to do any good; let him be a warning to you to mind yer duty, and
respect yer clargy--and prepare yerself, now that I think of it, to go
to Father Philemy or Father Con on Thursday: but don’t be said or led by
that man, for I’m sure I dunna how he intends to face the Man above
when he laves this world--and to keep from his duty, and to spake of his
clargy as he does!”

There are few men without their weak sides. Phaddhy, although the
priests were never very much his favorites, was determined to give
what he himself called a _let-out_ on this occasion, simply to show his
ill-natured neighbors that, notwithstanding their unfriendly remarks,
he knew “what it was to be dacent,” as well as his betters; and Katty
seconded him in his resolution, from her profound veneration for the
clargy. Every preparation was accordingly entered into, and every plan
adopted that could possibly be twisted into a capability of contributing
to the entertainment of Fathers Philemy and Con.

One of those large, round, stercoraceous nosegays that, like many other
wholesome plants, make up by odor what is wanting in floral beauty, and
which lay rather too contagious as Phaddhy expressed it, to the door of
his house, was transplanted by about half a dozen laborers, and as many
barrows, in the course of a day or two, to a bed some yards distant from
the spot of its first growth; because, without any reference whatever to
the nasal sense, it was considered that it might be rather an
eye-sore to their Reverences, on approaching the door. Several concave
inequalities, which constant attrition had worn in the earthen floor of
the kitchen, were filled up with blue clay, brought on a cart from
the bank of a neighboring river, for the purpose. The dresser, chairs,
tables, I pots, and pans, all underwent a rigor of discipline, as if
some remarkable event was about to occur; nothing less, it must be
supposed than a complete, domestic revolution, and a new state of
things. Phaddhy himself cut two or three large furze bushes, and,
sticking them on the end of a pitchfork, attempted to sweep down the
chimney. For this purpose he mounted on the back of a chair, that he
might be able to reach the top with more ease; but, in order that his
footing might be firm, he made one of the servant-men sit upon the
chair, to keep it steady during the operation. Unfortunately, however,
it so happened that this man was needed to assist in removing a
meal-chest to another part of the house; this was under Katty’s
superintendence, who, seeing the fellow sit rather more at his ease than
she thought the hurry and importance of the occasion permitted, called
him, with a little of her usual sharpness and energy, to assist in
removing the chest. For some reason or other, which it is not necessary
to mention here, the fellow bounced from his seat, in obedience to the
shrill tones of Katty, and the next moment Phaddhy (who was in a state
of abstraction in the chimney, and totally unconscious of what was going
forward below) made a descent decidedly contrary to the nature of
that which most aspirants would be inclined to relish. A severe stun,
however, was the most serious injury he received on his own part, and
several round oaths, with a good drubbing, fell to the servant; but
unluckily he left the furze bush behind him in the highest and narrowest
part of the chimney; and were it not that an active fellow succeeded
in dragging it up from the outside of the roof, the chimney ran
considerable risk, as Katy said, of being choked.

But along with the lustration which every fixture within the house was
obliged to undergo, it was necessary that all the youngsters should get
new clothes; and for this purpose, Jemmy Lynch, the tailor, with his two
journeymen and three apprentices, were sent for in all haste, that he
might fit Phaddhy and each of his six sons, in suits, from a piece of
home-made frieze, which Katty did not intend to break up till “towards
Christmas.”

A station is no common event, and accordingly the web was cut up, and
the tailor left a wedding-suit, half-made, belonging to Edy Dolan, a
thin old bachelor, who took it into his head to try his hand at becoming
a husband ere he’d die. As soon as Jemmy and his train arrived, a door
was taken off the hinges, and laid on the floor, for himself to sit
upon, and a new drugget quilt was spread beside it, for his journeymen
and apprentices. With nimble fingers they plied the needle and thread,
and when night came, a turf was got, into which was stuck a piece of
rod, pointed at one end and split at the other; the “the white candle,”
 slipped into a shaving of the fringe that was placed in the cleft end
of the stick, was then lit, whilst many a pleasant story, told by Jemmy,
who had been once in Dublin for six weeks, delighted the circle of
lookers-on that sat around them.

At length the day previous to the important one arrived. Hitherto, all
hands had contributed to make every thing in and about the house look
“dacent”--scouring, washing, sweeping, pairing, and repairing, had
been all disposed of. The boys got their hair cut to the quick with the
tailor’s scissors; and such of the girls as were not full grown, not
only that which grew on the upper part of the head taken off, by a cut
somewhat resembling the clerical tonsure, so that they looked extremely
wild and unsettled with their straight locks projecting over their ears;
every thing, therefore, of the less important arrangements had been gone
through--the weighty and momentous concern was as yet unsettled.

This was the feast; and alas! never was the want of experience more
strongly felt than here. Katty was a bad cook, even to a proverb; and
bore so indifferent a character in the country for cleanliness, that
very few would undertake to eat her butter. Indeed, she was called Katty
Sallagh (* Dirty Katy) on this account: however, this prejudice, whether
ill or weil founded, was wearing fast away, since Phaddhy had succeeded
to the stocking of guineas, and the Lisnaskey farm. It might be, indeed,
that her former poverty helped her neighbors to see this blemish more
clearly: but the world is so seldom in the habit of judging people’s
qualities or failings through this uncharitable medium, that the
supposition is rather doubtful. Be this as it may, the arrangements for
the breakfast and dinner must be made. There was plenty of bacon, and
abundance of cabbages--eggs, ad infinitum--oaten and wheaten bread in
piles--turkeys, geese, pullets, as fat as aldermen--cream as rich as
Croesus--and three gallons of poteen, one sparkle of which, as Father
Philemy said in the course of the evening, would lay the hairs on St.
Francis himself in his most self-negative mood, if he saw it. So far so
good: everything excellent and abundant in its way. Still the higher and
more refined items--the _deliciae epidarum_--must be added. White bread,
and tea, and sugar, were yet to be got; and lump-sugar for the punch;
and a tea-pot and cups and saucers to be borrowed; all which was
accordingly done.

Well, suppose everything disposed for tomorrow’s feast;--suppose Phaddhy
himself to have butchered the fowl, because Katty, who was not able to
bear the sight of blood, had not the heart to kill “the crathurs” and
imagine to yourself one of the servant men taking his red-hot tongs
out of the fire, and squeezing a large lump of hog’s lard, placed in a
grisset, or _Kam_, on the hearth, to grease all their brogues; then see
in your mind’s eye those two fine, fresh-looking girls, slyly take
their old rusty fork out of the fire, and going to a bit of three-corned
looking-glass, pasted into a board, or, perhaps, to a pail of water,
there to curl up their rich-flowing locks, that had hitherto never known
a curl but such, as nature gave them.

On one side of the hob sit two striplings, “thryin’ wan another in their
catechiz,” that they may be able to answer, with some credit, to-morrow.
On the other hob sits Briney, hard at his syntax, with the _Fibulae
AEsiopii_, as he called it, placed open at a particular passage, on the
seat under him, with a hope that, when Philemy will examine him,
the book may open at his favorite fable of “_Gallus Gallinaceus_--a
dung-hill cock.” Phaddy himself is obliged to fast this day, there being
one day of his penance yet unperformed, since the last time he was at
his duty; which was, as aforesaid, about five years: and Katty, now that
everything is cleaned up and ready, kneels down in a corner to go over
her beads, rocking herself in a placid silence that is only broken by
an occasional malediction against the servants, or the cat, when it
attempts the abduction of one of the dead fowl.

The next morning the family were up before the sun, who rubbed his eyes,
and swore that he must have overslept himself, on seeing such a merry
column of smoke dancing over Phaddhy’s chimney. A large wooden dish was
placed upon the threshold of the kitchen door, filled with water, in
which, with a trencher of oatmeal for soap,* they successively scrubbed
their faces and hands to some purpose. In a short time afterwards,
Phaddhy and the sons were cased, stiff and awkward, in their new suits,
with the tops of their fingers just peeping over the sleeve cuffs. The
horses in the stable were turned out to the fields, being obliged to
make room for their betters, that were soon expected under the reverend
bodies of Father Philemy and his curate; whilst about half a bushel of
oats was left in the manger, to regale them on their arrival. Little
Richard Maguire was sent down to the five-acres, with the pigs, on
purpose to keep them from about the house, they not being supposed fit
company at a set-dinner. A roaring turf fire, which blazed two yards up
the chimney, had been put down; on this was placed a large pot, filled
with water for the tea, because they had no kettle.

     * Fact--Oatmeal is in general substituted for soap, by
     those who cannot afford to buy the latter.

By this time the morning was tolerably advanced, and the neighbors were
beginning to arrive in twos and threes, to wipe out old scores. Katty
had sent several of the gorsoons “to see if they could see any sight of
the clargy,” but hitherto their Reverences were invisible. At length,
after several fruitless embassies of this description, Father Con was
seen jogging along on his easygoing hack, engaged in the perusal of his
Office, previous to his commencing the duties of the day. As soon as his
approach was announced, a chair was immediately placed for him in a room
off the kitchen--the parlor, such as it was, having been reserved for
Father Phileniy himself, as the place of greater honor. This was an
arrangement, however, which went against the grain of Phaddhy, who,
had he got his will, would have established Father Con in the most
comfortable apartment of the house: but that old vagabond, human nature,
is the same under all circumstances--or, as Katty would have (in her
own phraseology) expressed it, “still the ould cut;” for even there the
influence of rank and elevation was sufficient to throw merit into the
shade; and the parlor-seat was allotted to Father Philemy, merely for
being Parish Priest, although it was well known that he could not “tare
off” * mass in half the time that Father Con could, nor throw a
sledge, or shoulder-stone within a perch of him, nor scarcely clear a
street-channel, whilst the latter could jump one-and-twenty feet at a
running leap. But these are rubs which men of merit must occasionally
bear; and, when exposed to them, they must only rest satisfied in the
consciousness of their own deserts.

     * The people look upon that priest as the best and most
     learned who can perform the ceremony of the mass in the
     shortest period of time. They call it as above “tareing
     off”. The quickest description of mass, however, is the
     “hunting mass,” so termed from the speed at which the
     priest goes over it--that is, “at the rate of a hunt.”

From the moment that Father Con became visible, the conversation
of those who were collected in Phaddhy’s dropped gradually, as he
approached the house, into a silence which was only broken by an
occasional short observation, made by one or two of those who were in
habits of the greatest familiarity with the priest; but when they heard
the noise of his horse’s feet near the door, the silence became general
and uninterrupted.

There can scarcely be a greater contrast in anything than that presented
by the beginning of a station-day and its close. In the morning, the
faces of those who are about to confess present an expression in which
terror, awe, guilt, and veneration may be easily traced; but in the
evening all is mirth and jollity. Before confession every man’s memory
is employed in running over the catalogue of crimes, as they are to be
found in the prayer-books, under the ten commandments, the seven deadly
sins, the Commandments of the Church, the four sins that cry to heaven
for vengeance, and the seven sins against the Holy Ghost.

When Father Con arrived, Phaddhy and Katty were instantly at the door to
welcome him.

“_Musha, cead millia failtha ghud_ (* A hundred thousand welcomes to
you.) to our house, Father Con, avourneen!” says Katty, dropping him a
low curtsey, and spreading her new, brown, quilted petticoat as far out
on each side of her as it would go--“musha, an’ it’s you that’s welcome
from my heart out.”

“I thank you,” said honest Con, who, as he knew not her name, did not
pretend to know it.

“Well, Father Con,” said Phaddhy, this is, the first time you have ever
come to us this, way; but, plase God, it won’t be the last, I hope.”

“I hope not, Phaddhy,” said Father Con, who, notwithstanding his
simplicity of character, loved a good dinner in the very core of his
heart, “I hope not, indeed, Phaddhy.” He then threw his eye about
the premises, to see what point he might set his temper to during the
remainder of the day; for it is right to inform our readers that a
priest’s temper, at a station, generally rises or falls according to the
prospect of his cheer.

Here, however, a little vista, or pantry, jutting out from the kitchen,
and left ostentatiously open, presented him with a view which made his
very nose curl with kindness. What it contained we do not pretend to
say, not having seen it ourselves; we judge, therefore, only by its
effects upon his physiognomy.

“Why, Phaddhy,” he says, “this is a very fine house you’ve got over
you;” throwing his eye again towards a wooden buttress which supported
one of the rafters that was broken.

“Why then, your Reverence, it would not be a bad one,” Phaddhy replied,
“if it had a new roof and new side-walls; and I intend to get both next
summer, if God spares me till then.”

“Then, upon my word, if it had new side-walls, a new roof, and new
gavels, too,” replied Father Con, “it would look certainly a great
deal the better for it;--and do you intend to to get them next summer,
Paddy?”

“If God spares me, sir.”

“Are all these fine gorsoons yours, Phaddhy?”

“Why, so Katty says, your Reverence,” replied Phaddhy, with a
good-natured laugh.

“Haven’t you got one of them for the church, Phaddhy?”

“Yes, your Reverence, there’s one of them that I hope will live to have
the robes upon him Come over, Briney, and speak to Father Con. He’s not
very far in his Latin yet, sir but his master tells me that he hasn’t
the likes of him in the school for brightness--Briney, will you come
over, I say; come over, sarrah, and spake to the gintleman, and
him wants to shake hands wid you--come up, man, what are you afeard
of?--sure Father Con’s not going to examine you now.”

“No, no, Briney,” said Father Con, “I’m not about to examine you at
present.”

“He’s a little dashed, yer Reverence, be-kase he thought you war going
to put him through some of his Latin,” said the father, bringing him up
like a culprit to Father Con, who shook hands with him, and, after a few
questions as to the books he read, and his progress, dismissed him.

“But, Father Con, wid submission,” said Katty, “where’s Father Philemy
from us?--sure, we expected him along wid you, and he wouldn’t go to
disappoint us?”

“Oh, you needn’t fear that, Katty,” replied Father Con; “he’ll be here
presently--before breakfast, I’ll engage for him at any rate; but he had
a touch of the headache this morning, and wasn’t able to rise so early
as I was.”

During this conversation a little crowd had collected about the door of
the room in which he was to hear the confessions, each struggling and
fighting to get the first turn; but here, as in the more important
concerns of this world, the weakest went to the wall. He now went into
the room, and taking Katty herself first, the door was closed upon them,
and he gave her absolution; and thus he continued to confess and absolve
them, one by one, until breakfast.

Whenever a station occurs in Ireland, a crowd of mendicants and other
strolling impostors seldom fail to attend it; on this occasion, at
least, they did not. The day, though frosty, was fine; and the door was
surrounded by a train of this description, including both sexes, some
sitting on stones, some on stools, with their blankets rolled up under
them; and others, more ostensibly devout, on their knees, hard at
prayer; which, lest their piety might escape notice, our readers may be
assured, they did not offer up in silence. On one side you might observe
a sturdy fellow, with a pair of tattered urchins secured to his back
by a sheet or blanket pinned across his breast with a long iron skewer,
their heads just visible at his shoulders, munching a thick piece of
wheaten bread, and the father on his knees, with a a huge wooden cross
in hand, repeating _padareens_, and occasionally throwing a jolly eye
towards the door, or through the; window, opposite which he knelt,
into the kitchen, as often as any peculiar stir or commotion led him to
suppose that breakfast, the loadstar of his devotion, was about to be
produced.

Scattered about the door were knots of these, men and women,
occasionally chatting together; and when the subject of their
conversation happened to be exhausted, resuming their beads, until some
new topic would occur, and so on alternately.

The interior of the kitchen where the neighbors were assembled,
presented an appearance somewhat more decorous. Andy Lalor, the
mass-server, in whom the priest had the greatest confidence, stood in
a corner examining, in their catechism, those who intended to confess;
and, if they were able to stand the test, he gave them a bit of twisted
brown paper as a ticket, and they were received at the tribunal.

The first question the priest uniformly puts to the penitent is, “Can
you repeat the Confiteor?” If the latter answers in the affirmative, he
goes on until he comes to the words, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima
culpa, when he stops, it being improper to repeat the remainder until
after he has confessed; but, if he is ignorant of the “Confiteor,”
 the priest repeats it for him! and he commences the rehearsal of his
offences, specifically as they occurred; and not only does he reveal
his individual crimes, but his very thoughts and intentions. By this
regulation our readers may easily perceive, that the penitent is
completely at the mercy of the priest--that all family feuds, quarrels,
and secrets are laid open to his eye--that the ruling; passions of
men’s lives are held up before him, the weaknesses and propensities of
nature--all the unguarded avenues of the human heart and character are
brought within his positive knowledge, and that, too, as they exist
in the young and the old, the married and the single, the male and the
female.

It was curious to remark the ludicrous expression of temporary sanctity
which was apparent on the countenances of many young men and maidens who
were remarkable in the neighborhood for attending dances and wakes, but
who, on the present occasion, were sobered down to a gravity which sat
very awkwardly upon them; particularly in I the eyes of those who knew
the lightness and drollery of their characters. This, however, was
observable only before confession; for, as soon as, “the priest’s
blessed hand had been over them,” their gloom and anxiety passed away,
and the thoughtless buoyancy of their natural disposition resumed its
influence over their minds. A good-humored nod, or a sly wink, from
a young man to his female acquaintance, would now be indulged in; or,
perhaps a small joke would escape, which seldom failed to produce a
subdued laugh from such as had confessed, or an impatient rebuke from
those who had not.

“Tim!” one would exclaim, “arn’t ye ashamed or afeared to get an that
way, and his Reverence undher the wan roof wid ye?”

“Tim, you had better dhrop your joking,” a second would observe, “and
not be putting us through other, (* confusing us) when we have our
offenses to remimber; you have got your job over, and now you have
nothing to trouble you.”

“Indeed, it’s fine behavior,” a third would say, “and you afther coming
from the priest’s knee; and what more, didn’t resave (* Communicate)
yet; but wait till Father Con appears, and, I’ll warrant, you’ll be as
grave as another, for all you’re so stout now.”

The conversation would then pass to the merits of Father Philemy and
Father Con, as Confessors.

“Well,” one would observe--“for my part, I’d rather go to Father
Philemy, fifty times over, than wanst to Father Con, bekase he never
axes questions; but whatever you like to tell him, he hears it, and
forgives you at wanst.”

“And so sign’s an it,” observed another; “he could confess more in a day
that Father Con could in a week.”

“But for all that,” observed Andy Lalor, “it’s still best to go to the
man that puts the questions, you persave, and that won’t let the turning
of a straw escape him. Whin myself goes to Father Philemy, somehow or
other, I totally disremember more nor wan half of what I intinded to
tell him, but Father Con misses nothing, for he axes it.”

When the last observation was finished, Father Con, finding that the
usual hour for breakfast had arrived, came into the kitchen, to prepare
for the celebration of mass. For this purpose, a table was cleared, and
just in the nick of time arrived old Moll Brian, the vestment woman, or
itinerant sacristan, whose usual occupation was to carry the priests’
robes and other apparatus, from station to station. In a short time,
Father Con was surpliced and robed; Andy Lalor, whose face was charged
with commensurate importance during the ceremony, sarved Mass, and
answered the priest stoutly in Latin although he had not the advantage
of understanding that sacerdotal language. Those who had confessed, now
communicated; after which, each of them took a draught, of water out of
a small jug, which was handed round from one to another. The ceremony
then closed, and those who had partaken of the sacrament, with the
exception of such as were detained for breakfast, after filling their
bottles with holy water, went home with a light heart. A little before
the mass had been finished, Father Philemy arrived; but, as Phaddy and
Katty were then preparing to resave they could not at that moment give
him a formal reception. As soon, however, as communion was over, the
_cead millia failtha_ was repeated with the usual warmth, by both, and
by all their immediate friends. Breakfast was now laid in Katty’s
best style, and with an originality of arrangement that scorned all
precedent. Two tables were placed, one after another, in the kitchen;
for the other rooms were not sufficiently large to accommodate the
company. Father Philemy filled the seat of honor at the head of the
table, with his back to an immense fire. On his right hand sat Father
Con; on his left, Phaddhy himself, “to keep the-clargy company;” and,
in due succession after them, their friends and neighbors, each taking
precedence according to the most scrupulous notions of respectability.
Beside Father Con sat “Pettier Malone,” a “young collegian,” who had
been sent home from Maynooth to try his native air, for the recovery
of his health, which was declining. He arrived only a few minutes after
Father Philemy, and was a welcome reinforcement to Phaddhy, in the
arduous task of sustaining the conversation with suitable credit.

With respect to the breakfast, I can only say, that it was
superabundant--that the tea was as black as bog water--that there were
hen, turkey, and geese eggs--plates of toast soaked, crust and crumb, in
butter; and lest there might be a deficiency, one of the daughters sat
on a stool at the fire, with her open hand, by way of a fire screen,
across her red, half-scorched brows, toasting another plateful, and, to
crown all, on each corner of the table was a bottle of whiskey. At
the lower board sat the youngsters, under the surveillance of Katty’s
sister, who presided in that quarter. When they were commencing
breakfast, “Father Philemy,” said Katty, “won’t yer Rev’rence bless the
mate (* food) if ye plase?”

“If I don’t do it myself,” said Father Philemy, who was just after
sweeping the top off a turkey egg, “I’ll get them that will. Come,” said
he to the collegian, “give us grace, Peter; you’ll never learn younger.”

This, however, was an unexpected blow to Peter, who knew that an
English grace would be incompatible with his “college feeding,” yet was
unprovided with any in Latin--The eyes of the company were now
fixed upon him, and he blushed like scarlet on finding himself in a
predicament so awkward and embarrassing. “_Aliquid, Petre, alliquid; ‘de
profundis’--si habes nihil aliud_,” said Father Philemy, feeling for
his embarrassment, and giving him a hint. This was not lost, for Peter
began, and gave them the _De profundis_--a Latin psalm, which Roman
Catholics repeat for the relief of the souls in, purgatory. They forgot,
however, that there was a person in company who considered himself as
having an equal claim to the repetition of at least the one-half of it;
and accordingly, when Peter got up and repeated the first verse, Andy
Lalor got also on his legs, and repeated the response.* This staggered
Peter a little, who hesitated, as uncertain how to act.

     * This prayer is generally repeated by two persons, who
     recite each a verse alternately.

“_Perge, Petre, perge_,” said Father Philemy, looking rather wistfully
at his egg--“_perge, stultus est et asinus quoque_.” Peter and Andy
proceeded until it was finished, when they resumed their seats.

The conversation during breakfast was as sprightly, as full of fun and
humor as such breakfasts usually are. The priest, Phaddhy, and the young
collegian, had a topic of their own, whilst the rest were engaged in a
kind of by play, until the meal was finished.

“Father Philemy,” said Phaddhy, in his capacity of host, “before we
begin we’ll all take a dhrop of what’s in the bottle, if it’s not
displasing to yer Reverence; and, sure, I know, ‘tis the same that
doesn’t come wrong at a station, any how.”

This, _more majorum_, was complied with; and the glass, as usual, went
round the table, beginning with their Reverences. Hitherto, Father
Philemy had not had time to bestow any attention on the state of Kitty’s
larder, as he was in the habit of doing, with a view to ascertain
the several items contained therein for dinner. But as soon as the
breakfast-things were removed, and the coast clear, he took a peep into
the pantry, and, after throwing his eye over its contents, sat down
at the fire, making Phaddhy take a seat beside him, for the especial
purpose of sounding him as to the practicability of effecting a certain
design, which was then snugly latent in his Reverence’s fancy. The fact
was, that on taking the survey of the premises aforesaid, he discovered
that, although there was abundance of fowl, and fish, and bacon, and
hung-beef--yet, by some unaccountable and disastrous omission, there was
neither fresh mutton nor fresh beef. The priest, it must be confessed,
was a man of considerable fortitude, but this was a blow for which he
was scarcely prepared, particularly as a boiled leg of mutton was one of
his fifteen favorite joints at dinner. He accordingly took two or three
pinches of snuff in rapid succession, and a seat at the fire, as I have
said, placing Phaddhy, unconscious of his design, immediately beside
him.

Now, the reader knows that Phaddhy was a man possessing a considerable
portion of dry, sarcastic humor, along with that natural, quickness of
penetration and shrewdness for which most of the Irish peasantry are in
a very peculiar degree remarkable; add to this that Father Philemy, in
consequence of his contemptuous bearing to him before he came in for his
brother’s property, stood not very high in his estimation. The priest
knew this, and consequently felt that the point in question would
require to be managed, on his part, with suitable address.

“Phaddhy,” says his Reverence, “sit down here till we chat a little,
before I commence the duties of the day. I’m happy to, see that you have
such a fine thriving family: how many sons and daughters have you?”

“Six sons, yer Reverence,” replied. Phaddhy, “and five daughters:
indeed, sir, they’re as well to be seen as their neighbors, considhering
all things. Poor crathurs, they get fair play* now, thank Grod, compared
to what they used to get--God rest their poor uncle’s sowl for that!
Only for him, your Reverence, there would be very few inquiring this or
any other day about them.”

     * By this is meant good food and clothing.

“Did he die as rich as they said, Phaddhy?” inquired his Reverence.

“Hut, sir,” replied Phaddhy, determined to take what he afterwards
called a rise out of the priest; “they knew little about it--as rich as
they said, sir! no, but three times as rich, itself: but, any how, he
was the man that could make the money.”

“I’m very happy to hear it, Phaddhy, on, your account, and that of your
children. God be good to him--_requiescat animus ejus in pace, per omnia
secula seculorum_, Amen!--he liked a drop in his time, Phaddhy, as well
as ourselves, eh?”

“Amen, amen--the heavens be his bed!--he-did, poor man! but he had it at
first cost, your Reverence, for he run it all himself in the mountains:
he could afford to take it.”

“Yes, Phaddhy, the heavens be his bed, I pray; no Christmas or Easter
ever passed but he was sure to send me the little keg of stuff that
never saw water; but, Phaddhy, there’s one thing that concerns me about
him, in regard of his love of drink--I’m afraid it’s a throuble to him
where he is at present; and I was sorry to find that, although he died
full of money, he didn’t think it worth his while to leave even the
price of a mass to be said for the benefit of his own soul.”

“Why, sure you know, Father Philemy, that he wasn’t what they call a
dhrinking man: once a quarther, or so, he sartinly did take a jorum;
and except at these times, he was very sober. But God look upon us, yer
Reverence--or upon myself, anyway; for if he’s to suffer for his doings
that way, I’m afeard we’ll have a troublesome reck’ning of it.”

“Hem, a-hem!--Phaddhy,” replied the priest, “he has raised you and your
children from poverty, at all events, and you ought to consider that. If
there is anything in your power to contribute to the relief of his
soul, you havs a strong duty upon you to do it; and a number of masses,
offered up devoutly, would--”

“Why, he did, sir, raise both myself and my childre from poverty,” said
Phaddhy, not willing to let that point go farther--“that I’ll always own
to; and I hope in God that whatever little trouble might be upon him for
the dhrop of dhrink, will be wiped off by this kindness to us.”

“He hadn’t even a Month’s mind!”*

     * A Mouth’s Mind is the repetition of one or more
     masses, at the expiration of a month after death, for
     the repose of a departed soul. There are generally more
     than the usual number of priests on such occasions:
     each of whom receives a sum of money, varying according
     to the wealth of the survivors--sometimes five
     shillings, and sometimes five guineas.

“And it’s not but I spoke to him about both, yer Eeverence.”

“And what did he say, Phaddy?”

“‘Phaddy,’ said he, ‘I have been giving Father M’Guirk, one way or
another, between whiskey, oats, and dues, a great deal of money every
year; and now, afther I’m dead,’ says he, ‘isn’t it an ungrateful
thing of him not to offer up one mass for my sowl, except I leave him
payment for it?’”

“Did he say that, Phaddhy?”

“I’m giving you his very words, yer Reverence.”

“Phaddhy, I deny it; it’s a big lie--he could not make much use of such
words, and he going to face death. I say you could not listen to them;
the hair would stand on your head if he did; but God forgive him--that’s
the worst I wish him. Didn’t the hair stand on your head, Phaddhy, to
hear him?”

“Why, then, to tell yer Reverence God’s truth, I can’t say it did.”

“You can’t say it did! and if I was in your coat, I would be ashamed to
say it did not. I was always troubled about the way the fellow died,
but I hadn’t the slightest notion: that he went off such a reprobate. I
fought his battle and yours hard enough yesterday; but I knew less about
him than I do now.”

“And what, wid submission, did you fight our battles about, yer
Reverence?” inquired Phaddhy.

“Yesterday evening, in Parrah More Slevin’s, they had him a miser, and
yourself they set down as very little better.”

“Then I don’t think I desarved that from Parrah More, anyhow, Father
Philemy; I think I can show myself as dacent as Parrah More or any of
his faction.”

“It was not Parrah More himself, nor his family, that said anything
about you, Phaddhy,” said the priest, “but others that were present. You
must know that we were all to be starved here to-day.”

“Oh! ho!” exclaimed Phaddhy, who was hit most palpably upon the weakest
side--the very sorest spot about him, “they think bekase this is the
first station that ever was held in my house, that you won’t be thrated
as you ought; but they’ll be disappointed; and I hope, for so far, that
yer Reverence and yer friends had no rason to complain.”

“Not in the least, Phaddhy, considering that it was a first station; and
if the dinner goes as well off as the breakfast, they’ll be biting their
nails: but I should not wish myself that they would have it in their
power to sneer or throw any slur over you about it.--Go along, Dolan,”
 exclaimed his Reverence to a countryman who came in from the street,
where those stood who were for confession, to see if he had gone to his
room--“Go along, you vagrant, don’t you see I’m not gone to the tribunal
yet?--But it’s no matter about that, Phaddhy, it’s of other things you
ought to think: when were you at your duty?”

“This morning, sir,” replied the other--“but I’d have them to
understand, that had the presumption to use my name in any such manner,
that I know when and where to be dacent with any mother’s son of Parrah
More’s faction; and that I’ll be afther whispering to them some of these
fine mornings, plase goodness.”

“Well, well, Phaddhy, don’t put yourself in a passion about it,
particularly so soon after having been at confession--it’s not right--I
told them myself, that we’d have a leg of mutton and a bottle of wine
at all events for it was what they had; but that’s not worth talking
about--when were you with the priest before Phaddhy?”

“If I wasn’t able, it would be another thing, but as long as I’m able,
I’ll let them know that I’ve the spirit”--said Phaddhy, smarting under
the implication of niggardliness--“when was I at confession before,
Father Philemy? Why, then, dear forgive me, not these five years;--and
I’d surely be the first of the family that would show a mane spirit, or
a want of hospitality.”

“A leg of mutton is a good dish, and a bottle of wine is fit for the
first man in the land!” observed his Reverence; “five years!--why, is
it possible you stayed away so long, Phaddhy! how could you expect to
prosper with five years’ burden of sin upon your conscience--what would
it cost you--?”

“Indeed, myselfs no judge, your Reverence, as to that; but, cost what it
will, I’ll get both.”

“I say, Phaddhy, what trouble would it cost you to come to your duty
twice a year at the very least; and, indeed, I would advise you to
become a monthly communicant. Parrah More was speaking of it as to
himself, and you ought to go--”

“And I will go and bring Parrah More here to his dinner, this very day,
if it was only to let him see with his own eyes--”

“You ought to go once a month, if it was only to set an example to
your children, and to show the neighbors how a man of substance and
respectability, and the head of a family, ought to carry himself.”

“Where is the best wine got, your Reverence?”

“Alick M’Loughlin, my nephew, I believe, keeps the best wine and spirits
in Ballyslantha.--You ought also, Phaddy, to get a scapular, and become
a scapularian; I wish your brother had thought of that, and he wouldn’t
have died in so hardened a state, nor neglected to make a provision for
the benefit of his soul, as he did.”

“Lave the rest to me, yer Reverence, I’ll get it; Mr. M’Loughlin will
give me the right sort, if he has it betune him and death.”

“M’Laughlin! what are you talking about?”

“Why, what is your Reverence talking about?”

“The scapular,” said the priest.

“But I mane the wine and the mutton,” says Phaddhy.

“And is that the way you treat me, you reprobate you?” replied his
Reverence in a passion: “is that the kind of attention you’re paying me,
and I, advising you, all this time, for the good of your soul? Phaddhy,
I tell you, you’re enough to vex me to the core--five years!--only once
at confession in five years! What do I care about your mutton and your
wine!--you may get dozens of them if you wish; or, may be, it would be
more like a Christian to never mind getting them, and let the neighbors
laugh away. It would teach you humility, you hardened creature, and God
knows you want it; for my part, I’m speaking to you about other things;
but that’s the way with the most of you--mention any spiritual subject
that concerns your soul, and you turn a deaf ear to it--here, Dolan,
come in to your duty. In the meantime, you may as well tell Katty not
to boil the mutton too much; it’s on your knees you ought to be at your
rosary, or the seven penitential psalms, any way.”

“Thrue for you, sir,” says Phaddhy; “but as to going wanst a month,
I’m afeard, your Rev’rence, if it would shorten my timper as it does
Katty’s, that we’d be bad company for one another; she comes home from
confession, newly set, like a razor, every bit as sharp; and I’m sure
that I’m within the truth when I say there’s no bearing her.”

“That’s because you’ve no relish for anything spiritual yourself, you
nager you,” replied his Reverence, “or you wouldn’t see her temper in
that light--but, now that I think of it, where did you get that stuff we
had at breakfast?”

“Ay, that’s the sacret; but I knew your Rev’rence would like it; did
Parrah More aiquil it? No, nor one of his faction couldn’t lay his
finger on such a dhrop.”

“I wish you could get me a few gallons of it,” said the priest; “but let
us drop that; I say, Phaddhy, you’re too worldly and too careless about
your duty.”

“Well, Father Philemy, there’s a good time coming; I’ll mend yet.”

“You want it, Phaddhy.”

“Would three gallons do, sir?”

“I would rather you would make it five, Phaddhy; but go to your rosary.”

“It’s the penitential psalms, first, sir,” said Phaddhy, “and the rosary
at night. I’ll try, anyhow; and if I can make off five for you, I will.”

“Thank you, Phaddhy; but I would recommend you to say the rosary before
night.”

“I believe yer Reverence is right,” replied Phaddhy, looking somewhat
slyly in the priest’s face; “I think it’s best to make sure of it now,
in regard that in the evening, your Reverence--do you persave?”

“Yes,” said his Reverence, “you’re in a better frame of mind at present,
Phaddhy, being fresh from confession.”

So saying, his Reverence--for whom Phaddhy, with all his shrewdness in
general, was not a match--went into his room, that he might send home
about four dozen of honest, good-humored, thoughtless, jovial, swearing,
drinking, fighting Hibernians, free from every possible stain of sin and
wickedness!

“Are you all ready now?” said the priest to a crowd of country people
who were standing about the kitchen door, pressing to get the “first
turn” at the tribunal, which on this occasion consisted of a good oaken
chair, with his Reverence upon it.

“Why do you crush forward in that manner, you ill-bred spalpeens? Can’t
you stand back, and behave yourselves like common Christians?--back with
you! or, if you make me get my whip, I’ll soon clear you from about the
dacent man’s door. Hagarty, why do you crush them two girls there,
you great Turk, you? Look at the vagabonds! Where’s my whip,” said he,
running in, and coming out in a fury, when he commenced cutting about
him, until they dispersed in all directions. He then returned into the
house; and, after calling in about two dozen, began to catechize them
as follows, still holding the whip in his hand, whilst many of those
individuals, who at a party quarrel or faction fight, in fair or market,
were incapable of the slightest terror, now stood trembling before him,
absolutely pale and breathless with fear.

“Come, Kelly,” said he to one of them, “are you fully prepared for the
two blessed sacraments of Penance and the Eucharist, that you are about
to receive? Can you read, sir?”

“Can I read, is id?--my brother Barney can, yor Rev’rence,” replied
Kelly, sensible, amid all the disadvantages around him, of the
degradation of his ignorance.

“What’s that to me, sir?” said the priest, “what your brother Barney can
do--can you not read yourself?”

“I can not, your Reverence,” said Kelly, in a tone of regret.

“I hope you have your Christian Doctrine, at all events,” said the
priest. “Go on with the Confiteor.”

Kelly went on--“Confeetur Dimnipotenmti batchy Mary semplar virginy,
batchy Mickletoe Archy Angelo, batchy Johnny Bartisty, sanctris
postlis--Petrum hit Paulum omnium sanctris, et tabby pasture, quay a
pixavit minus coglety ashy hony verbum et offer him smaxy quilia smaxy
quilta--sniaxy maxin in quilia.” *

     * Let not our readers suppose that the above version in
     the mouth of a totally illiterate peasant is
     overcharged; for we have the advantage of remembering
     how we ourselves used to hear it pronounced in our
     early days. We will back the version in the text
     against Edward Irving’s new language--for any money.--
     Original note.

“Very well, Kelly, right enough, all except the pronouncing,
which wouldn’t pass muster in Maynooth, however. How many kinds of
commandments are there?”

“Two, sir.”

“What are they?”

“God’s and the Church’s.”

“Repeat God’s share of them.”

He then repeated the first commandment according to his catechism.

“Very good, Kelly, very good. Well now, repeat the commandments of the
Church.”

“First--Sundays and holidays, Mass thou shalt sartinly hear;

“Second--All holidays sanctificate throughout all the whole year.

“Third--Lent, Ember days, and Virgins, thou shalt be sartain to fast;

“Fourth--Fridays and Saturdays flesh thou shalt not, good, bad or
indifferent, taste.

“Fifth--In Lent and Advent, nuptial fastes gallantly forbear.

“Sixth--Confess your sins, at laste once dacently and soberly every
year.

“Seventh--Resave your God at confission about great Easter-day;

“Eighth--And to his Church and his own frolicsome clargy neglect not
tides (tithes) to pay.”

“Well,” said his Eeverence, “now, to great point is, do you understand
them?”

“Wid the help of God, I hope so, your Rev’rence; and I have also the
three thriptological vartues.”

“Theological, sirrah!”

“Theojollyological vartues; the four sins that cry to heaven for
vingeance; the five carnal vartues--prudence, justice, timptation, and
solitude; (* Temperance and fortitude) the seven deadly sins; the eight
grey attitudes--”

“Grey attitudes! Oh, the Boeotian!” exclaimed his Eeverence, “listen to
the way in which he’s playing havoc among them. Stop, sir,” for Kelly
was going on at full speed--“Stop, sir. I tell you it’s not gray
attitudes, but bay attitudes--doesn’t every one know the eight
beatitudes?”

“The eight bay attitudes; the nine ways of being guilty of another’s
sins; the ten commandments; the twelve fruits of a Christian; the
fourteen stations of the cross; the fifteen mystheries of the passion--”

“Kelly,” said his Eeverence, interrupting him, and heralding, the joke,
for so it was intended, with a hearty chuckle, “you’re getting fast out
of your teens, ma bouchal?” and this was of course, honored with a
merry peal; extorted as much by an effort of softening the rigor of
examination, as by the traditionary duty which entails upon the Irish
laity the necessity of laughing at a priest’s jokes, without any
reference at all to their quality. Nor was his Reverence’s own voice
the first to subside into that gravity which became the solemnity of the
occasion; or even whilst he continued the interrogatories, his eye was
laughing at the conceit with which it was evident the inner man was not
competent to grapple. “Well, Kelly, I can’t say but you’ve answered
very well, as far as the repealing of them goes; but do you perfectly
understand all the commandments of the church?”

“I do, sir,” replied Kelly, whose confidence kept pace with his
Reverence’s good-humor.

“Well, what is meant by the fifth?”

“The fifth, sir?” said the other, rather confounded--“I must begin agin,
sir, and go on till I come to it.”

“Well,” said the priest, “never mind that; but tell us what the eighth
means?”

Kelly stared at him a second time, but was not able to advance
“First--Sundays and holidays, mass thou shalt hear;” but before he
had proceeded to the second, a person who stood at his elbow began to
whisper to him the proper reply, and in the act of so doing received a
lash of the whip across the ear for his pains.

“You blackguard, you!” exclaimed Father Philemy, “take that--how dare
you attempt to prompt any person that I’m examining?”

Those who stood around Kelly now fell back to a safe distance, and all
was silence, terror, and trepidation once more.

“Come, Kelly, go on--the eighth?”

Kelly was still silent.

“Why, you ninny you, didn’t you repeat it just now. ‘Eighth--And to his
church neglect not tithes to pay.’ Now that I have put the words in your
mouth, what does it mean?”

Kelly having thus got the cue, replied, in the words of the Catechism,
“To pay _tides_ to the lawful _pasterns_ of the church, sir.”

“Pasterns!--oh, you ass you! _Pasterns!_ you poor; base, contemptible,
crawling reptile, as if we trampled you under our hooves--oh, you scruff
of the earth! Stop, I say--it’s pastors.”

“Pastures of the church.”

“And, tell me, do you fulfil that commandment?”

“I do, sir.”

“It’s a lie, sir,” replied the priest, brandishing the whip over his
head, whilst Kelly instinctively threw up his guard to protect himself
from the blow. “It’s a lie, sir,” repeated his Eeverence; “you don’t
fulfil it. What is the church?”

“The church is the congregation of the faithful that purfiss the true
faith, and are obadient to the Pope.”

“And who do you pay tithes to?”

“To the parson, sir.”

“And, you poor varmint you, is he obadient to the Pope?”

Kelly only smiled at the want of comprehension which prevented him from
seeing the thing according to the view which his Reverence took of it.

“Well, now,” continued Father Philemy, “who are the lawful pastors of
God’s church?”

“You are, sir: and all our own priests.”

“And who ought you to pay your tithes to?”

“To you, sir, in coorse; sure I always knew that, your Rev’rence.”

“And what’s the reason, then, you don’t pay them to me, instead of the
parson?”

This was a puzzler to Kelly, who only knew his own side of the question.
“You have me there, sir,” he replied, with a grin.

“Because,” said his Reverence, “the Protestants, for the present, have,
the law of the land on their side, and power over you to compel the
payment of tithes to themselves; but we have right, justice, and the law
of God on ours; and, if every thing was in its proper place, it is not
to the parsons, but to us, that you would pay them.”

“Well, well, sir,” replied Kelly, who now experienced a community of
feeling upon the subject with his Reverence, that instantly threw him
into a familiarity of manner which he thought the point between them
justified--“who knows, sir?” said he with a knowing smile, “there’s a
good time coming, yer Rev’rence.”

“Ay,” said Father Philemy, “wait till we get once into the Big* House,
and if we don’t turn the scales--if the Established Church doesn’t
go down, why, it won’t be our fault. Now, Kelly, all’s right but the
money--have you brought your dues?”

     * Parliament. This was written before the passing of
     the Emancipation Bill.

“Here it is, sir,” said Kelly, handing him his dues for the last year.

It is to be observed here, that, according as the penitents went to be
examined, or to kneel down to confess, a certain sum was exacted from
each, which varied according to the arrears that might have been due to
the priest. Indeed, it is not unusual for the host and hostess, on these
occasions, to be refused a participation in the sacrament, until they
pay this money, notwithstanding the considerable expense they are put to
in entertaining not only the clergy, but a certain number of their own
friends and relations.

“Well, stand aside, I’ll hear you first; and now, come up here, you
young gentleman, that laughed so heartily a while ago at my joke--ha,
ha, ha!--come up here, child.”

A lad now approached him, whose face, on a first view, had something
simple and thoughtless in it, but in which, on a closer inspection,
might be traced a lurking, sarcastic humor, of which his Reverence never
dreamt.

“You’re for confession, of course?” said the priest.

“_Of coorse_,” said the lad, echoing him, and laying a stress upon
the word, which did not much elevate the meaning of the compliance in
general with the rite in question.

“Oh!” exclaimed the priest, recognizing him when he approached--“you are
Dan Fagan’s son, and designed for the church yourself; you are a good
Latinist, for I remember examining you in Erasmus about two years
ago--_Quomodo sehabet corpus tuum, charum lignum sacredotis_”

“_Valde, Domine_,” replied the lad, “_Quomodo se habet anima tua, charum
exemplar sacerdotage, et fulcrum robustissium Ecclesiae sacrosancte_?”

“Very good, Harry,” replied his Reverence, laughing--“stand aside; I’ll
hear you after Kelly.”

He then called up a man with a long melancholy face, which he noticed
before to have been proof against his joke, and after making two
or three additional and fruitless experiments upon his gravity, he
commenced a cross fire of peevish interrogatories, which would have
excluded him from the “tribunal” on that occasion, were it not that the
man was remarkably well prepared, and answered the priest’s questions
very pertinently.

This over, he repaired to his room, where the work of absolution
commenced; and, as there was a considerable number to be rendered
sinless before the hour of dinner, he contrived to unsin them with an
alacrity that was really surprising.

Immediately after the conversation already detailed between his
Reverence and Phaddhy, the latter sought Katty, that he might
communicate to her the unlucky oversight which they had committed, in
neglecting to provide fresh meat and wine. “We’ll be disgraced forever,”
 said Phaddhy, “without either a bit of mutton or a bottle of wine for
the gintlemen, and that big thief Parrah More Slevin had both.”

“And I hope,” replied Katty, “that you’re not so mane as to let any of
that faction outdo you in dacency, the nagerly set? It was enough for
them to bate us in the law-shoot about the horse, and not to have the
laugh agin at us about this.”

“Well, that same law-shoot is not over with them yet,” said Phaddhy;
“wait till the spring fair comes, and if I don’t have a faction gathered
that’ll sweep them out of the town, why my name’s not Phaddhy! But where
is Matt till we sind him off?”

“Arrah, Phaddhy,” said Katty, “wasn’t it friendly of Father Philemy to
give us the hard word about the wine and mutton?”

“Very friendly,” retorted Phaddhy, who, after all, appeared to have
suspected the priest--“very friendly, indeed, when it’s to put a good
joint before himself, and a bottle of wine in his jacket. No, no, Katty!
it’s not altogether for the sake of Father Philemy, but I wouldn’t have
the neighbors say that I was near and undacent; and above all tilings,
I wouldn’t be worse nor the Slevins--for the same set would keep it up
agin us long enough.”

Our readers will admire the tact with which Father Philemy worked upon
the rival feeling between the factions; but, independently of this,
there is a generous hospitality in an Irish peasant which would urge him
to any stratagem, were it even the disposal of his only cow, sooner than
incur the imputation of a narrow, or, as he himself terms it, “undacent”
 or “nagerly” spirit.

In the course of a short time, Phaddhy dispatched two messengers, one
for the wine, and another for the mutton; and, that they might not
have cause for any unnecessary delay, he gave them the two reverend
gentlemen’s horses, ordering them to spare neither whip nor spur until
they returned. This was an agreeable command to the messengers, who, as
soon as they found themselves mounted, made a bet of a “trate,” to be
paid on arriving in the town to which they were sent, to him who should
first reach a little stream that crossed the road at the entrance of it,
called the “Pound burn.” But I must not forget to state, that they not
only were mounted on the priest’s horses, but took their great-coats, as
the day had changed, and threatened to rain. Accordingly, on getting out
upon the main road, they set off, whip and spur, at full speed, jostling
one another, and cutting each other’s horses as if they had been
intoxicated; and the fact is, that, owing to the liberal distribution of
the bottle that morning, they were not far from it.

[Illustration: PAGE 756-- They set off, whip and spur, at full speed]

“Bliss us!” exclaimed the country people, as they passed, “what on airth
can be the matther with Father Philemy and Father Con, that they’re
abusing wan another at sich a rate!”

“Oh!” exclaimed another, “it’s apt to be a sick call, and they’re
thrying, maybe, to be there before the body grows cowld.”

“Ay, it may be,” a third conjectured, “it’s to old Magennis, that’s on
the point of death, and going to lave all his money behind him.”

But their astonishment was not a whit lessened, when, in about an hour
afterwards, they perceived them both return; the person who represented
Father Con having an overgrown leg of mutton slung behind his back like
an Irish harp, reckless of its friction against his Reverence’s coat,
which it had completely saturated with grease; and the duplicate of
Father Philemy with a sack over his shoulder, in the bottom of which was
half a dozen of Mr. M’Laughlin’s best port.

Phaddhy, in the meantime, being determined to mortify his rival Parrah
More by a superior display of hospitality, waited upon that parsonage,
and exacted a promise from him to come down and partake of the dinner--a
promise which the other was not slack in fulfilling. Phaddhy’s heart was
now on the point of taking its rest, when it occurred to him that there
yet remained one circumstance in which he might utterly eclipse his
rival, and that was to ask Captain Wilson, his landlord, to meet their
Reverences at dinner. He accordingly went over to him, for he only lived
a few fields distant, having first communicated the thing privately to
Katty, and requested that, as their Reverences that day held a station
in his house, and would dine there, he would have the kindness to dine
along with them. To this the Captain, who was intimate with both the
clergymen, gave a ready compliance, and Phaddhy returned home in high
spirits.

In the meantime, the two priests were busy in the work of absolution;
the hour of three had arrived, and they had many to shrive; but, in
the course of a short time, a reverend auxiliary made his appearance,
accompanied by one of Father Philemy’s nephews, who was then about to
enter Maynooth. This clerical gentleman had been appointed to a parish;
but, owing to some circumstances which were known only in the distant
part of the diocese where he had resided, he was deprived of it, and
had, at the period I am writing of, no appointment in the church,
though he was in full orders. If I mistake not, he incurred his bishop’s
displeasure by being too warm an advocate for Domestic Nomination,* a
piece of discipline, the re-establishment of which was then attempted by
the junior clergymen of the diocese wherein the scene of this station
is laid. Be this as it may, he came in time to assist the gentlemen in
absolving those penitents (as we must call them so) who still remained
unconfessed.

     * Domestic Nomination was the right claimed by a
     portion of the Irish clergy to appoint their own
     bishops, independently of the Pope.

During all this time Katty was in the plenitude of her authority, and
her sense of importance manifested itself in a manner that was by no
means softened by having been that morning at her duty. Her tones
were not so shrill, nor so loud as they would have been, had not their
Reverences been within hearing; but what was wanting in loudness, was
displayed in a firm and decided energy, that vented, itself frequently
in the course of the day upon the backs and heads of her sons,
daughters, and servants, as they crossed her path in the impatience
and bustle of her employment. It was truly ludicrous to see her, on
encountering one of them in these fretful moments, give him a drive
head-foremost against the wall, exclaiming, as she shook her fist at
him, “Ho, you may bless your stars, that they’re under the roof, or it
wouldn’t go so asy wid you; for if goodness hasn’t said it, you’ll
make me lose my sowl this blessed and holy day: but this is still the
case--the very time I go to my duty, the devil (between us and harm)
is sure to throw fifty temptations acrass me, and to help him, you must
come in my way--but wait till tomorrow, and if I, don’t pay you for
this, I’m not here.”

That a station is an expensive ordinance to the peasant who is honored
by having one held in his house, no one who knows the characteristic
hospitality of the Irish people can doubt. I have reason, however, to
know that, within the last few years, stations in every sense have been
very much improved, where they have not been abolished altogether.
The priests now are not permitted to dine in the houses of their
parishioners, by which a heavy tax has been removed from the people.

About four o’clock the penitents were at length all despatched; and
those who were to be detained for dinner, many of whom had not eaten
anything until then, in consequence of the necessity of receiving the
Eucharist fasting, were taken aside to taste some of Phaddhy’s poteen.
At length the hour of dinner arrived, and along with it the redoubtable
Parra More Slevin, Captain Wilson, and another nephew of Father
Philemy’s, who had come to know what detained his brother who had
conducted the auxiliary priest to Phaddhy’s. It is surprising on these
occasions, to think how many uncles, nephews, and cousins, to the
forty-Second degree, find it needful to follow their Reverences on
messages of various kinds; and it is equally surprising to observe with
what exactness they drop in during the hour of dinner. Of course,
any blood-relation or friend of the priests must be received with
cordiality; and consequently they do not return without solid proofs
of the good-natured hospitality of poor Paddy, who feels no greater
pleasure than in showing his “dacency” to any one belonging to his
Reverence.

I dare say it would be difficult to find a more motley and diversified
company than sat down to the ungarnished fare which Katty laid before
them. There were first Fathers Philemy, Con, and the Auxiliary from the
far part of the diocese; next followed Captain Wilson, Peter Malone, and
Father Philemy’s two nephews; after these came Phaddhy himself, Parrah
More Slevin, with about two dozen more of the most remarkable and
uncouth personages that could sit down to table. There were besides
about a dozen of females, most of whom by this time, owing to Katty’s
private kindness, were in a placid state of feeling. Father Philemy _ex
officio_, filled the chair--he was a small man with cherub cheeks as red
as roses, black twinkling eyes, and double chin; was of the fat-headed
genus, and, if phrenologists be correct, must have given indications
of early piety, for he was bald before his time, and had the organ of
veneration standing visible on his crown; his hair from having once been
black, had become an iron gray, and hung down behind his ears, resting
on the collar of his coat according to the old school, to which, I must
remark, he belonged, having been educated on the Continent. His coat
had large double breasts, the lappels of which hung down loosely on each
side, being the prototype of his waistcoat, whose double breasts fell
downwards in the same manner--his black small-clothes had silver buckles
at the knees, and the gaiters, which did not reach up so far, discovered
a pair of white lamb’s-wool stockings, somewhat retreating from their
original color.

Father Con was a tall, muscular, able-bodied young man, with an
immensely broad pair of shoulders, of which he was vain; his black hair
was cropped close, except a thin portion of it which was trimmed quite
evenly across his eyebrows; he was rather bow-limbed, and when walking
looked upwards, holding out his elbows from his body, and letting the
lower parts of his arms fall down, so that he went as if he carried a
keg under each; his coat, though not well made, was of the best glossy
broadcloth--and his long clerical boots went up about his knees like
a dragoon’s; there was an awkward stiffness about him, in very good
keeping with a dark melancholy cast of countenance, in which, however, a
man might discover an air of simplicity not to be found in the visage of
his superior Father Philemy.

The latter gentleman filled the chair, as I said, and carved the goose;
on his right sat Captain Wilson; on his left, the auxiliary--next to
them Father Con, the nephews, Peter Malone, _et cetera_. To enumerate
the items of the dinner is unnecessary, as our readers have a pretty
accurate notion of them from what we have already said. We can only
observe, that when Phaddhy saw it laid, and all the wheels of the system
fairly set agoing, he looked at Parrah More with an air of triumph
which he could not conceal. It is also unnecessary for us to give the
conversation in full; nor, indeed, would we attempt giving any portion
of it, except for the purpose of showing the spirit in which a religious
ceremony such as it is, is too frequently closed.

The talk in the beginning was altogether confined to the clergymen and
Mr. Wilson, including a few diffident contributions from “Peter Malone”
 and the “two nephews.”

“Mr. M’Guirk,” observed Captain Wilson, after the conversation had taken
several turns, “I’m sure that in the course of your professional duties,
sir, you must have had occasion to make many observations upon human
nature, from the circumstance of seeing it in every condition and state
of feeling possible; from the baptism of the infant, until the aged man
receives the last rites of your church, and the soothing consolation of
religion from your hand.”

“Not a doubt of it, Phaddhy,” said Father Philemy to Phaddhy, whom
he had been addressing at the time, “not a doubt of it; and I’ll
do everything in my power to get him _in_* too, and I am told he is
bright.”

     * That is--into Maynooth college--the great object of
     ambition to the son of an Irish peasant or rather to
     his parent.

“Uncle,” said one of the nephews, “this gentleman is speaking to you.”

“And why not?” continued his Eeverence, who was so closely engaged with
Phaddhy, that he did not even hear the nephew’s appeal--“a bishop--and
why not? Has he not as good a chance of being a bishop as any of them?
though, God knows, it is not always merit that gets a bishopric in any
church, or I myself might--But let that pass.” said he, fixing his eyes
on the bottle. “Father Philemy,” said Father Con, “Captain Wilson was
addressing himself to you in a most especial manner.”

“Oh! Captain, I beg ten thousand pardons, I was engaged talking with
Phaddhy here about his son, who is a young shaving of our cloth, sir, he
is intended for the Mission*--Phaddhy, I will either examine him myself,
or make Father Con examine him by-and-by.--Well, Captain?” The Captain
now repeated what he had said.

     * The Church of Rome existing in any heretical country--
     that is, where she herself is not the State church--is
     considered a missionary establishment; and taking
     orders in her is termed “Going upon the Mission.” Even
     Ireland is looked upon as _in partibus infidelium_,
     because Protestantism is established by law--hence the
     phrase above.

“Very true, Captain, and we do see it in as many shapes as ever--Con,
what do you call him?--put on him.”

“Proteus,” subjoined Con, who was famous at the classics.

Father Philemy nodded for the assistance, and continued--“but as for
human nature, Captain, give it to me at a good rousing christening;
or what is better again, at a jovial wedding between two of my own
parishioners--say this pretty fair-haired daughter of Phaddhy Shemus
Phaddhy’s here, and long Ned Slevin, Parrah More’s son there--eh
Phaddhy, will it be a match?--what do you say, Parrah More? Upon my
veracity I must bring that about.”

“Why, then, yer Reverence,” replied Phaddhy, who was now a little
softened, and forgot his enmity against Parrah More for the present,
“unlikelier things might happen.”

“It won’t be my fault,” said Parrah More, “if my son Ned has no
objection.”

“He object!” replied Father Philemy, “if’ I take it in hands, let me see
who’ll dare to object; doesn’t the Scripture say it? and sure we can’t
go against the Scripture.”

“By the by,” said Captain Wilson, who was a dry humorist, “I am happy to
be able to infer from what you say, Father Philemy, that you are not, as
the clergymen of your church are supposed to be, inimical to the Bible.”

“Me an enemy to the Bible! no such thing, sir; but, Captain, begging
your pardon we will have nothing more about the bible; you see we are
met here, as friends and good fellows, to enjoy ourselves after the
severity of our spiritual duties, and we must relax a little; we can’t
always carry long faces like Methodist parsons--come, Pairah More, let
the Bible take a nap, and give us a song.”

His Reverence was now seconded in his motion by the most of all present,
and Parrah More accordingly gave them a song. After a few songs more,
the conversation went on as before.

“Now, Parrah More,” said Phaddhy, “you must try my wine; I hope it’s as
good as what you gave his Reverence yesterday.” The words, however, had
scarcely passed his lips, when Father Philemy burst out into a fit
of laughter, clapping and rubbing his hands in a manner the most
irresistible. “Oh, Phaddhy, Phaddhy!” shouted his Reverence, laughing
heartily, “I done you for once--I done you, my man, cute as you thought
yourself: why, you nager you, did you think to put us off with punch,
and you have a stocking of hard guineas hid in a hole in the wall?”

“What does yer Rev’rence mane,” said Phaddhy; “for myself can make no
understanding out of it, at all at all?”

To this his Reverence only replied by another laugh.

“I gave his Reverence no wine,” said Parrah More, in reply to Phaddhy’s
question.

“What!” said Phaddhy, “none yesterday, at the station held with you?”

“Not a bit of me ever thought of it.”

“Nor no mutton?”

“Why, then, devil a morsel of mutton, Phaddhy; but we had a rib of
beef.”

Phaddhy now looked over to his Reverence rather sheepishly, with the
smile of a man on his face who felt himself foiled. “Well, yer Reverence
has done me, sure enough,” he replied, rubbing his head--“I give it up
to you, Father Philemy; but any how, I’m glad I got it, and you’re all
welcome from the core of my heart. I’m only sorry I haven’t as much more
now to thrate you all like gintlemen; but there’s some yet, and as much
punch as will make all our heads come round.”

Our readers must assist us with their own imaginations, and suppose the
conversation to have passed very pleasantly, and the night, as well
as the guests, to be somewhat far gone. The principal part of the
conversation was borne by the three clergymen, Captain Wilson, and
Phaddy; that of the two nephews and Peter Malone ran in an under current
of its own; and in the preceding part of the night, those who occupied
the bottom of the table, spoke to each other rather in whispers, being
too much restrained by that rustic bashfulness which ties up the tongues
of those who feel that their consequence is overlooked among their
superiors. According as the punch circulated, however, their diffidence
began to wear off; and occasionally an odd laugh or so might be heard
to break the monotony of their silence. The youngsters, too, though at
first almost in a state of terror, soon commenced plucking each other;
and a titter, or a suppressed burst of laughter, would break forth from
one of the more waggish, who was put to a severe task in afterwards
composing his countenance into sufficient gravity to escape detection,
and a competent portion of chastisement the next day, for not being able
to “behave himself with betther manners.”

During these juvenile breaches of decorum, Katty would raise her arm
in a threatening attitude, shake her head at them, and look up at the
clergy, intimating more by her earnestness of gesticulation than met
the ear. Several songs again went round, of which, truth to tell,
Father Philomy’s were by far the best; for he possessed a rich, comic
expression of eye, which, added to suitable ludicrousness of gesture,
and a good voice, rendered him highly amusing to the company. Father
Con declined singing, as being decidedly serious, though he was often
solicited.

“He!” said Father Philemy, “he has no more voice than a woolpack;
but Con’s a cunning fellow. What do you think, Captain Wilson, but
he pretends to be too pious to sing, and gets credit for piety,--not
because he is devout, but because he has a bad voice; now, Con, you
can’t deny it, for there’s not a man in the three kingdoms knows it
better than myself; you sit there with a face upon you that might go
before the Lamentations of Jeremiah the Prophet, when you ought to be as
jovial as another.”

“Well, Father Philemy,” said Phaddhy, “as he won’t sing, may be, wid
submission he’d examine Briney in his Latin, till his mother and I hear
how’s he doing at it.”

“Ay, he’s fond of dabbling at Latin, so he may try him--I’m sure I have
no objection--: so, Captain, as I was telling you--”

“Silence there below!” said Phaddhy to those at the lower end of the
table, who were now talkative enough; “will yez whisht there till Father
Con hears Briney a lesson in his Latin. Where are you, Briney? come
here, ma bouchal.”

But Briney had absconded when he saw that the tug of war was about to
commence. In a few minutes, however, the father returned, pushing
the boy before him, who in his reluctance to encounter the ordeal of
examination, clung to every chair, table, and person in his way, hoping
that his restiveness might induce them to postpone the examination till
another occasion. The father, however, was inexorable, and by main force
dragged him from all his holds, and, placed him before Father Con.

“What’s come over you, at all at all, you unsignified shingawn you, to
affront the gintleman in this way, and he kind enough to go for to give
you an examination?--come now, you had betther not vex me, I tell you,
but hould up your head, and spake out loud, that we can all hear
you: now, Father Con, achora, you’ll not be too hard upon him in the
beginning, till he gets into it, for he’s aisy dashed.”

“Here, Briney,” said Father Philemy, handing him his tumbler, “take
a pull of this and if you have any courage at all in you it will raise
it;--take a good pull.” Briney hesitated.

“Why, but you take the glass out of his Reverence’s hand, sarrah,”
 said the father--“what! is it without dhrinking his Reverence’s health
first?”

Briney gave a most melancholy nod at his Reverence, as he put the
tumbler to his mouth, which he nearly emptied, notwithstanding his
shyness.

“For my part,” said his Reverence, looking at the almost empty tumbler,
“I am pretty sure that that same chap will be able to take care
of himself through life. And so, Captain,--” said he, resuming the
conversation with Captain Wilson--for his notice of Briney was only
parenthetical.

Father Con now took the book, which was AEsop’s Fables, and, in
accordance with Briney’s intention, it opened exactly at the favorite
fable of Gallus Gallinacexis. He was not aware, however, that Briney had
kept that place open during the preceding part of the week, in order to
effect this point. Father Philemy, however, was now beginning to relate
another anecdote to the Captain, and the thread of his narrative twined
rather ludicrously with that of the examination.

Briney, after, a few hems, at length proceeded--“_Gallus Gallinaceus_, a
dung-hill cock--”

“So, Captain, I was just after coming out of Widow Moylan’s--it was in
the Lammas fair--and a large one, by the by, it was--so, sir, who should
come up to me but Branagan. ‘Well, Branagan,’ said I, ‘how does the
world go now with you?’----”

“_Gallus Gallinaceus_, a dunghill cock----”

----“Says he. ‘And how is that?’ says I.

“_Gallus Gallinaceus_----”

-----“Says he, ‘Hut tut, Branagan,’ says I--‘you’re drunk.’ ‘That’s
the thing, sir’ says Branagan, ‘and I want to explain it all to your
Reverence.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘go on---”

“_Gallus Gallinaceus_, a dunghill cock----”

----“Says he,----Let your Gallus Gallinaceus go to roost for this night,
Con,” said Father Philemy, who did not relish the interruption of his
story; “I say, Phaddhy, send the boy to bed, and bring him down in your
hand to my house on Saturday morning, and we will both examine him,
but this is no time for it, and me engaged in conversation with
Captain Wilson.--So, Captain ____‘Well, sir,’ says Branagan, and he
staggering,--‘I took an oath against liquor, and I want your Reverence
to break it,’ says he. ‘What do you mean?’ I inquired. ‘Why, please your
Reverence,’ said he, ‘I took an oath against liquor, as I told you,
not to drink more nor a pint of whiskey in one day, and I want your
Reverence to break it for me, and make it only half a pint; for I find
that a pint is too much for me; by the same token, that when I get that
far, your Reverence, I disremember the oath entirely.”

The influence of the bottle now began to be felt, and the conversation
absolutely blew a gale, wherein hearty laughter, good strong singing,
loud argument, and general good humor blended into one uproarious peal
of hilarity, accompanied by some smart flashes of wit and humor which
would not disgrace a prouder banquet. Phaddhy, in particular, melted
into a spirit of the most unbounded benevolence--a spirit that would (if
by any possible means he could effect it) embrace the whole human race;
that is to say, he would raise them, man, woman, and child, to the same
elevated state of happiness which he enjoyed himself. That, indeed, was
happiness in perfection, as pure and unadulterated as the poteen which
created it. How could he be otherwise than happy?--he had succeeded to a
good property, and a stocking of hard guineas, without the hard labor of
acquiring them; he had the “clargy” under his roof at last, partaking
of a hospitality which he felt himself well able to afford them; he had
settled with his Reverence for five years’ arrears of sin, all of which
had been wiped out of his conscience by the blessed absolving hand of
the priest; he was training up Briney for the Mission, and though last,
not least, he was--far gone in his seventh tumbler!

“Come, jinteels,” said he, “spare nothing here--there’s lashings of
every thing; thrate yourselves dacent, and don’t be saying tomorrow or
next day, that ever my father’s son was nagerly. Death alive, Father
Con, what are you doin’? Why, then, bad manners to me if that’ll sarve,
any how.”

“Phaddhy,” replied Father Con, “I assure you I have done my duty.”

“Very well, Father Con, granting all that, it’s no sin to repate a good
turn you know. Not a word I’ll hear, yer Reverence--one tumbler along
with myself, if it was only for ould times.” He then filled Father Con’s
tumbler with his own hand, in a truly liberal spirit. “Arrah, Father
Con, do you remember the day we had the leapin’-match, and the bout at
the shoulder-stone?”

“Indeed, I’ll not forget it, Phaddhy.”

“And it’s yourself that may say that; but I bleeve I rubbed the consate
off of your Reverence--only that’s betune ourselves, you persave.”

“You did win the palm, Phaddhy, I’ll not deny it; but you are the only
man that ever bet me at either of the athletics.’

“And I’ll say this for yer Reverence, that you are one of the best and
most able-bodied gintlemen I ever engaged with. Ah! Father Con, I’m past
all that now--but no matter, here’s yer Reverence’s health, and a shake.
hands; Father Philomy, yer health, docthor: yer strange Reverence’s
health--Captain Wilson, not forgetting you, sir: Mr. Pettier, yours; and
I hope to see you soon with the robes upon you, and to be able to prache
us a good sarmon. Parrah More--_wus dha lauv_ (* give me yer hand),
you steeple you; and I haven’t the smallest taste of objection to what
Father Philemy hinted at--yell obsarve. Kitty, you thief of the world,
where are you? Your health, avourneen; come here, and give us your fist,
Katty: bad manners to me if I could forget you afther all;--the best
crathur, your Reverence, under the sun, except when yer Reverence puts
yer _comedher_ on her at confession, and then she’s a little, sharp or
so, not a doubt of it: but no matther, Katty ahagur, you do it all for
the best. And Father Philemy, maybe it’s myself didn’t put the thrick
upon you in the Maragy More, about Katty’s death--ha, ha, ha! Jack
M’Craner, yer health--all yer healths, and yer welcome here, if you
war seven times as many. Briney, where are you, ma bouchal? Come up and
shake hands wid yer father, as well as another--come up, acushla, and
kiss me. Ah, Briney, my poor fellow, ye’ll never be the cut of a man yer
father was; but no matther, avourneen, ye’ll be a betther man, I hope;
and God knows you may asy be that, for Father Philemy, I’m not what I
ought to be, yer Reverence; however, I may mend, and will, maybe, before
a month of Sundays goes over me: but, for all that, Briney, I hope to
see the day when you’ll be sitting an ordained priest at my own table;
if I once saw that, I could die contented--so mind yer larning, acushla,
and, his Reverence here will back you, and make inthorest to get you
into the college. Musha, God pity them crathurs at the door--aren’t
they gone yet? Listen to them coughin’, for fraid we’d forget them: and
throth and they won’t be forgot this bout any how--Katty, avourneen,
give them every one, big and little, young and ould, their
skinful--don’t lave a wrinkle in them; and see, take one of them
bottles--the crathurs, they’re starved sitting there all night in
the cowld--and give them a couple of glasses a-piece--it’s good, yer
Reverence, to have the poor body’s blessing at all times; and now, as I
was saying, Here’s all yer healths! and from the very veins of my heart
yer welcome here.”

Our readers may perceive that Phaddhy

     “Was not only blest, but glorious,
     O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious;”

for, like the generality of our peasantry, the _native_ drew to the
surface of his character those warm, hospitable, and benevolent virtues,
which a purer system of morals and education would most certainly keep
in full action, without running the risk, as in the present instance, of
mixing bad habits with frank, manly, and generous qualities.

          *     *     *     *     *

“I’ll not go, Con--I tell you I’ll not go till I sing another song.
Phaddhy, you’re a prince--but where’s the use of lighting more candles
now, man, than you had in the beginning of the night? Is Captain Wilson
gone? Then, peace be with him; it’s a pity he wasn’t on the right side,
for he’s not the worst of them. Phaddhy, where are you?”

“Why, yer Reverence,” replied Katty, “he’s got a little unwell, and jist
laid down his head a bit.”

“Katty,” said Father Con, “you had better get a couple of the men to
accompany Father Philemy home; for though the night’s clear, he doesn’t
see his way very well in the dark--poor man, his eye-sight’s failing him
fast.”

“Then, the more’s the pity, Father Con. Here, Denis, let yourself and
Mat go home wid Father Philemy.”

“Good-night, Katty,” said Father Con--“Good-night: and may our blessing
sanctify you all.”

“Good-night, Father Con, ahagur,” replied Katty; “and for goodness’ sake
see that they take care of Father Philemy, for it’s himself that’s the
blessed and holy crathur, and the pleasant gintleman out and out.”

“Good-night, Katty,” again repeated Father Con, as the cavalcade
proceeded in a body--“Good-night!” And so ended the Station.



THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL.


We ought, perhaps, to inform our readers that the connection between a
party fight and funeral is sufficiently strong to justify the author in
classing them under the title which is prefixed to this story. The one
being usually the natural result of the other, is made to proceed from
it, as is, unhappily, too often the custom in real life among the Irish.

It has been long laid down as a universal principle, that
self-preservation is the first law of nature. An Irishman, however, has
nothing to do with this; he disposes of it as he does with the other
laws, and washes his hands out of it altogether. But commend him to a
fair, dance, funeral, or wedding, or to any other sport where there is
a likelihood of getting his head or his bones broken, and if he survive,
he will remember you with a kindness peculiar to himself to the last
day of his life--will drub you from head to heel if he finds that any
misfortune has kept you out of a row beyond the usual period of three
months--will render the same service to any of your friends that stand
in need of it; or, in short, will go to the world’s end, or fifty miles
farther, as he himself would say, to serve you, provided you can
procure him a bit of decent fighting. Now, in truth and soberness, it
is difficult to account for this propensity; especially when the task
of ascertaining it is assigned to those of another country, or even to
those Irishmen whose rank in life places them too far from the customs,
prejudices, and domestic opinions of their native peasantry, none
of which can be properly known without mingling with them. To my own
knowledge, however, it proceeds in a great measure from education. And
here I would beg leave to point out an omission of which the several
boards of education have been guilty, and which, I believe, no one but
myself has yet been sufficiently acute and philosophical to ascertain,
as forming a _sine qua non_ in the national instruction of the lower
orders of Irishmen.

The cream of the matter is this:--a species of ambition prevails in the
Green Isle, not known in any other country. It is an ambition of about
three miles by four in extent; or, in other words, is bounded by the
limits of the parish in which the subject of it may reside. It puts
itself forth early in the character, and a hardy perennial it is. In my
own case, its first development was noticed in the hedge-school which I
attended. I had not been long there, till I was forced to declare myself
either for the Caseys or the Murphys, two tiny factions, that had split
the school between them. The day on which the ceremony of my declaration
took place was a solemn one. After school, we all went to the bottom of
a deep valley, a short distance from the school-house; up to the moment
of our assembling there, I had not taken my stand under either banner:
that of the Caseys was a sod of turf, stuck on the end of a broken
fishing-rod--the eagle of the Murphy’s was a Cork red potato, hoisted
in the same manner. The turf was borne by an urchin, who afterwards
distinguished himself in fairs and markets as a _builla batthah_ (*
cudgel player) of the first grade, and from this circumstance he was
nicknamed _Parrah Rackhan_. (* Paddy the Rioter) The potato was borne
by little Mickle M’Phauden Murphy, who afterwards took away Katty Bane
Sheridan, without asking either her own consent or her father’s. They
were all then boys, it is true, but they gave a tolerable promise of
that eminence which they subsequently attained.

When we arrived at the bottom of the glen, the Murphys and the Caseys,
including their respective followers, ranged themselves on either side
of a long line, which was drawn between the belligerent powers with the
but-end of one of the standards. Exactly on this line was I placed. The
word was then put to me in full form--“Whether will you side with the
dacent Caseys, or the blackguard Murphys?” “Whether will you side with
the dacent Murphys, or the blackguard Caseys?” “The potato for ever!”
 said I, throwing up my caubeen, and running over to the Murphy standard.
In the twinkling of an eye we were at it; and in a short time the deuce
an eye some of us had to twinkle. A battle royal succeeded, that lasted
near half an hour, and it would probably have lasted above double the
time, were it not for the appearance of the “master,” who was seen by a
little shrivelled vidette, who wanted an arm, and could take no part in
the engagement. This was enough--we instantly radiated in all possible
directions, so that by the time he had descended through the intricacies
of the glen to the field of battle, neither victor nor vanquished was
visible, except, perhaps, a straggler or two as they topped the brow of
the declivity, looking back over their shoulders, to put themselves out
of doubt as to their visibility by the master. They seldom looked in
vain, however, for there he usually stood, shaking at us his rod, silently
prophetic of its application on the following day. This threat, for the
most part, ended in smoke; for except he horsed about forty or fifty of
us, the infliction of impartial justice was utterly out of his power.

[Illustration: PAGE 763-- Usually stood, shaking at us his rod]

But besides this, there never was a realm in which the evils of a
divided cabinet were more visible: the truth is, the monarch himself was
under the influence of female government--an influence which he felt
it either contrary to his inclination or beyond his power to throw
off. “Poor Norah, long may you reign!” we often used to exclaim, to the
visible mortification of the “master,” who felt the benevolence of the
wish bottomed upon an indirect want of allegiance to himself. Well, it
was a touching scene!--how we used to stand with the waistbands of our
small-clothes cautiously grasped in our hands, with a timid show of
resistance, our brave red faces slobbered over with tears, as we stood
marked for execution! Never was there a finer specimen of deprecation
in eloquence than we then exhibited--the supplicating look right up into
the master’s face--the touching modulation of the whine--the additional
tightness and caution with which we grasped the waistbands with one
hand, when it was necessary to use the other in wiping our eyes and
noses with the polished sleeve-cuff--the sincerity and vehemence with
which we promised never to be guilty again, still shrewdly including the
condition of present impunity for our offence:--“this--one--time--
master, if ye plaise, sir;” and the utter hopelessness and despair which
were legible in the last groan, as we grasp the “master’s” leg in utter
recklessness of judgment, were all perfect in their way. Reader, have
you ever got a reprieve from the gallows? I beg pardon, my dear sir; I
only meant to ask, are you capable of entering into what a personage of
that description might be supposed to feel, on being informed, after the
knot had been neatly tied under the left ear, and the cap drawn over his
eyes, that her majesty had granted him a full pardon? But you remember
your own schoolboy days, and that’s enough.

The nice discrimination with which Norah used to time her interference
was indeed surprising. God help us! limited was our experience, and
shallow our little judgments, or we might have known what the master
meant, when with upraised arm hung over us, his eye was fixed upon the
door of the kitchen, waiting for Norah’s appearance.

Long, my fair and virtuous countrywomen, I repeat it to you all, as
I did to Norah--may you reign in the hearts and affections of your
husbands (but nowhere else), the grace, ornaments, and happiness of
their hearths and lives, you jewels, you! You are paragons of all that’s
good, and your feelings are highly creditable to yourselves and to
humanity.

When Norah advanced, with her brawny, uplifted arm (for she was a
powerful woman) and forbidding aspect, to interpose between us and the
avenging, terrors of the birch, do you think that she did not reflect
honor on her sex and the national character! I sink the base allusion
to the _miscaun_* of fresh butter, which we had placed in her hands that
morning, or the dish of eggs, or of meal, which we had either begged or
stolen at home, as a present for her; disclaiming, at the same time, the
rascally idea of giving it as a bribe, or from any motive beneath the
most lofty minded and disinterested generosity on our part.

     * A portion of butter, weighing from one pound to six or
          eight, made in the shape of a prism.

Then again, never did a forbidding face shine with so winning and
amicable an expression as did hers on that merciful occasion. The sun
dancing a hornpipe on Easter Sunday morning, or the full moon sailing as
proud as a peacock in a new halo head-dress, was a very disrespectable
sight, compared to Norah’s red beaming face, shrouded in her dowd cap
with long ears, that descended to her masculine and substantial neck.
Owing to her influence, the whole economy of the school was good; for
we were permitted to cuff one another, and do whatever we pleased, with
impunity, if we brought the meal, eggs, or butter; except some scapegoat
who was not able to accomplish this, and he generally received on his
own miserable carcase what was due to us all.

Poor Jack Murray! His last words on the scaffold, for being concerned in
the murder of Pierce the gauger, were, that he got the first of his
bad habits under Pat Mulligan and Norah--that he learned to steal by
secreting at home, butter and meal to paste up the master’s eyes to
his bad conduct--and that his fondness for quarrelling arose from being
permitted to head a faction at school; a most ungrateful return for the
many acts of grace which the indulgence of Norah caused; to be issued in
his favor.

I was but a short time under Pat, when, after the general example, I
had my cudgel, which I used to carry regularly to a certain furze
bush within fifty perches of the “seminary,” where I hid it till after
“dismiss.*”! I grant it does not look well in me to become I my own
panegyrist; but I can at least declare, that there were few among the
Gaseys able to, resist the prowess of this right arm, puny as it was at
the period in question. Our battles were obstinate and frequent; but as
the quarrels of the two families and their relations on each side, were
as bitter and pugnacious in fairs and markets as ours were in school, we
hit upon the plan of holding our Lilliputian engagements upon the same
days on which our fathers and brothers contested. According to this
plan, it very often happened that the corresponding parties were
successful, and as frequently, that whilst the Caseys were well drubbed
in the fair, their sons were victorious at school, and vice versa.

For my part, I was early trained in cudgelling, and before I reached my
fourteenth year, could pronounce as sage and accurate an opinion upon
the merits of a shillelagh, as it is called, or cudgel, as a veteran
of sixty could at first sight. Our plan of preparing them was this: we
sallied out to any place where there was an underwood of blackthorn or
oak, and, having surveyed the premises with the eye of a connoisseur, we
selected the straightest root-growing piece which we could find: for
if not root-growing we did not consider it worth cutting, knowing from
experience that a mere branch, how straight and fair soever it might
look, would be apt to snap in the twist and tug of war. Having cut it as
close to the root as possible, we then lopped off the branches, and
put it up the chimney to season. When seasoned, we took it down, and
wrapping it in brown paper, well steeped in hog’s lard or oil, we buried
it in a horse dunghill, paying it a daily visit for the purpose of
making it straight by doubling back the bends or angles across the knee,
in a direction contrary to their natural tendency. Having daily repeated
this until we had made it straight, and renewed the oil wrapping paper
until the staff was perfectly saturated, we then rubbed it well with a
woollen cloth, containing a little black-lead and grease, to give it
a polish. This was the last process, except that if we thought it too
light at the top, we used to bore a hole in the lower end with a red-hot
iron spindle, into which we poured melted lead, for the purpose of
giving it the knock-down weight.

There were very few of Paddy Mulligan’s scholars without a choice
collection of such cudgels, and scarcely one who had not, before his
fifteenth year, a just claim to be called the hero of a hundred fights,
and the heritor of as many bumps on the cranium as would strike both
Gall and Spurzheim speechless.

Now this, be it known, was, and in some districts yet is, an integral
part of an Irish peasant’s education. In the northern parts of Ireland,
where the population of the Catholics on the one side, and of Protestant
and Dissenters on the other, is nearly equal, I have known the
respective scholars of Catholic and Protestant schools to challenge each
other and meet half-way to do battle, in vindication of their respective
creeds; or for the purpose of establishing the character of their
respective masters as the more learned man; for if we were to judge by
the nature of the education then received, we would be led to conclude
that a more commercial nation than Ireland was not on the face of the
earth, it being the indispensable part of every scholar’s business to
become acquainted with the _three sets of Bookkeeping_.

The boy who was the handiest and the most daring with the cudgel at
Paddy Mulligan’s school was Denis Kelly, the son of a wealthy farmer
in the neighborhood. He was a rash, hot-tempered, good-natured lad,
possessing a more than common share of this blackthorn ambition; on
which account he was cherished by his relations as a boy that was likely
at a future period to be able to walk over the course of the parish,
in fair, market, or patron. He certainly grew up a stout, able young
fellow; and before he reached nineteen years, was unrivalled at the
popular exercises of the peasantry. Shortly after that time he made
his debut in a party-quarrel, which took place in one of the Christmas
Margamores, (* Big Markets) and fully sustained the anticipations which
were formed of him by his relations. For a year or two afterwards no
quarrel was fought without him; and his prowess rose until he had gained
the very pinnacle of that ambition which he had determined to reach.
About this time I was separated from him, having found it necessity,
in order to accomplish my objects in life, to reside with a relation in
another part of the country.

The period of my absence, I believe, was about fifteen years, during
which space I heard no account of him whatsoever. At length, however,
that inextinguishable attachment which turns the affections and memory
to the friends of our early days--to those scenes which we traversed
when the heart was light and the spirits buoyant--determined me to make
a visit to my native place, that I might witness the progress of time
and care upon those faces that were once so familiar to me; that I might
again look upon the meadows, and valleys, and groves, and mountains,
where I had so often played, and to which I still found myself bound by
a tie that a more enlightened view of life and nature only made stronger
and more enduring. I accordingly set off, and arrived late in the
evening of a December day, at a little town within a few miles of my
native home. On alighting from the coach and dining, I determined to
walk home, as it was a fine frosty night. The full moon hung in the blue
unclouded firmament in all her lustre, and the stars shone out with that
tremulous twinkling motion so peculiarly remarkable in frost. I had been
absent, I said, about fifteen years, and felt that the enjoyment of this
night would form an era in the records of my memory and my feelings. I
find myself indeed utterly incapable of expressing what I experienced;
but those who have ever been in similar circumstances will understand
what I mean. A strong spirit of practical poetry and romance was upon
me; and I thought that a commonplace approach in the open day would
have rendered my return to the scenes of my early life a very stale and
unedifying matter. I left the inn at seven o’clock, and as I had only
five miles to walk, I would just arrive about nine, allowing myself to
saunter on at the rate of two miles and half per hour. My sensations,
indeed, as I went along, were singular; and as I took a solitary road
that went across the mountains, the loneliness of the walk, the deep
gloom of the valleys, the towering height of the dark hills, and the
pale silvery-light of a sleeping lake, shining dimly in the distance
below, gave me such a distinct notion of the sublime and beautiful, as
I have seldom since experienced. I recommend every man who has been
fifteen years absent from his native fields to return by moonlight.

Well, there is a mystery yet undiscovered in our being, for no man
can know the full extent of his feelings or his capacities. Many a
slumbering thought, and sentiment, and association reposes within him,
of which he is utterly ignorant, and which, except he come in contact
with those objects whose influence over his mind can alone call them
into being, may never be awakened, or give him one moment of either
pleasure or pain. There is, therefore, a great deal in the position
which we hold in society, and simply in situation. I felt this on that
night: for the tenor of my reflections was new and original, and my
feelings had a warmth and freshness in them, which nothing but the
situation in which I then found myself could give them. The force of
association, too, was powerful; for, as I advanced nearer home, the
names of hills, and lakes, and mountains, that I had utterly forgotten,
as I thought, were distinctly revived in my memory, and a crowd of
youthful thoughts and feelings, that I imagined my intercourse with the
world and the finger of time had blotted out of my being, began to crowd
afresh on my fancy. The name of, a townland would instantly return with
its appearance; and I could now remember the history of families and
individuals that had long been effaced from my recollection.

But what is even more singular is, that the superstitious terrors of
my boyhood began to come over me as formerly, whenever a spot noted
for supernatural appearances met my eye. It was in vain that I exerted
myself to expel them, by throwing the barrier of philosophic reasoning
in their way; they still clung to me, in spite of every effort to the
contrary. But the fact is, that I was, for the moment, the slave of a
morbid and feverish sentiment, that left me completely at the mercy of
the dark and fleeting images that passed over my fancy. I now came to a
turn where the road began to slope down into the depths of a valley
that ran across it. When I looked forward into the bottom of it, all was
darkness impenetrable, for the moon-beams were thrown off by the height
of the mountains that rose on each side of it. I felt an indefinite
sensation of fear, because at that moment I recollected that it had
been, in my younger days, notorious as the scene of an apparition,
where the spirit of a murdered pedlar had never been known to permit
a solitary traveler to pass without appearing to him, and walking
cheek-by-jowl along with him to the next house on the way, at which spot
he usually vanished. The influence of my feelings, or, I should rather
say, the physical excitement of my nerves, was by no means slight, as
these old traditions recurred to me; although, at the same time, my
moral courage was perfectly unimpaired, so that, notwithstanding this
involuntary apprehension, I felt a degree of novelty and curiosity in
descending the valley: “If it appear,” said I, “I shall at least satisfy
myself as to the truth of apparitions.” My dress consisted of a long,
dark surtout, the collar of which, as the night was keen, I had turned
up about my ears, and the corners of it met round my face. In addition
to this I had a black silk handkerchief tied across my mouth to keep out
the night air, so that, as my dark fur traveling cap came down over
my face, there was very little of my countenance visible. I now had
advanced half way into the valley, and all about me was dark and still:
the moonlight was not nearer than the top of the hill which I was
descending; and I often turned round to look upon it, so silvery and
beautiful it appeared in the distance. Sometimes I stopped for a few
moments, admiring’ its effect, and, contemplating the dark mountains
as they stood out against the firmament, then kindled into magnificent
grandeur by the myriads of stars that glowed in its expanse. There was
perfect silence and solitude around me; and, as I stood alone in
the dark chamber of the mountains, I felt the impressiveness of the
situation gradually supersede my terrors. A sublime sense of religious
awe descended on me; my soul kindled into a glow of solemn and elevated
devotion, which gave me a more intense perception of the presence of God
than I had ever before experienced. “How sacred--how awful,” thought I,
“is this place!--how impressive is this hour!--surely I feel myself
at the footstool of God! The voice of worship is in this deep,
soul-thrilling silence, and the tongue of praise speaks, as it were,
from the very solitude of the mountains!” I then thought of Him who
went up into the mountain-top to pray, and felt the majesty of those
admirable descriptions of the Almighty, given in the Old Testament,
blend in delightful harmony with the beauty and fitness of the Christian
dispensation, that brought light and immortality to light. “Here,” said
I, “do I feel that I am indeed immortal, and destined for scenes of a
more exalted and comprehensive existence!”

I then proceeded further into the valley, completely freed from the
influence of old and superstitious associations. A few porches below
me a small river crossed the road, over which was thrown a little
stone bridge of rude workmanship. This bridge was the spot on which the
apparition was said to appear; and as I approached it, I felt the
folly of those terrors which had only a few minutes before beset me so
strongly. I found my moral energies recruited, and the dark phantasms of
my imagination dispelled by the light of religion, which had refreshed
me with a deep sense of the Almighty presence. I accordingly walked
forward, scarcely bestowing a thought upon the history of the place,
and had got within a few yards of the bridge, when on resting my eye
accidentally upon the little elevation formed by its rude arch, I
perceived a black coffin placed at the edge of the road, exactly upon
the bridge itself!

It may be evident to the reader, that, however satisfactory the force
of philosophical reasoning might have been upon the subject of the
solitude, I was too much the creature of sensation for an hour before,
to look on such a startling object with firm nerves. For the first two
or three minutes, therefore, T exhibited as finished a specimen of the
dastardly as could be imagined. My hair absolutely raised my cap
some inches off my head; my mouth opened to an extent which I did not
conceive it could possibly reach; I thought my eyes shot out from their
sockets, and my fingers spread out and became stiff, though powerless.
The “_obstupui_” was perfectly realized in me, for, with the exception
of a single groan, which I gave on first seeing the object, I found that
if one word would save my life, or transport me to my own fireside, I
could not utter it. I was also rooted to the earth, as if by magic;
and although instant tergiversation and flight had my most hearty
concurrence, I could not move a limb, nor even raise my eyes off
the sepulchral-looking object which lay before me. I now felt the
perspiration fall from my face in torrents, and the strokes of my heart
fell audibly on my ear. I even attempted to say, “God preserve me!” but
my tongue was dumb and powerless, and could not move. My eye was still
upon the coffin, when I perceived that, from being motionless, it
instantly began to swing,--first in a lateral, then in a longitudinal
direction, although it was perfectly evident that no human hand was
nearer it than my own. At length I raised my eyes off it, for my
vision was strained to an aching intensity, which I thought must have
occasioned my eye-strings to crack. I looked instinctively about me for
assistance--but all was dismal, silent, and solitary: even the moon had
disappeared among a few clouds that I had not noticed in the sky.

As I stood in this state of indescribable horror, I saw the light
gradually fade away from the tops of the mountains, giving the scene
around me a dim and spectral ghastliness, which, to those who were never
in such a situation, is altogether inconceivable.

At length I thought I heard a noise as it Were of a rushing tempest,
sweeping from the hills down into the valley; but on looking up, I could
perceive nothing but the dusky desolation that brooded over the place.
Still the noise continued; again I saw the coffin move; I then felt
the motion communicated to myself, and found my body borne and swung
backwards and forwards, precisely according to the motion of the coffin.
I again attempted to utter a cry for assistance, but could not: the
motion in my body still continued, as did the approaching noise in the
hills. I looked up a second time in the direction in which the valley
wound off between them, but judge of what I must have suffered, when
I beheld one of the mountains moving, as it were, from its base, and
tumbling down towards the spot on which I stood! In the twinkling of an
eye the whole scene, hills and all, began to tremble, to vibrate, and to
fly round me, with a rapid, delirious motion; the stars shot back into
the depths of heaven, and disappeared; the ground on which I stood began
to pass from beneath my feet; a noise like the breaking of a thousand
gigantic billows again burst from every direction, and I found myself
instantly overwhelmed by some deadly weight, which prostrated me on the
earth, and deprived me of sense and motion.

I know not how long I continued in this state; but I remember that, on
opening my eyes the first object that presented itself to me, was the
sky glowing as before with ten thousand stars, and the moon walking in
her unclouded brightness through the heavens. The whole circumstance
then rushed back upon my mind, but with a sense of horror very much
diminished; I arose, and on looking towards the spot, perceived the
coffin in the same place. I then stood, and endeavoring to collect
myself, viewed it as calmly as possible; it was, however, as motionless
and distinct as when I first saw it. I now began to reason upon the
matter, and to consider that it was pusillanimous in me to give way to
such boyish terrors. The confidence, also, which my heart, only a short
time before this, had experienced in the presence and protection of
the Almighty, again returned, and, along with it, a degree of religious
fortitude, which invigorated my whole system. “Well,” thought I, “in the
name of God I shall ascertain what you are, let the consequence be what
it may.” I then advanced until I stood exactly over it, and raising
my foot gave it a slight kick. “Now,” said I, “nothing remains but to
ascertain whether it contains a dead body or not;” but on raising the end
of it, I perceived by its lightness, that it was empty. To investigate
the cause of its being left in this solitary spot was, however, not
within the compass of my philosophy, so I gave that up. On looking at
it more closely, I noticed a plate, marked with the name and age of
the person for whom it was intended, and on bringing my eyes near the
letters, I was able, between fingering and reading, to make out the name
of my old cudgel-fighting school-fellow, Denis Kelly.

This discovery threw a partial light upon the business; but I now
remembered to have heard of individuals who had seen black, unearthly
coffins, inscribed with the names of certain living persons; and that
these were considered as ominous of the death of those persons. I
accordingly determined to be certain that this was a real coffin; and as
Denis’s house was not more than a mile before me, I decided on carrying
it that far, “If he be dead,” thought I, “it will be all light, and
if not, we will see more about it.” My mind, in fact, was diseased by
terror. I instantly raised the coffin, and as I found a rope lying on
the ground under it, I strapped it about my shoulders and proceeded: nor
could I help smiling when I reflected upon the singular transition which
the man of sentiment and sensation so strangely underwent;--from the
sublime contemplation of the silent mountain solitude and the spangled
heavens to the task of carrying a coffin! It was an adventure, however,
and I was resolved to see how it would terminate.

There was from the bridge an ascent in the road, not so gradual as that
by which I descended on the other side; and as the coffin was rather
heavy, I began to repent of having anything to do with it; for I was
by no means experienced in carrying coffins. The carriage of it was,
indeed, altogether an irksome and unpleasant concern; for owing to my
ignorance of using the rope that tied it skilfully, it was every moment
sliding down my back, dragging along the stones, or bumping against my
heels: besides, I saw no sufficient grounds I had for entering upon the
ludicrous and odd employment of carrying another man’s coffin, and was
several; times upon the point of washing my hands out of it altogether.
But the novelty of the incident, and the mystery in which it was
involved, decided me in bringing it as far as Kelly’s house, which was
exactly on my way home.

I had yet half a mile to go; but I thought it would be best to strap it
more firmly about my body before I could start again: I therefore set
it standing on its end, just at the turn of the road, until I should
breathe a little, for I was rather exhausted by a trudge under it of
half a mile and upwards. Whilst the coffin was in this position, I
standing exactly behind it (Kelly had been a tall man, consequently
it was somewhat higher than I was), a crowd of people, bearing lights,
advanced round the corner; and the first object which presented itself
to their vision, was the coffin in, that position, whilst I was totally
invisible behind it. As soon as they saw it, there was an involuntary
cry of consternation from the whole crowd; at this time I had the coffin
once more strapped firmly by a running knot to my shoulders, so that
I could loose it whenever I pleased. On seeing the party, and hearing
certain expressions which dropped from them, I knew at once that there
had been some unlucky blunder in the business on their part; and I would
have given a good deal to be out of the circumstances in which I then
stood. I felt that I could not possibly have accounted for my situation,
without bringing myself in for as respectable a portion of rank
cowardice as those who ran away from the coffin; for that it was
left behind in a fit of terror, I now entertained no doubt whatever,
particularly when I remembered the traditions connected with the spot in
which I found it.

“_Manim a Yea agus a wurrah!_“* exclaimed one of them, “if the black man
hasn’t brought it up from the bridge! _Dher a larna heena_**, he
did; for it was above the bridge we first seen him: jist for all the
world--the Lord be about us--as Antony and me war coming out on the road
at the bridge, there he was standing--a headless man, all black, without
face or eyes upon him--and then we left the coffin and cut acrass the
fields home.”

     * My soul to God and the Virgin.

     ** By the very book--meaning the Bible, which, in the
     Irish, is not simply called the book, but the very
     book, or the book itself.

“But where is he now, Eman?” said one of them, “are you sure you seen
him?”

“Seen him!” both exclaimed, “do you think we’d take to our scrapers
like two hares, only we did; arrah, bad manners to you, do you think the
coffin could walk up wid itself from the bridge to this, only he brought
it?--isn’t that enough?”

“Thrue for yez,” the rest exclaimed, “but what’s to be done?”

“Why to bring the coffin home, now that we’re all together,” another
observed; “they say he never appears to more than two at wanst, so he
won’t be apt to show himself now, when we’re together.”

“Well, boys, let two of you go down to it,” said one of them, “and we’ll
wait here till yez bring it up.”

“Yes,” said Eman Dhu, “do you go down, Owen, as you have the Scapular*
on you, and the jug of holy water in your hand, and let Billy M’Shane,
here repate the confeethurs (* _The Confiteor_) along wid you.”

     * The scapular is one of the highest religious orders,
     and is worn by both priest and layman. It is considered
     by the people a safeguard against evil both spiritual
     and physical.

“Isn’t it the same thing, Eman,” replied Owen, “if I shake the holy
water on you, and whoever goes wid you? sure you know that if only one
dhrop of it touched you, the devil himself couldn’t harm you!”

“And what needs yourself be afraid, then,” retorted Eman; “and you has
the Scapular on you to the back of that? Didn’t you say, you war coming
out, that if it was the devil, you’d disparse him?”

“You had betther not be mintioning his name, you _omadhaun_,” replied
the other; “if I was your age, and hadn’t a wife and childre on my
hands, it’s myself that would trust in God, and go down manfully; but
the people are hen-hearted now, besides what they used to be in my
time.”

During this conversation, I had resolved, if possible, to keep up the
delusion, until I could get myself extricated with due secrecy out of
this ridiculous situation; and I was glad to find that, owing to their
cowardice, there was some likelihood of effecting my design.

“Ned,” said one of them to a little man, “go down and speak to it, as it
can’t harm you.”

“Why sure,” said Ned, with a tremor in his voice, “I can speak to it
where I am, widout going within rache of it. Boys, stand close to me:
hem--In the name of--but don’t you think I had betther spake to it in
the Latin I sarve mass* wid; it can’t but answer that, for the sowl of
it, seeing it’s a blest language?”

     * The person who serves mass, as it is called, is he
     who makes the responses to the priest during that
     ceremony. As the mass is said in Latin the serving of
     it must necessarily fall upon many who are ignorant of
     that language, and whose pronunciation of it is, of
     course, extremely ludicrous.

“Very well,” the rest replied; “try that Ned; give it the best and
ginteelest grammar you have, and maybe it may thrate us dacent.”

Now it so happened that, in my schoolboy days, I had joined a class of
young fellows who were learning what is called the “_Sarvin’ of Mass_”
 and had impressed it so accurately on a pretty retentive memory, that
I never forgot it. At length, Ned pulled, out his beads, and bedewed
himself most copiously with the holy water. He then shouted out, with
a voice which resembled that of a man in an ague fit, “Dom-i-n-us
vo-bis-cum?” “Et cum spiritu tuo,” I replied, in a husky sepulchral
tone, from behind the coffin. As soon as I uttered these words, the
whole crowd ran back instinctively with fright; and Ned got so weak,
that they were obliged to support him.

“Lord have marcy on us!” said Ned; “hoys, isn’t it an awful thing to
speak to a spirit? my hair is like I dunna what, it’s sticking up so
stiff upon my head.”

“Spake to it in English, Ned,” said they, till we hear what it will say.
Ax it does anything trouble it; or whether its sowl’s in Purgatory.”

“Wouldn’t it be betther,” observed another, “to ax it who murthered it;
maybe it wants to discover that?”

“In the--na-me of Go-o-d-ness,” said Ned, down to me, “what are you?”

“I’m the soul,” I replied in the same voice, “of the pedlar that was
murdered on the bridge below.”

“And--who--was---it, sur, wid--submission, that--murdhered--you?”

To this I made no reply.

“I say,” continued Ned, “in--the--name--of--G-o-o-d-ness--who was
it--that took the liberty of murdhering you, dacent man?”

“Ned Corrigan,” I answered, giving his own name.

“Hem! God presarve us! Ned Corrigan!” he exclaimed. “What Ned, for
there’s two of them--is it myself or the other vagabone?”

“Yourself, you murderer!” I replied.

“Ho!” said Ned, getting quite stout, “is that you, neighbor? Come, now,
walk out wid yourself out of that coffin, you vagabone you, whoever you
are.”

“What do you mane, Ned, by spaking to it that-a-way?” the rest inquired.

“Hut,” said Ned, “it’s some fellow or other that’s playing a thrick upon
us. Sure I never knew either act nor part of the murdher, nor of the
murdherers; and you know, if it was anything of that nature, it couldn’t
tell me a lie, and me a Scapularian along wid axing it in God’s name,
with Father Feasthalagh’s Latin.”

“Big tare-an’-ouns;” said the rest; “if we thought it was any man making
fun of us, but we’d crop the ears off his head, to tache him to be
joking!”

To tell the truth, when I heard this suggestion, I began to repent of
my frolic; but I was determined to make another effort to finish the
adventure creditably.

“Ned,” said they, “throw some of the holy water on us all, and in the
name of St. Pether and the Blessed Virgin, we’ll go down and examine it
in a body.”

This they considered a good thought, and Ned was sprinkling the water
about him in all directions, whilst he repeated some jargon which was
completely unintelligible. They then began to approach the coffin at
dead-march time, and I felt that this was the only moment in which my
plan could succeed; for had I waited until they came down all would have
been discovered. As soon, therefore, as they began to move towards me,
I also began, with equal solemnity, to retrograde towards them; so that,
as the coffin was between us, it seemed to move without human means.

“Stop, for God’s sake, stop,”--shouted Ned; “it’s movin’! It has made
the coffin alive; don’t you see it thravelling this way widout hand or
foot, barring the boords?”

There was now a halt to ascertain the fact: but I still retrograded.
This was sufficient; a cry of terror broke from the whole group, and,
without waiting for further evidence, they set off in the direction
they came from, at full speed, Ned flinging the jug of holy water at the
coffin, lest the latter should follow, or the former encumber him in his
flight. Never was there so complete a discomfiture; and so eager were
they to escape, that several of them came down on the stones; and
I could hear them shouting with desperation, and imploring the more
advanced not to leave them behind. I instantly disentangled myself from
the coffin, and left it standing exactly in the middle of the road, for
the next passenger to give it a lift as far as Denis Kelly’s, if he felt
so disposed. I lost no time in making the best of my way home; and on
passing poor Denis’s house I perceived, by the bustle and noise within,
that he was dead.

I had given my friends no notice of this visit; my reception was
consequently the warmer, as I was not expected. That evening was a happy
one, which I shall long remember. At supper I alluded to Kelly, and
received from my brother a full account, as given in the following
narrative, of the circumstances which caused his death.

“I need not remind you, Toby, of our schoolboy days, nor of the
principles usually imbibed at such schools as that in which the two tiny
factions of the Caseys and the Murphys qualified themselves, among
the latter of whom you cut so distinguished a figure. You will not,
therefore, be surprised to hear that these two factions are as bitter
as ever, and that the boys who at Pat Mulligan’s school belabored each
other, in imitation of their brothers and fathers, continue to set the
same iniquitous example to their children; so that this groundless and
hereditary enmity is likely to descend to future generations; unless,
indeed, the influence of a more enlightened system of education may
check it. But, unhappily, there is a strong suspicion of the object
proposed by such a system; so that the advantages likely to result from
it to the lower orders of the people will be slow and distant.”

“But, John,” said I, “now that we are upon that subject, let me ask what
really is the bone of contention between Irish factions?”

“I assure you,” he replied, “I am almost as much at a loss, Toby, to
give you a satisfactory answer, as if you asked me the elevation of
the highest mountain on the moon; and I believe you would find equal
difficulty in ascertaining the cause of their feuds from the factions
themselves. I really am convinced they know not, nor, if I rightly
understand them, do they much care. Their object is to fight, and the
turning of a straw will at any time furnish them with sufficient grounds
for that. I do not think, after all, that the enmity between them is
purery personal: they do not hate each other individually; but having
originally had one quarrel upon some trifling occasion, the beaten party
cannot bear the stigma of defeat without another trial of strength.
Then, if they succeed, the onus of retrieving lost credit is thrown upon
the party that was formerly victorious. If they fail a second time,
the double triumph of their conquerors excites them to a greater
determination to throw off the additional disgrace; and this species of
alternation perpetuates the evil.

“These habits, however, familiarize our peasantry to acts of outrage and
violence--the bad passions are cultivated and nourished, until crimes,
which peaceable men look upon with fear and horror, lose their real
magnitude and deformity in the eyes of Irishmen. I believe this kind
of undefined hatred between either parties or nations, is the most
dangerous and fatal spirit which can pervade any portion of society.
If you hate a man for an obvious and palpable injury, it is likely
that when he cancels that injury by an act of subsequent kindness,
accompanied by an exhibition of sincere sorrow, you will cease to look
upon him as your enemy; but where the hatred is such that, while feeling
you cannot, on a sober examination of your heart, account for it, there
is little hope that you will ever be able to stifle the enmity that you
entertain against him. This, however, in politics and religion, is what
is frequently designated as principle--a word on which men, possessing
higher and greater advantages than the poor ignorant peasantry of
Ireland, pride themselves. In sects and parties, we may mark its effects
among all ranks and nations. I therefore, seldom wish, Toby, to hear a
man assert that he is of this party or that, from principle; for I am
usually inclined to suspect that he is not, in this case, influenced by
conviction.

“Kelly was a man who, but for these scandalous proceedings among us,
might have been now alive and happy. Although his temperament was warm,
yet that warmth communicated itself to his good as well as to his
evil qualities. In the beginning his family were not attached to any
faction--and when I use the word faction, it is in contradistinction to
the word party--for faction, you know, is applied to a feud or grudge
between Roman Catholics exclusively. But when he was young, he ardently
attached himself to the Murphys; and, having continued among them until
manhood, he could not abandon them, consistently with that sense of
mistaken honor which forms so prominent a feature in the character of
the Irish peasantry. But although the Kellys were not _faction-men_,
they were bitter _party-men_, being the ringleaders of every quarrel
Which took place between the Catholics and Protestants, or, I should
rather say, between the Orangemen and Whiteboys.

“From the moment Denis attached himself to the Murphys, until the day he
received the beating which subsequently occasioned his death, he never
withdrew from them. He was in all their battles; and in course of
time, induced his relations to follow his example; so that, by general
consent, they were nicknamed ‘the Errigle Slashers.’ Soon after you left
the country, and went to reside with my uncle, Denis married a daughter
of little Dick Magrath’s, from the Race-road, with whom he got a little
money. She proved a kind, affectionate wife; and, to do him justice,
I believe he was an excellent husband. Shortly after his marriage his
father died, and Denis succeeded him in his farm; for you know
that, among the peasantry, the youngest generally gets the landed
property--the elder children being obliged to provide for themselves
according to their ability, as otherwise a population would multiply
upon a portion of land inadequate to its support.

“It was supposed that Kelly’s marriage would have been the means of
producing a change in him for the better, but it did not. He was, in
fact, the slave of a low, vain ambition, which constantly occasioned him
to have some quarrel or other on his hands; and, as he possessed great
physical courage and strength, he became the champion of the parish.
It was in vain that his wife used every argument to induce him to
relinquish such practices; the only reply he was in the habit of making,
was a good-humored slap on the back and a laugh, saying,

“‘That’s it, Honor; sure and isn’t that the Magraths, all over, that
would let the manest spalpeen that ever chewed cheese thramp upon them,
without raising a hand in their own defence; and I don’t blame you for
being a coward, seeing that you have their blood in your veins--not but
that there ought to be something betther in you, afther all; for it’s
the M’Karrons, by your mother’s side, that had the good dhrop of their
own in them, anyhow--but you’re a Magrath out and out.’

“‘And, Denis,’ Honor would reply, ‘it would be a blessed day for the
parish, if all in it were as peaceable as the same Magraths. There would
be no sore heads, nor broken bones, nor fighting, nor slashing of one
another in fairs and markets, when people ought to be minding their
business. You’re ever and always at the Magraths, bekase they don’t join
you agin the Caseys or the Orangemen, and more fools they’d be to make
or meddle between you, having no spite agin either of them; and it would
be wiser for you to be _sed_ by the Magraths, and _red_ your hands out
of sich ways altogether. What did ever the Murphys do to sarve you
or any of your family, that you’d go to make a great man of yourself
fighting for them? Or what did the poor Caseys do to make you go agin
the honest people? Arrah, bad manners to me, if you know what you’re
about, or if _sonse_ (* Good Luck) or grace can ever come of it; and
mind my words, Denis, if God hasn’t said it, you’ll live to rue your
folly for the same work.’

“At this Denis would laugh heartily. ‘Well said, Honor _Magrath_, but
not _Kelly_, Well, it’s one comfort that our childher aren’t likely to
follow your side of the house, any way. Come here, Lanty; come over,
acushla, to your father! Lanty, ma bouchal, what ‘ill you do when you
grow a man?”

“‘I’ll buy a horse of my own to ride on, daddy.’

“‘A horse, Lanty! and so you will, ma bouchal; but that’s not it--sure
that’s not what I mane, Lanty. What ‘ill you do to the Caseys?”

“‘Ho, ho! the Caseys! I’ll bate the blackguards wid your blackthorn,
daddy!’

“‘Ha, ha, ha! that’s my stout man, my brave little soger! _Wus dha lamh
avick!_--give me your hand, my son! Here, Nelly,’ he would say to the
child’s eldest sister, ‘give him a brave whang of bread, to make
him able to bate the Caseys. Well, Lanty, who more will you leather,
ahagur?’

“‘All the Orangemen; I’ll kill all the Orangemen!’

“This would produce another laugh from the father, who would again kiss
and shake hands with his son, for these early manifestations of his own
spirit.

“‘Lanty, ma bouchal,’ he would say, ‘thank God, you’re not a _Magrath_;
‘tis you that’s a _Kelly_, every blessed inch of you! and if you turn
out as good a _buillagh balthah_ as your father afore you, I’ll be
contint, avour-neen!’

“‘God forgive you, Denis,’ the-wife would reply, ‘it’s long before you’d
think of larning him his prayers, or his cateehiz, or anything that’s
good! Lanty, agra, come over to myself, and never heed what that man
says; for, except you have some poor body’s blessing, he’ll bring you to
no good.’

“Sometimes, however, Kelly’s own natural good sense, joined with the
remonstrances of his wife, prevailed for a short time, and he would
withdraw himself from the connection altogether; but the force of habit
and of circumstances was too strong in him, to hope that he could
ever overcome it by his own firmness, for he was totally destitute of
religion. The peaceable intervals of his life were therefore very short.

“One summer evening I was standing in my own garden, when I saw a man
galloping up towards me at full speed. When he approached, I recognized
him as one of the Murphy faction, and perceived that he was cut and
bleeding.

“‘Murphy,’ said I, ‘What’s the matter!’

“‘Hard fighting, sir,’ said he, ‘is the matter. The Caseys gathered all
their faction, bekase they heard that Denis Kelly has given us up, and
they’re sweeping the street wid us. I’m going hot foot for Kelly, sir,
for even the very name of him will turn the tide in our favor. Along
wid that, I have sent in a score of the Duggans, and, if I get in Denis,
plase God we’ll clear the town of them!’

“He then set off, but pulled up abruptly, and said,

“‘Arrah, Mr. Darcy, maybe you’d be civil enough to lind me the loan of
a sword, or bagnet, or gun, or anything that way, that would be
sarviceable to a body on a pinch?’

“‘Yes!’ said I, ‘and enable you to commit murder? No, no, Murphy;
I’m sorry it’s not in my power to put a final stop to such dangerous
quarrels!’

“He then dashed off, and in the course of a short time I saw him and
Kelly, both on horseback, hurrying into the town in all possible haste,
armed with their cudgels. The following day, I got my dog and gun, and
sauntered about the hills, making a point to call upon Kelly. I found
him with his head tied up, and his arm in a sling.

“‘Well, Denis,’ said I, ‘I find you have kept your promise of giving up
quarrels!’

“And so I did, sir,’ said Denis; ‘but, sure you wouldn’t have me for to
go desart them, when the Caseys war three to one over them? No; God be
thanked, I’m not so mane as that, anyhow. Besides, they welted both my
brothers within an inch of their lives.’

“‘I think they didn’t miss yourself,’ said I.

“‘You may well say they did not, sir,’ he replied: ‘and, to tell God’s
truth, they thrashed us right and left out of the town, although we
rallied three times, and came in agin. At any rate, it’s the first
time for the last five years that they dare go up and down the street,
calling out for the face of a Murphy, or a Kelly; for they’re as bitter
now agin us as agin the Murphys themselves.’

“‘Well, I hope, Denis,’ I observed, ‘that what occurred yesterday will
prevent you from entering into their quarrels in future. Indeed, I shall
not give over, until I prevail on you to lead a quiet and peaceable
life, as the father of a rising family ought to do.’

“‘Denis,’ said the wife, when I alluded to the children, looking at
him with a reproachful and significant expression--‘Denis, do you hear
that!--the father of a family, Denis! Oh, then, God look down on that
family; but it’s--Musha, God bless you and yours, sir,’ said she to me,
dropping that part of the subject abruptly; ‘it’s kind of you to trouble
yourself about him, at all at all: it’s what them that has a better
right to do it, doesn’t do.’

“‘I hope,’ said I, ‘that Denis’s own good sense will show him the folly
and guilt of his conduct, and that he will not, under any circumstances,
enter into their battles in future. Come, Denis, will you promise me
this?’

“‘If any man,’ replied Denis, ‘could make me do it, it’s yourself, sir,
or any one of your family; but if the priest of the parish was to go
down on his knees before me, I wouldn’t give it up till we give them
vagabone Caseys one glorious battherin,’ which, plase God, we’ll do, and
are well able to do, before a month of Sundays goes over us. Now, sir,
you needn’t say another word,’ said he, seeing me about to speak; ‘for
by Him that made me we’ll do it! If any man, I say, could persuade me
agin it, you could; but, if we don’t pay them full interest for what we
got, why my name’s not Denis Kelly--ay, sweep them like varmint out of
the town, body and sleeves!’

“I saw argument would be lost on him, so I only observed, that I feared
it would eventually end badly.

“‘Och, many and many’s the time, Mr. Darcy,’ said Honor, ‘I prophesied
the same thing; and, if God hasn’t said it, he’ll be coming home a
corpse to me some day or other; for he got as much bating, sir, as
would be enough to kill a horse; and, to tell you God’s truth, sir, he’s
breeding up his childher--’

“‘Honor,’ said Kelly, irritated, ‘whatever I do, do I lave it in your
power to say that I’m a bad husband? so don’t rise me by your talk, for
I don’t like to be provoked. I know it’s wrong, but what can I do? Would
you have me for to show the Garran-bane,* and lave them like a cowardly
thraitor, now that the other faction is coming up to be their match?
No; let what will come of it, I’ll never do the mane thing--death before
dishonor!’

     * The white horse, i.e., be wanting in mettle.
     Tradition affirms that James the Second escaped on a
     white horse from the battle of the Boyne; and from this
     circumstance a white horse has become the emblem of
     cowardice.

“In this manner Kelly went on for years; sometimes, indeed, keeping
quiet for a short period, but eventually drawn in, from the apprehension
of being reproached with want of honor and truth, to his connection.
This, truly, is an imputation which no peasant could endure; nor, were
he thought capable of treachery, would he be safe from the vengeance of
his own party. Many a time have I seen Kelly reeling home, his head
and face sadly cut, the blood streaming from him, and his wife and some
neighbor on each side of him--the poor woman weeping and deploring the
senseless and sanguinary feuds in which her husband took so active a
part.

“About three miles from this, down at the Long Ridge, where the Shannons
live, dwelt a family of the Grogans, cousins to Denis. They were
anything but industrious, although they might have lived very
independently, having held a farm on what they called an old take, which
means a long lease taken out when lands were cheap. It so happened,
however, that, like too many of their countrymen, they paid little
attention to the cultivation of their farm; the consequence of which
neglect was, that they became embarrassed, and overburdened with
arrears. Their landlord was old Sam Simmons, whose only fault to his
tenants was an excess of indulgence, and a generous disposition wherever
he could possibly get an opportunity to scatter his money about him,
upon the spur of a benevolence which, it would seem, never ceased
goading him to acts of the most Christian liberality and kindness. Along
with these excellent qualities, he was remarkable for a most rooted
aversion to law and lawyers; for he would lose one hundred pounds rather
than recover that sum by legal proceedings, even when certain that five
Pounds would effect it; but he seldom or never was known to pardon a
breach of the peace.

“I have always found that an excess of indulgence in a landlord never
fails ultimately to injure and relax the industry of the tenant; at
least, this was the effect which his forbearance produced on them. But
the most extraordinary good-nature has its limits, and so had his; after
repeated warning, and the most unparalleled patience on his part, he
was at length compelled to determine on at once removing them from
his estate, and letting his land to some more efficient and deserving
tenant. He accordingly desired them to remove their property from the
premises, as he did not wish, he said, to leave them without the means
of entering upon another farm, if they felt so disposed. This they
refused to do; adding, that they would, at least, put him to the expense
of ejecting them. He then gave orders to his agent to seize; but they,
in the mean time, had secreted their effects by night among their
friends and relations, sending a cow to this one, and a horse to that;
so that, when the bailiff came to levy his execution, he found very
little, except the empty walls. They were, however, ejected without
ceremony, and driven altogether off the farm, for which they had
actually paid nothing for the three preceding years. In the mean time
the farm was advertised to be let, and several persons had offered
themselves as tenants; but what appeared very remarkable was, that the
Roman Catholics seldom came a second time to make any further inquiry
about it; or, if they did, Simmons observed that they were sure to
withdraw their proposals, and ultimately decline having anything to do
with it.

“This was a circumstance which he could not properly understand; but
the fact was, that the peasantry were almost to a man members of a
widely-extending system of agrarian combination, the secret influence of
which intimidated such of their own religion as intended to take it, and
prevented them from exposing themselves to the penalty which they knew
those who should dare to occupy it must pay. In a short time, however,
the matter began to be whispered about, until it spread gradually, day
after day, through the parish, that those who already had proposed, or
intended to propose, were afraid to enter upon the land on any terms.
Hitherto, it is true, these threats floated about only in the vague form
of rumor.

“The farm had been now unoccupied for about a year; party spirit ran
very high among the peasantry, and no proposals came in, or were at all
likely to come. Simmons then got advertisements printed, and had them
posted up in the most conspicuous parts of this and the neighboring
parishes. It was expected, however, that they would be torn down; but,
instead of that, there was a written notice posted up immediately under
each, which ran in the following words:--

     “‘Take Notess.

     “‘Any man that’ll dare to take the farm belonging to
     smooth Sam Simmons, and sitivated at the long ridge,
     will be flayed alive.

     “’ Mat Midnight.

     “‘B. N.--It’s it that was latterrally occupied by the
     Grogans.’

“This occasioned Simmons and the other magistrates of the barony to
hold a meeting, at which they subscribed to the amount of fifty pounds
as a reward for discovering the author or authors of the threatening
notice; but the advertisement containing the reward, which was posted
in the usual places through the parish, was torn down on the first night
after it was put up. In the meantime, a man, nicknamed Vengeance--Vesey
Vengeance, in consequence of his daring and fearless spirit, and his
bitterness in retaliating injury--came to Simmons, and proposed for the
farm. The latter candidly mentioned the circumstances of the notice, and
fairly told him that he was running a personal risk in taking it.

“‘Leave that to me, sir,’ said Vengeance; ‘if you will set me the farm at
the terms I offer, I am willing to become your tenant; and let them that
posted up the notices go to old Nick, or, if they annoy me, let them
take care I don’t send them there. I am a true blue, sir--a purple
man*--have lots of fire-arms, and plenty of stout fellows in the parish
ready and willing to back me; and, by the light of day if they make or
meddle with me or mine, we will hunt them in the face of the world,
like so many mad dogs, out of the country: what are they but a pack of
ribles, that would cut our throats, if they dared?’

     * These terms denote certain stages of initiation in
     the Orange system

“‘I have no objection,’ said Simmons, ‘that you should express a firm
determination to defend your life and protect your property; but I
utterly condemn the spirit with which you seem to be animated. Be
temperate and sober, but be firm. I will afford you every assistance and
protection in my power, both as a magistrate and a landlord; but if
you speak so incautiously, the result may be serious, if not fatal, to
yourself.’

“Instead of that,’ said Vengeance, ‘the more a man appears to be afeard,
the more danger he is in, as I know by what I have seen; but, at any
rate, if they injure me, I wouldn’t ask better sport than taking down
the ribles--the bloody-minded villains! Isn’t it a purty thing that a
man darn’t put one foat past the other only as they wish. By the light
o’ day, I’ll pepper them!’

“Shortly after this, Vengeance, braving all their threats, removed to
the farm, and set about its cultivation with skill and vigor. He had
not been long there, however, when, a notice was posted one night on
his door, giving him ten days to clear off from this interdicted spot,
threatening, in case of non-compliance, to make a bonfire of the house
and offices, inmates included. The reply, which Vengeance made to this
was fearless and characteristic. He wrote another notice, which
he posted on the chapel-door, stating that he would not budge an
inch--recommending, at the same time, such as intended paying him a
nightly visit to be careful that they might not chance to go home with
their heels foremost. This, indeed, was setting them completely at
defiance, and would, no doubt have been fatal to Vesey, were it not for
a circumstance which I will now relate:--In a little dell, below Vesey’s
house, lived a poor woman, called Doran, a widow; she inhabited a small
hut, and was principally supported by her two sons, who were servants,
one to a neighboring farmer, a Roman Catholic, and the other to Dr.
Ableson, rector of the parish. He who had been with the rector lost his
health shortly before Vengeance succeeded the Grogans as occupier of
the land in question, and was obliged to come home to his mother. He was
then confined to his bed, from which, indeed, he never rose.

“This boy had been his mother’s principal support--for the other was
unsettled, and paid her but little attention, being like most of those
in his situation, fond of drinking, dancing, and attending fairs. In
short, he became a Ribbonman, and consequently was obliged to attend
their nightly meetings. Now it so happened that for a considerable time
after the threatening notice had been posted on Vengeance’s door, he
received no annoyance, although the period allowed for his departure had
been long past, and the purport of the paper uncomplied with. Whether
this proceeded from an apprehension on the part of the Ribbonmen
of receiving a warmer welcome than they might wish, or whether they
deferred the execution of their threat until Vengeance might be off his
guard, I cannot determine; but the fact is, that some months had elapsed
and Vengeance remained hitherto unmolested.

“During this interval the distress of Widow Doran had become known to
the inmates of his family, and his mother--for she lived with him--used
to bring down each day some nourishing food to the sick boy. In these
kind offices she was very punctual; and so great was the poverty of the
poor widow, and so destitute the situation of her sick son, that, in
fact, the burden of their support lay principally upon Vengeance’s
family.

“Vengeance was a small, thin man, with fair hair, and fiery eyes;
his voice was loud and shrill, his utterance rapid, and the general
expression of his countenance irritable. His motions were so quick, that
he rather seemed to run than walk. He was a civil, obliging neighbor,
but performed his best actions with a bad grace; a firm, unflinching
friend, but a bitter and implacable enemy. Upon the whole he was
generally esteemed and respected--though considered as an eccentric
character, for such indeed he was. On hearing of Widow Doran’s distress,
he gave orders that a portion of each meal should be regularly sent
down to her and her son; and from that period forward they were both
supported principally from his table.

“In this way some months had passed, and still Vengeance was undisturbed
in his farm. It often happened, however, that Doran’s other son came
to see his brother; and during these visits it was but natural that
his mother and brother should allude to the kindness which they daily
experienced from Vesey.

“One night, about twelve o’clock, a tap came to Widow Doran’s door, who
happened to be attending the invalid, as he was then nearly in the last
stage of his illness. When she opened it, the other son entered, in an
evident hurry, having the appearance of a man who felt deep and serious
anxiety.

“‘Mother,’ said he, ‘I was very uneasy entirely about Mick, and just
started over to see him, although they don’t know at home that I’m out,
so I can’t stay a crack; but I wish you would go to the door for two or
three minutes, as I have something to say to him.’

“‘Why, thin, Holy Mother!--Jack, a-hagur, is there anything the matther,
for you look as if you had seen something?’ *

     * This phrase means--you look as if you had seen a
     ghost; it is a very common one.

“‘Nothing worse than myself, mother,’ he replied; ‘nor there’s nothing
the matther at all--only I have a few words to say to Mick here, that’s
all.’

“The mother accordingly removed herself out of hearing.

“‘Mick,’ says the boy, ‘this is a bad business--I wish to God I was
clear and clane out of it.’

“‘What is it?’ said Mick, alarmed. “’ Murther, I’m afeard, if God
doesn’t turn it off of them, somehow.

“‘What do you mane, man, at all?’ said the invalid, raising himself, in
deep emotion, on his elbow, from his poor straw bed.

“‘Vengeance,’ said he--‘Vengeance, man--he’s going to get it. I was out
with the boys on Sunday evening, and at last it’s agreed on to visit
him to-morrow night. I’m sure and sartin he’ll never escape, for there’s
more in for him than taking the farm, and daring them so often as he
did--he shot two fingers off of a brother-in-law of Jem Reilly’s one
night that they war on for threshing him, and that’s coming home to him
along with the rest.’

“‘In the name of God, Jack,’ inquired Mick, ‘what do they intend to do
to him?’

“’ Why,’ replied Jack, ‘it’s agreed to put a coal in the thatch, in the
first place; and although they were afeared to name what he’s to get
besides, I doubt they’ll make a spatchcock of himself. They won’t meddle
with any other of the family, though--but he’s down for it.’

“‘Are you to be one of them?’ asked Mick.

“‘I was the third man named,’ replied the other, ‘bekase, they said, I
knew the place.’

“‘Jack,’ said his emaciated brother, with much solemnity, raising
himself up in the bed--‘Jack, if you have act or part in that bloody
business, God in his glory you’ll never see. Fly the country--cut off a
finger or toe--break your arm--or do something that may prevent you from
being there. Oh, my God!’ he exclaimed, whilst the tears fell fast down
his pale cheeks--‘to go to murder the man, and lave his little family
widout a head or a father over them, and his wife a widow! To burn his
place, widout rhime, or rason, or offince! Jack, if you go, I’ll die
cursing you. I’ll appear to you--I’ll let you rest neither night nor
day, sleeping nor waking, in bed or out of bed. I’ll haunt you, till
you’ll curse the very hour you war born.’

“‘Whist, Micky,’ said Jack, ‘you’re frightening me: I’ll not go--will
that satisfy you?’

“‘Well, dhrop down on your two knees, there,’ said Micky, ‘and swear
before the God that has his eye upon you this minute, that you’ll have
no hand in injuring him or his, while you live. If you don’t do this,
I’ll not rest in my grave and maybe I’ll be a corpse before mornin.’

“‘Well Micky, said Jack, who though wild and unthinking, was a lad whose
heart and affections were good, ‘it would be hard for me to refuse
you that much, and you! not likely to be long wid me--I will;’ and he
accordingly knelt down and swore solemnly, in words which his brother
dictated to him, that he would not be concerned in the intended murder.

“‘Now, give me your hand, Jack,’ said the invalid; ‘God bless you--and
so He will. Jack, if I depart before I see you again, I’ll die happy.
That man has supported me and my mother for near the last three months,
bad as you all think him. Why, Jack, we would both be dead of hunger
long ago, only for his family; and, my God! to think, of such a
murdhering intention makes my blood run cowld’--

“‘You had better give him a hint, then,’ said Jack, ‘some way, or he’ll
be done for, as sure as you’re stretched on that bed; but don’t mintion
names, if you wish to keep me from being murdhered for what I did.
I must be off now, for I stole out of the barn:* and only that Atty
Laghy’s gone along wid the master to the ---- fair, to help him to sell
the two coults, I couldn’t get over at all.’

     * Laboring servants in Ireland usually sleep in barns.

“‘Well, go home, Jack, and God bless you, and so He will, for what you
did this night.’

“Jack accordingly departed, after bidding his mother and brother
farewell.

“When the old woman came in, she asked her son if there was anything
wrong with his brother, but he replied that there was not.

“‘Nothing at all,’ said he--‘but will you get up airly in the morning,
plase God, and tell Vesey Johnston that I want to see him; and--that--I
have a great dale to say to him?’

“’ To be sure I will, Micky; but, Lord guard us, what ails you,
avourneen, you look so frightened?’

“‘Nothing at all, at all, mother; but will you go where I say airly
to-morrow, for me?’

“‘It’s the first thing I’ll do, God willin’,’ replied the mother. And
the next morning Vesey was down with the invalid very early, for the old
woman kept her word and paid him a timely visit.

“‘Well, Micky, my boy,’ said Vengeance, as he entered the hut, ‘I hope
you’re no worse this morning.’

“‘Not worse, sir,’ replied Mick; ‘nor, indeed, am I anything better
either, but much the same way. Sure it’s I that knows very well that my
time here is but short.’

“‘Well, Mick, my boy,’ said Vengeance, ‘I hope you’re prepared for
death--and that you expect forgiveness, like a Christian. Look up, my
boy, to God at once, and pitch the priests and their craft to ould Nick,
where they’ll all go at the long-run.’

“‘I b’lieve,’ said Mick, with a faint smile, ‘that you’re not very fond
of the priests, Mr. Johnston; but if you knew the power they possess as
well as I do, you wouldn’t spake of them so bad, anyhow.’

“‘Me fond of them!’ replied the other;’ ‘why, man, they’re a set of the
most gluttonous, black-looking hypocrites that ever walked on neat’s
leather; and ought to be hunted out of the country--hunted out of the
country, by the light of day! every one of them; for they do nothing but
egg up the people against the Protestants.’

“‘God help you, Mr. Johnston,’ replied the invalid, ‘I pity you from
my heart for the opinion you hould about them. I suppose if you were
sthruck dead on the spot wid a blast from the fairies, that you think a
priest couldn’t cure you by one word’s spaking?’

“‘Cure me!’ said Vengeance, with a laugh of disdain; ‘by the light of
day! if I caught one of them curing me, I’d give him the purtiest chase
you ever saw in your life, across the hills.’

“‘Don’t you know,’ said Mick, ‘that priest Dannelly cured Bob Beaty of
the falling sickness--until he broke the vow that was laid upon him,
of not going into a church, and the minute he crossed the church-door,
didn’t he dhrop down as bad as ever--and what could the minister do for
him?’

“‘And don’t you know,’ rejoined Vengeance, ‘that that’s all a parcel of
the most lying stuff possible; lies--lies--all lies--and vagabondism?
Why, Mick, you Papishes worship the priests; you think they can bring
you to heaven at a word. By the light of day, they must have good sport
laughing at you, when they get among one another. Why don’t they teach
you and give you the Bible to read, the ribelly rascals? but they’re
afraid you’d know too much then.’

“‘Well, Mr. Johnston,’ said Mick, ‘I b’lieve you’ll never have a good
opinion of them, at any rate.’

“‘Ay, when the sky falls,’ replied Vengeance; ‘but you’re now on your
death bed, and why don’t you pitch them to ould Nick, and get a Bible?
Get a Bible, man; there’s a pair of them in my house, that’s never used
at all--except my mother’s, and she’s at it night and day. I’ll send one
of them down to you: turn yourself to God--to your Redeemer, that died
on the mount of Jehosha-phat, or somewhere about Jerusalem, for your
sins--and don’t go out of the world from the hand of a rascally priest,
with a band about your eyes, as if you were at blind-man’s-buff, for, by
the light of day, you’re as blind as a bat in a religious way.’

“‘There’s no use in sending me a Bible,’ replied the invalid, ‘for I
can’t read it: but, whatever you may think, I’m very willing to lave my
salvation with my priest.’

“‘Why, man,’ observed Vengeance, ‘I thought you were going to have
sense at last, and that you sent for me to give you some spiritual
consolation.’

“‘No, sir,’ replied Mick; ‘I have two or three words to spake to you.’

“‘Come, come, Mick, now that we’re on a spiritual subject, I’ll hear
nothing from you till I try whether it’s possible to give you a trute
insight into religion. Stop, now, and let us lay our heads together,
that we may make out something of a dacenter creed for you to believe
in than the one you profess. Tell me the truth, do you believe in the
priests?’

“‘How?’ replied Mick; ‘I believe that they’re holy men--but I know they
can’t save me widout the Redeemer and His blessed mother,’

“‘By the light above us, you’re shuffling, Mick--I say you do believe in
them--now, don’t tell me to the contrary--I say you’re shuffling as fast
as possible.’

“‘I tould you truth, sir,’ replied Mick; ‘and if you don’t believe me, I
can’t help it.’

“‘Don’t trust in the priests, Mick; that’s the main point to secure your
salvation.’

“Mick, who knew his prejudices against the priests, smiled faintly, and
replied--

“‘Why, sir, I trust in them as bein’ able to make inthercession wid God
for me, that’s all’

“‘They make intercession! By the stool I’m sitting on, a single word
from one of them would ruin you. They, a set of ribles, to make interest
for you in heaven! Didn’t they rise the rebellion in Ireland?--answer me
that.’

“‘This is a subject, sir, we would never agree on,’ replied Mick.

“‘Have you the Ten Commandments?’ inquired Vesey.

“‘I doubt my mimory’s not clear enough to have them in my mind,’
said the lad, feeling keenly the imputation of ignorance, which he
apprehended from Vesey’s blunt observations.

“Vesey, however, had penetration enough to perceive his feelings, and,
with more delicacy than could be expected from him, immediately moved
the question.

“‘No matter, Mick,’ said he, ‘if you would give up the priests, we
would get over that point: as it is, I will give you a lift in the
Commandments; and, as I said a while ago,’ if you take my advice, I’ll
work up a creed for you that you may depend upon. But now, for the
Commandments--let me see.

“‘First: Thou shalt have no other gods but me. Don’t you see, man how
that peppers the priests?’

“‘Second: Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath-day.’

“‘Third: That shalt not make to thyself--no, hang it no!--I’m
out--that’s the Second--very right. Third: Honor thy father and
thy mother--you understand that, Mick? It means that you are bound
to--to--just so--to honor your father and your mother, poor woman.’

“‘My father--God be good to him!--is dead near fourteen years, sir,’
replied Mick.

“‘Well, in that case, Mick, you see all that’s left for you is to honor
your mother--although I’m not certain of that either; the Commandments
make no allowance at all for death, and in that case why, living or
dead, the surest way is to respect and obey them--that is, if the
thing were’nt impossible. I wish we had blind George M’Girr here, Mick;
although he’s as great a rogue as ever escaped hemp, yet he’d beat the
devil himself at a knotty point.’

“‘His breath would be bad about a dying man,’ observed Mick.

“‘Ay, or a living one,’ said Vesey; ‘however, let us get on--we were at
the Third. Fourth: Thou shalt do no murder.’

“At the word murder, Mick started, and gave a deep groan, whilst his
eyes and features assumed a gaunt and hollow expression, resembling that
of a man struck with an immediate sense of horror and affright.

“‘Oh! for heaven’s sake, sir, stop there,’ said Doran, ‘that brings to
my mind the business I had with you, Mr. Johnston.’

“‘What is it about?’ inquired Vengeance, in his usual eager manner.

“‘Do you mind,’ said Mick, ‘that a paper was stuck one night upon your
door, threatening you, if you wouldn’t lave that farm you’re in?’.

“‘I do, the blood-thirsty villains! but they knew a trick worth two of
coming near me.’

“‘Well,’ said Mick, ‘a strange man, that I never seen before, came into
me last night, and tould me, if I’d see you, to say that you would get a
visit from the boys this night, and to take care of yourself.’

“‘Give me the hand, Mick,’ said Vengeance,--‘give me the hand; in spite
of the priests, by the light of day you’re an honest fellow. This night
you say, they’re to come? And what are the bloody wretches to do, Mick.
But I needn’t ask that, for I suppose it’s to murder myself, and to burn
my place.

“‘I’m afeard, sir, you’re not far from the truth,’ replied Mick; ‘but,
Mr. Johnston, for God’s sake don’t mintion my name; for, if you do, I’ll
get myself what they were laying out for you, be bumed in my bed maybe.’

“‘Never fear, Mick,’ replied Vengeance; ‘your name will never cross my
lips.’

“‘It’s a great thing,’ said Mick, ‘that would make me turn informer: but
sure, only for your kindness and the goodness of your family, the Lord
spare you to one another! mightn’t I be dead long ago? I couldn’t have
one minute’s peace if you or yours came to any harm when I could prevint
it.’

“‘Say no more, Mick,’ said Vengeance, taking his hand again; ‘I know
that, leave the rest to me; but how do you find yourself, my poor
fellow? You look weaker than you did, a good deal.’

“‘Indeed I’m going very fast, sir,’ replied Mick; ‘I know it’ll soon be
over with me.’

“‘Hut, no, man,’ said Vengeance, drawing his hand rapidly across his
eyes, and clearing his voice, ‘not at all--don’t say so; would a little
broth serve you? or a bit of fresh meat?--or would you have a fancy for
anything that I could make out for you? I’ll get you wine, if you think
it would do you good.”

“‘God reward you,’ said Mick feebly--‘God reward you, and open your eyes
to the truth. Is my mother likely to come in, do you think?’

“‘She must be here in a few minutes,’ the other replied; ‘she was
waiting till they’d churn, that she might bring you down a little fresh
milk and butter.’

“‘I wish she was wid me,’ said the poor lad, ‘for I’m lonely wantin’
her--her voice and the very touch of her hands goes to my heart. Mother,
come home, and let me lay my head upon your breast, agra machree, for I
think it will be for the last time: we lived lonely, avourneen, wid none
but ourselves--sometimes in happiness, when the nabors ‘ud be kind to
us--and sometimes in sorrow, when there ‘ud be none to help us. It’s
over now, mother, and I’m lavin’ you for ever!’

“Vengeance wiped his eyes--‘Rouse yourself, Mick,’ said he, ‘rouse
yourself.’

“‘Who is that sitting along with you on the stool?’ said Mick.

“‘No one,’ replied his neighbor; ‘but what’s the matter with you,
Mick?--your face is changed.’

“Mick, however, made no reply; but after a few slight struggles, in
which he attempted to call upon his mother’s name, he breathed his last.
When Vengeance saw that he was dead--looked upon the cold, miserable
hut in which this grateful and affectionate young man was stretched--and
then reflected on the important service he had just rendered he could
not suppress his tears.

“After sending down some of the females to assist his poor mother in
laying him out, Vengeance went among his friends and acquaintances,
informing them of the intelligence he had received, without mentioning
the source from which he had it. After dusk that evening, they all
flocked, as privately as possible, to his house, to the number of thirty
or forty, well provided with arms and ammunition. Some of them stationed
themselves in the out-houses, some behind the garden edge, and others in
the dwelling-house.”

When my brother had got thus far in his narrative, a tap came to the
parlor-door, and immediately a stout-looking man, having the appearance
of a laborer, entered the room. “Well, Lachlin,” said my brother,
“what’s the matter?”

“Why, sir,” said Lachlin, scratching his head, “I had a bit of a favor
to ax, if it would be plaisin’ to you to grant it to me.”

“What is that,” said my brother. “Do you know, sir,” said he, “I haven’t
been at a wake--let us see--this two or three years, anyhow; and, if
you’d have no objection, why, I’d slip up awhile to Denis Kelly’s; he’s
a distant relation of my own, sir; and blood’s thicker than wather you
know.”

“I’m just glad you came in, Lachlin,” said my brother, “I didn’t think
of you; take a chair here, and never heed the wake to-night, but sit
down and tell us about the attack on Vesey Vengeance, long ago. I’ll get
you a tumbler of punch; and, instead of going to the wake to night, I
will allow you to go to the funeral to-morrow.”

“Ah, sir,” said Lachlin, “you know whenever the punch is consarned, I’m
aisily persuaded; but not making little of your tumbler, sir,” said the
shrewd fellow, “I would get two or three of them if I went to the wake.”

“Well, sit down,” said my brother, handing him one, “and we won’t permit
you to get thirsty while you’re talking, at all events.”

“In troth, you haven’t your heart in the likes of it,” said Lachlin.

“Gintlemen, your healths--your health, sir, and we’re happy to see you
wanst more. Why, thin, I remember you, sir, when you were a gorsoon,
passing to school wid your satchel on your back; but, I’ll be bound
you’re by no means as soople now as you were thin. Why, sir,” turning to
my brother “he could fly or kick football with the rabbits.--Well, this
is raal stuff!”

“Now, Lachlin,” said my brother, “give us an account of the attack you
made on Vesey Vengeance’s house, at the Long Ridge, when all his party
were chased out of the town.”

“Why, thin, sir, I ought to be ashamed to mintion it; but you see,
gintleman, there was no getting over being connected wid them; but I
hope your brother’s safe, sir!”

“Oh, perfectly safe, Lachlin; you may rest assured he’ll never mention
it.”

“Well, sir,” said Lachlin, addressing himself to me, “Vesey Vengeance
was--.”

“Lachlin,” said my brother, “he knows all about Vesey; just give an
account of the attack.”

“The attack, sir! no, but the chivey we got over the mountains. Why,
sir, we met in, an ould empty house, you see, that belonged to the
Farrells of Ballyboulteen, that went over to America that spring. There
war none wid us, you may be sure, but them that war up;* and in all we
might be about sixty or seventy. The Grogans, one way or another, got
it up first among them, bekase they expected Mr. Simmons would take them
back when he’d find that no one else dare venther upon their land. There
war at that time two fellows down from the county Longford, in their
neighborhood, of the name of Collier--although that wasn’t their right
name--they were here upon their keeping, for the murder of a proctor in
their own part of the country. One of them was a tall, powerful fellow,
with sandy hair, and red brows; the other was a slender chap, that
must have been drawn into it by his brother--for he was very mild
and innocent, and always persuaded us agin evil. The Grogans brought
lashings of whiskey, and made them that war to go foremost amost
drunk--these war the two Colliers, some of the strangers from behind the
mountains, and a son of Widdy Doran’s, that knew every inch about the
place, for he was bred and born jist below the house a bit. He wasn’t
wid us, however, in regard of his brother being under board that night;
but, instid of him, Tim Grogan went to show the way up the little glin
to the house, though, for that matther, the most of us knew it as well
as he did; but we didn’t like to be the first to put a hand to it, if we
could help it.

     * That is, had been made members of a secret society.

“At any rate, we sot in Farrell’s empty house, drinking whiskey, till
they war all gathered, when about two dozen of them got the damp soot
from the chimley, and rubbed it over their faces, making them so black,
that their own relations couldn’t know them. We then went across the
country in little lots, of about six or ten, or a score, and we war glad
that the wake was in Widdy Koran’s, seeing that if any one would meet we
war going to it you know, and the blackening of the faces would pass for
a frolic; but there was no great danger of being met for it was now long
beyant midnight.

“Well, gintlemen, it puts me into a tremble, even at this time, to think
of how little we cared about doing what we were bent upon. Them that had
to manage the business war more than half drunk; and, hard fortune to
me! but you would think it was to a wedding they went--some of them
singing songs against the law--some of them quite merry, and laughing
as if they had found a mare’s nest. The big fellow, Collier, had a dark
lanthern wid a half-burned turf in it to light the bonfire, as they
said; others had guns and pistols--some of them charged and some of them
not; some had bagnets, and ould rusty swords, pitchforks, and go on.
Myself had nothing in my hand but the flail I was thrashing wid that
day; and to tell the thruth, the divil a step I would have gone with
them, only for fraid of my health; for, as I said awhile agone, if any
discovery was made afterwards, them that promised to go, and turned
tail, would be marked as the informers. Neither was I so blind, but
I could see that there war plenty there that would stay away if they
durst.

“Well, we went on till we came to a little dark corner below the house,
where we met and held a council of war upon what we should do. Collier
and the other strangers from behind the mountains war to go first, and
the rest were to stand round the house at a distance--he carried the
lanthern, a bagnet, and a horse-pistol; and half a dozen more war to
bring over bottles of straw from Vengeance’s own haggard, to hould up
to the thatch. It’s all past and gone now--but three of the Reillys were
desperate against Vesey that night, particularly one of them that he
had shot about a year and a half before--that is, peppered two of the
right-hand fingers of him, one night in a scuffle, as Vesey came home
from an Orange lodge. Well, all went on purty fair; we had got as far as
the out-houses,where we stopped, to see if we could hear any noise; but
all was quiet as you plase.

“‘Now, Vengeance,’ says Reilly, swearing a terrible oath out of
him--‘you murdering Orange villain, you’re going to get your pay,’ says
he.

“‘Ay,’ says Grogan, ‘what he often threatened to others he’ll soon meet
himself, plase God--come, boys,’ says he, ‘bring the straw and light it,
and just lay it up, my darlings, nicely to the thatch here, and ye’ll
see what a glorious bonfire we’ll have of the black Orange villain’s
blankets in less than no time.’

“Some of us could hardly stand this: ‘Stop, boys,’ cried one of Dan
Slevin’s sons--‘stop, Vengeance is bad enough, but his wife and children
never offinded us--we’ll not burn the place.’

“‘No,’ said others, spaking out when they heard any body at all having
courage to do so--‘it’s too bad, boys, to burn the place; for if we do,’
says they, ‘some of the innocent may be burned before they get from the
house, or even before they waken out of their sleep.’

“‘Knock at the door first,’ says Slevin, ‘and bring Vengeance out; let
us cut the ears off of his head and lave him.’

“‘Damn him!’ says another, ‘let us not take the vagabone’s life; it’s
enough to take the ears from him, and to give him a prod or two of a
bagnet on the ribs; but don’t kill him.’

“‘Well, well,’ says Reilly, ‘let us knock at the door, and get himself
and the family out,’ says he, ‘and then we’ll see what can be done wid
him.’

“‘Tattheration to me,’ says the big Longford fellow, ‘if he had sarved
me, Reilly, as he did you, but I’d roast him in the flames of his own
house,’ says he.

“‘I’d have you to know,’ says Slevin, ‘that you have no command here,
Collier. I’m captain at the present time,’ says he; ‘and more nor what
I wish shall not be done. Go over,’ says he to the blackfaces, ‘and rap
him up.’

“Accordingly they began to knock at the door, commanding Vengeance to
get up and come out to them.

“‘Come, Vengeance,’ says Collier, ‘put on you, my good fellow, and come
out till two or three of your neighbors, that wish you well, gets a
sight of your purty face, you babe of grace!’

“‘Who are you that wants me at all?’ says Vengeance from within.

“‘Come out, first,’ says Collier; ‘a few friends that has a crow to
pluck with you; walk out, avourneen; or if you’d rather be roasted
alive, why you may stay where you are,’ says he.

“‘Gentlemen,’ says Vengeance, ‘I have never, to my knowledge, offended
any of you; and I hope you won’t be so cruel as to take an industrious,
hard-working man from his family, in the clouds of the night, to do him
an injury. Go home, gentlemen, in the name of God, and let me and mine
alone. You’re all mighty dacent gentlemen, you know, and I’m determined
never to make or meddle with any of you. Sure, I know right well it’s
purtecting me you would be, dacent gentlemen. But I don’t think
there’s any of my neighbors there, or they wouldn’t stand by and see me
injured.’

“‘Thrue for you, avick,’ says they giving, at the same time; a terrible
patterrara agin the door, with two or three big stones.

“‘Stop, stop!’ says Vengeance, ‘don’t break the door, and I’ll open it.
I know you’re merciful, dacent gentlemen--I know your merciful.’

“So the thief came and unbarred it quietly, and the next minute about
a dozen of them that war within the house let slap at us. As God would
have had it, the crowd didn’t happen to be forenent the door, or numbers
of them would have been shot, and the night was dark, too, which was in
our favor. The first volley was scarcely over, when there was another
slap from the outhouse; and after that another from the gardens; and
after that, to be sure, we took to our scrapers. Several of them were
very badly wounded; but as for Collier, he was shot dead, and Grogan
was taken prisoner, with five more, on the spot. There never was such a
chase as we got; and only that they thought there was more of us in it,
they might have tuck most of us prisoners.

“‘Fly, boys!’ says Grogan as soon as they fired out of the house--‘we’ve
been sould,’ says he, ‘but I’ll die game, any how,’--and so he did, poor
fellow; for although he and the other four war transported, one of them
never sould the pass or stagged. Not but that they might have done it,
for all that, only that there was a whisper sent to them, that if they
did, a single soul belonging to one of them wouldn’t be left living. The
Grogans were cousins of Denis Kelly’s, that’s now laid out there above.

“From the time this tuck place till after the ‘sizes, there wasn’t a
stir among them on any side; but when that war over, the boys began to
prepare. Denis, heavens be his bed, was there in his glory. This was
in the spring ‘sizes, and the May fair soon followed. Ah! that was the
bloody sight, I’m tould--for I wasn’t at it--atween the Orangemen and
them. The Ribbonmen war bate though, but not till after there was a
desperate fight on both sides. I was tould that Denis Kelly that day
knocked down five-and-twenty men in about three-quarters of an hour; and
only that long John Grimes hot him a _polthoge_ on the sconce with the
butt-end of the gun, it was thought the Orangemen would be beat. That
blow broke his skull, and was the manes of his death. He was carried
home senseless.”

“Well, Lachlin,” said my brother, “if you didn’t see it, I did. I
happened to be looking out of John Carson’s upper window--for it wasn’t
altogether safe to contemplate it within reach of the missiles. It was
certainly a dreadful and barbarous sight. You have often observed the
calm, gloomy silence that precedes a thunder-storm; and had you been
there that day, you might have witnessed its illustration in a scene
much more awful. The thick living mass of people extended from the
corner-house, nearly a quarter of a mile, at this end of the town, up to
the parsonage on the other side. During the early part of the day, every
kind of business was carried on in a hurry and an impatience, which
denoted the little chance they knew there would be for transacting it in
the evening.

“Up to the hour of four o’clock the fair was unusually quiet, and, on
the whole, presented nothing in any way remarkable; but after that hour
you might observe the busy stir and hum of the mass settling down into
a deep, brooding, portentous silence, that was absolutely fearful. The
females, with dismay and terror pictured in their faces, hurried home;
and in various instances you might see mothers, and wives, and sisters,
clinging about the sons, husbands, and brothers, attempting to drag them
by main force from the danger which they knew impended over them.
In this they seldom succeeded: for the person so urged was usually
compelled to tear himself from them by superior strength.

“The pedlars and basket-women, and such as had tables and standings
erected in the streets, commenced removing them with all possible
haste. The shopkeepers, and other inhabitants of the town, put up
their shutters, in order to secure their windows from being shattered.
Strangers, who were compelled to stop in town that night, took shelter
in the inns and other houses of entertainment where they lodged: so that
about five o’clock the street was completely clear, and free for action.

“Hitherto there was not a stroke--the scene became even more silent and
gloomy, although the moral darkness of their ill-suppressed passions
was strongly contrasted with the splendor of the sun, that poured down
a tide of golden light upon the multitude. This contrast between the
natural brightness of the evening, and the internal gloom of their
hearts, as the beams of the sun rested upon the ever-moving crowd,
would, to any man who knew the impetus with which the spirit of
religious hatred was soon to rage among them, produce novel and
singular sensations. For, after all Toby, there is a mysterious
connection between natural and moral things, which often invest both
nature and sentiment with a feeling that certainly would not come home
to our hearts if such a connection did not exist. A rose-tree beside
a grave will lead us from sentiment to reflection; and any other
association, where a painful or melancholy thought is clothed with a
garb of joy or pleasure, will strike us more deeply in proportion as
the contrast is strong. On seeing the sun or moon struggling through the
darkness of surrounding clouds, I confess, although you may smile, that
I feel for the moment a diminution of enjoyment--something taken, as it
were, from the sum of my happiness.

“Ere the quarrel commenced, you might see a dark and hateful glare
scowling from the countenances of the two parties, as they viewed
and approached each other in the street--the eye was set in deadly
animosity, and the face marked with an ireful paleness, occasioned at
once by revenge and apprehension. Groups were silently hurrying with an
eager and energetic step to their places of rendezvous, grasping their
weapons more closely, or grinding their teeth in the impatience of their
fury. The veterans on each side were surrounded by their respective
followers, anxious to act under their direction; and the very boys
seemed to be animated with a martial spirit, much more eager than that
of those who had greater experience in party quarrels.

“Jem Finigan’s public-house was the head-quarters and rallying-point
of the Ribbonmen; the Orangemen assembled in that of Joe Sherlock, the
master of an Orange lodge. About six o’clock the crowd in the street
began gradually to fall off to the opposite ends of the town--the Roman
Catholics towards the north, and the Protestants towards the south.
Carson’s window, from which I was observing their motions, was exactly
half way between them, so that I had a distinct view of both. At this
moment I noticed Denis Kelly coming forward from the closely condensed
mass formed by the Ribbonmen: he advanced with his cravat off, to the
middle of the vacant space between the parties, holding a fine oak
cudgel in his hand. He then stopped, and addressing the Orangemen, said,

“‘Where’s Vengeance and his crew now? Is there any single Orange villain
among you that dare come down and meet me here like a man? Is John
Grimes there? for if he is, before we begin to take you out of a face,
to hunt you altogether out of the town, ye Orange villains I would be
glad that he’d step down to Denis Kelly here for two or three minutes;
I’ll not keep him longer.’

“There was now a stir and a murmur among the Orangemen, as if a rush was
about to take place towards Denis; but Grimes, whom I saw endeavoring to
curb them in, left the crowd, and advanced toward him.

“At this moment an instinctive movement among both masses took place; so
that when Grimes had come within a few yards of Kelly, both parties were
within two or three perches of them. Kelly was standing, apparently off
his guard, with one hand thrust carelessly into the breast pocket of
his waistcoat, and the cudgel in the other; but his eye was fixed calmly
upon Grimes as he approached. They were both powerful, fine men--brawny,
vigorous, and active; Grimes had somewhat the advantage of the other in
height; he also fought with his left hand, from which circumstance
he was nicknamed Kitlhouge. He was a man of a dark, stern-looking
countenance; and the tones of his voice were deep, sullen, and of
appalling strength.

“As they approached each other, the windows on each side of the street
were crowded; but there was not a breath to be heard in any direction,
nor from either party. As for myself, my heart palpitated with anxiety.
What they might have felt I do not know: but they must have experienced
considerable apprehension; for as they were both the champions of their
respective parties, and had never before met in single encounter, their
characters depended on the issue of the contest.

“‘Well, Grimes,’ said Denis, ‘sure I’ve often wished for this same
meetin,’ man, betune myself and you; I have what you’re goin’ to get,
_in_ for you this long time; but you’ll get it now, avick, plase God--’

“‘It was not to scould I came, you Popish, ribly rascal,’ replied
Grimes, ‘but to give you what you’re long--’

“Ere the word had been out of his mouth, however, Kelly sprung over to
him; and making a feint, as if he intended to lay the stick on his ribs,
he swung it past without touching him and, bringing it round his own
head like lightning, made it tell with a powerful back-stroke, right on
Grimes’s temple, and in an instant his own face was sprinkled with the
blood which sprung from the wound. Grimes staggered forwards towards his
antagonist, seeing which, Kelly sprung back, and was again meeting him
with full force, when Grimes, turning a little, clutched Kelly’s stick
in his right hand, and being left-handed himself, ere the other could
wrench the cudgel from him, he gave him a terrible blow upon the back
part of the head, which laid Kelly in the dust.

“There was then a deafening shout from the Orange party; and Grimes
stood until Kelly should be in the act of rising, ready then to give him
another blow. The coolness and generalship of Kelly, however, were here
very remarkable; for, when he was just getting to his feet, ‘Look at
your party coming down upon me!’ he exclaimed to Grimes, who turned
round to order them back, and, in the interim, Kelly was upon his legs.

“I was surprised at the coolness of both men; for Grimes was by no means
inflated with the boisterous triumph of his party--nor did Denis get
into a blind rage on being knocked down. They approached again,
their eyes kindled into savage fury, tamed down into the wariness of
experienced combatants; for a short time they stood eyeing each other,
as if calculating upon the contingent advantages of attack or defence.
This was a moment of great interest; for, as their huge and powerful
frames stood out in opposition, strung and dilated by the impulse of
passion and the energy of contest, no judgment, however experienced,
could venture to anticipate the result of the battle, or name the
person likely to be victorious. Indeed it was surprising how the
natural sagacity of these men threw their attitudes and movements into
scientific form and symmetry. Kelly raised his cudgel, and placed
it transversely in the air, between himself and his opponent; Grimes
instantly placed his against it--both weapons thus forming a St.
Andrew’s cross--whilst the men themselves stood foot to foot, calm and
collected. Nothing could be finer than their proportions, nor superior
to their respective attitudes; their broad chests were in a line; their
thick, well-set necks laid a little back, as were their bodies, without,
however, losing their balance; and their fierce but calm features,
grimly but placidly scowling at each other, like men who were prepared
for the onset.

“At length Kelly made an attempt to repeat his former feint, with
variations; for whereas he had sent the first blow to Grimes’s right
temple, he took measures now to reach the left; his action was rapid,
but equally quick was the eye of his antagonist, whose cudgel was up in
ready guard to meet the blow. It met it; and with such surprising power
was it sent and opposed, that both cudgels, on meeting, bent across
each other into curves. An involuntary huzza followed this from their
respective parties--not so much on account of the skill displayed by the
combatants as in admiration of their cudgels, and of the judgment with
which they must have been selected. In fact, it was the staves, rather
than the men, that were praised; and certainly the former did their
duty. In a moment their shillelaghs were across each other once more,
and the men resumed their former attitudes; their savage determination,
their kindled eyes, the blood which disfigured the face of Grimes, and
begrimed also the countenance of his antagonist into a deeper expression
of ferocity, occasioned many a cowardly heart to shrink from the sight.
There they stood, gory and stern, ready for the next onset; it was first
made by Grimes, who tried to practise on Kelly the feint which Kelly had
before practised on him. Denis, after his usual manner, caught the blow
in his open hand, and clutched the staff, with an intention of holding
it until he might visit Grimes, now apparently unguarded, with a
levelling blow; but Grimes’s effort to wrest the cudgel from his grasp,
drew all Kelly’s strength to that quarter, and prevented him from
availing himself of the other’s defenceless attitude. A trial of
muscular power ensued, and their enormous bodily strength was exhibited
in the stiff tug for victory. Kelly’s address prevailed; for while
Grimes pulled against him with all his collected vigor, the former
suddenly let go his hold, and the latter, having lost his balance,
staggered back; lightning could not be more quick than the action of
Kelly, as, with tremendous force, his cudgel rung on the unprotected
head of Grimes, who fell, or rather was shot to the ground, as if some
superior power had clashed him against it; and there he lay for a short
time, quivering under the blow he had received.

“A peal of triumph now arose from Kelly’s party; but Kelly himself,
placing his arms a-kimbo, stood calmly over his enemy, awaiting
his return to the conflict. For nearly five minutes he stood in this
attitude, during which time Grimes did not stir; at length Kelly stooped
a little, and peering closely into his face, exclaimed--

“‘Why, then, is it acting you are?--any how, I wouldn’t put it past you,
you cunning vagabone; ‘tis lying to take breath he is--get up, man, I’d
scorn to touch you till you’re on your legs; not all as one, for sure
it’s yourself would show me no such forbearance. Up with you, man alive,
I’ve none of your thrachery in me. I’ll not rise my cudgel till you’re
on your guard.’

“There was an expression of disdain, mingled with a glow of honest, manly
generosity on his countenance, as he spoke, which made him at once the
favorite with such spectators as were not connected with either of
the parties. Grimes arose, and it was evident that Kelly’s generosity
deepened his resentment more than the blow which had sent him so rapidly
to the ground; however, he was still cool, but his brows knit, his eye
flashed with double fierceness, and his complexion settled into a dark
blue shade, which gave to his whole visage an expression fearfully
ferocious. Kelly hailed this as the first appearance of passion; his
brow expanded as the other approached, and a dash of confidence, if not
of triumph, softened in some degree the sternness of his features.

“With caution they encountered again each collected for a spring, their
eyes gleaming at each other like those of tigers. Grimes made a motion
as if he would have struck Kelly with his fist; and, as the latter threw
up his guard against the blow, he received a stroke from Grimes’s cudgel
in the under part of the right arm. This had been directed at his
elbow, with an intention of rendering the arm powerless: it fell short,
however, yet was sufficient to relax the grasp which Kelly had of his
weapon. Had Kelly been a novice, this stratagem alone would have soon
vanquished him; his address, however, was fully equal to that of his
antagonist. The staff dropped instantly from his grasp, but a stout
thong of black polished leather, with a shining tassel at the end of it,
had bound it securely to his massive wrist; the cudgel, therefore, only
dangled from his arm, and did not, as the other expected, fall to the
ground, or put Denis to the necessity of stooping for it--Grimes’s
object being to have struck him in that attitude.

“A flash of indignation now shot from Kelly’s eye, and with the speed of
lightning he sprung within Grimes’s weapon,--determined to wrest it from
him. The grapple that ensued was gigantic. In a moment Grimes’s staff
was parallel with the horizon between them, clutched in the powerful
grasp of both. They stood exactly opposite, and rather close to each
other; their arms sometimes stretched out stiff and at full length,
again contracted, until their faces, glowing and distorted by the energy
of the contest, were drawn almost together. Sometimes the prevailing
strength of one would raise the staff slowly, and with gradually
developed power, up in a perpendicular position: again the reaction of
opposing strength would strain it back, and sway the weighty frame of
the antagonist, crouched and set into desperate resistance, along with
it; whilst the hard pebbles under their feet were crumbled into powder,
and the very street itself furrowed into gravel by the shock of their
opposing strength. Indeed, so well matched a pair never met in contest:
their strength, their wind, their activity, and their! natural science
appeared to be perfectly equal.

“At length, by a tremendous effort, Kelly got the staff twisted
nearly out of Grimes’s hand, and a short shout, half encouraging, half
indignant, came from Grimes’s party. This added shame to his other
passions, and threw an impulse of almost superhuman strength into him:
he recovered his advantage, but nothing more; they twisted--they heaved
their great frames against each other--they struggled--their action
became rapid--they swayed each other this way and that--their eyes like
fire--their teeth locked, and their nostrils dilated. Sometimes they
twined about each other like serpents, and twirled round with such
rapidity, that it was impossible to distinguish them--sometimes, when
a pull of more than ordinary power took place, they seemed to cling
together almost without motion, bending down until their heads nearly
touched the ground, their cracking joints seeming to stretch by the
effort, and the muscles of their limbs standing out from the flesh,
strung into amazing tension.

“In this attitude were they, when Denis, with the eye of a hawk, spied
a disadvantage in Grimes’s position; he wheeled round, placed his broad
shoulder against the shaggy breast of the other, and giving him what is
called an ‘inside crook,’ strained him, despite of every effort, until
he got him off his shoulder, and off the point of resistance. There
was a cry of alarm from the windows, particularly from the females, as
Grimes’s huge body was swung over Kelly’s shoulder, until it came down
in a crash upon the hard gravel of the street, while Denis stood in
triumph, with his enemy’s staff in his hand. A loud huzzah followed this
from all present except the Orangemen, who stood bristling with fury and
shame for the temporary defeat of their champion.

“Denis again had his enemy at his mercy; but he scorned to use his
advantage ungenerously; he went over, and placing the staff in his
hands--for the other had got to his legs--retrograded to his place, and
desired Grimes to defend himself.

“After considerable manoeuvring on both sides, Denis, who appeared to
be the more active of the two, got an open on his antagonist, and by
a powerful blow upon Grimes’s ear, sent him to the ground with amazing
force. I never saw such a blow given by mortal; the end of the cudgel
came exactly upon the ear, and as Grimes went down, the blood spurted
out of his mouth and nostrils; he then kicked convulsively several times
as he lay upon the ground, and that moment I really thought he would
never have breathed more.

“The shout was again raised by the Ribbonmen, who threw up their hats,
and bounded from the ground with the most vehement exultation. Both
parties then waited to give Grimes time to rise and renew the battle;
but he appeared perfectly contented to remain where he was: for there
appeared no signs of life or motion in him.

“‘Have you got your gruel, boy?’ said Kelly, going over to where he
lay;--‘Well, you met Denis Kelly, at last, didn’t you? and there you
lie; but plase God, the most of your sort will soon lie in the same
state. Come, boys,’ said Kelly, addressing his own party, ‘now for
bloody Vengeance and his crew, that thransported the Grogans and the
Caffries, and murdered Collier. Now, boys, have at the murderers, and
let us have satisfaction for all!’

“A mutual rush instantly took place; but, ere the Orangemen came down to
where Grimes lay, Kelly had taken his staff, and handed it to one of his
own party. It is impossible to describe the scene that ensued. The noise
of the blows, the shouting, the yelling, the groans, the scalped heads,
and gory visages, gave both to the ear and eye an impression that could
not easily be forgotten. The battle was obstinately maintained on both
sides for nearly an hour, and with a skill of manoeuvring, attack, and
retreat, that was astonishing.

“Both parties arranged themselves against each other, forming something
like two lines of battle, and these extended along the town nearly from
one end to the other. It was curious to remark the difference in the
persons and appearances of the combatants. In the Orange line the men
were taller, and of more powerful frames; but the Ribbonmen were
more hardy, active, and courageous. Man to man, notwithstanding their
superior bodily strength, the Orangemen could never fight the others;
the former depend too much upon their fire and side-arms, but they are
by no means so well trained to the use of the cudgel as their enemies.
In the district where the scene of this fight is laid, the Catholics
generally inhabit the mountainous part of the country, to which, when
the civil feuds of worse times prevailed, they had been driven at the
point of the bayonet; the Protestants and Presbyterians, on the other
hand, who came in upon their possessions, occupy the richer and more
fertile tracts of the land; being more wealthy, they live with less
labor, and on better food. The characteristic features produced by these
causes are such as might be expected--the Catholic being, like his soil,
hardy, thin, and capable of bearing all weathers; and the Protestants,
larger, softer, and more inactive.

“Their advance to the first onset was far different from a faction
fight. There existed a silence here, that powerfully evinced the
inextinguishable animosity with which they encountered. For some time
they fought in two compact bodies, that remained unbroken so long as the
chances of victory were doubtful. Men went down, and were up, and went
down in all directions, with uncommon rapidity; and as the weighty
phalanx of Orangemen stood out against the nimble line of their mountain
adversaries, the intrepid spirit of the latter, and their surprising
skill and activity soon gave symptoms of a gradual superiority in the
conflict. In the course of about half an hour, the Orange party began to
give way in the northern end of the town; and as their opponents pressed
them warmly and with unsparing hand, the heavy mass formed by their
numbers began to break, and this decomposition ran up their line until
in a short time they were thrown into utter confusion. They now fought
in detached parties; but these subordinate conflicts, though shorter in
duration than the shock of the general battle, were much more inhuman
and destructive; for whenever any particular gang succeeded in putting
their adversaries to flight, they usually ran to the assistance of their
friends in the nearest fight--by which means they often fought three to
one. In these instances the persons inferior in numbers suffered such
barbarities, as it would be painful to detail.

“There lived a short distance out of the town a man nicknamed Jemsy
Boccagh, on account of his lameness--he was also sometimes called
‘Hop-an’-go-constant,’ who fell the first victim to party spirit. He
had got arms on seeing his friends likely to be defeated, and had the
hardihood to follow, with charged bayonet, a few Ribbonmen, whom he
attempted to intercept, as they fled from a large number of their
enemies, who had got them separated from their comrades. Boccagh ran
across a field, in order to get before them in the road, and was in the
act of climbing a ditch, when one of them, who carried a spade-shaft,
struck him a blow on the head, which put an end to his existence.*

     * Fact. The person who killed him escaped to America
     where he got himself naturalized, and when the British
     government claimed him, he pleaded his privilege of
     being an American citizen, and he was consequently not
     given up. Boccagh was a very violent Orangeman, and a
     very offensive one.

“This circumstance imparted, of course, fiercer hatred to both
parties,--triumph inspiring the one, a thirst for vengeance nerving the
other. Kelly inflicted tremendous punishment in every direction; for
scarcely a blow fell from him which did not bring a man to the ground.
It absolutely resembled a military engagement, for the number of
combatants amounted at least to four thousand men. In many places the
street was covered with small pools and clots of blood, which flowed
from those who lay insensible--while others were borne away
bleeding, groaning, or staggering, having been battered into a total
unconsciousness of the scene about them.

“At length the Orangemen gave way, and their enemies, yelling with
madness and revenge, began to beat them with unrestrained fury. The
former, finding that they could not resist the impetuous tide which
burst upon them, fled back past the church, and stopped not until they
had reached an elevation, on which lay two or three heaps of stones,
that had been collected for the purpose of paving the streets. Here they
made a stand, and commenced a vigorous discharge of them against their
pursuers. This checked the latter; and the others, seeing them hesitate
and likely to retreat from the missiles, pelted them with such effect,
that the tables became turned, and the Ribbonmen made a speedy flight
back into the town.

“In the meantime several Orangemen had gone into Sherlock’s, where a
considerable number of arms had been deposited, with an intention of
resorting to them in case of a defeat at the cudgels. These now came
out, and met the Ribbonmen on their flight from those who were pelting
them with the stones. A dreadful scene ensued. The Ribbonmen, who had
the advantage in numbers, finding themselves intercepted before by
those who had arms, and pursued behind by those who had recourse to the
stones, fought with uncommon bravery and desperation. Kelly, who was
furious, but still collected and decisive, shouted out in Irish, lest
the opposite party might understand him, ‘Let every two men seize upon
one of those who have the arms.’

“This was attempted, and effected with partial success; and I have no
doubt but the Orangemen would have been ultimately beaten and deprived
of their weapons, were it not that many of them, who had got their
pistols out of Sherlock’s, discharged them among their enemies, and
wounded several. The Catholics could not stand this; but wishing to
retaliate as effectually as possible, lifted stones wherever they could
find them, and kept up the fight at a distance, as they retreated. On
both sides, wherever a solitary foe was caught straggling from the rest,
he was instantly punished with a most cruel and blood-thirsty spirit.

“It was just about this time that I saw Kelly engaged with two men, whom
he kept at bay with great ease--retrograding, however, as he fought,
towards his own party. Grimes, who had for some time before this
recovered and joined the fight once more, was returning, after having
pursued several of the Ribbonmen past the market-house, where he spied
Kelly thus engaged. With a Volunteer gun in his hand, and furious with
the degradation of his former defeat, he ran-over and struck him with
the butt-end of it upon the temple--and Denis fell. When the stroke was
given, an involuntary cry of ‘Murder,--foul, foul!’ burst from those
who looked on from the windows; and long John Steele, Grimes’s
father-in-law, in indignation, raised his cudgel to knock him down for
this treacherous and malignant blow;--but a person out of Neal Cassidy’s
back-yard hurled a round stone, about six pounds in weight, at Grimes’s
head, that felled him to the earth, leaving him as insensible, and
nearly in as dangerous a state as Kelly,--for his jaw was broken.

“By this time the Catholics had retreated out of the town, and Denis
might probably have received more punishment, had those who were
returning from the pursuit recognized him; but James Wilson, seeing the
dangerous situation in which he lay, came out, and, with the assistance
of his servant-man, brought him into his own house. When the Orangemen
had driven their adversaries off the field, they commenced the most
hideous yellings through the streets--got music, and played party
tunes--offered any money for the face of a Papist; and any of that
religion who were so unfortunate as to make their appearance, were
beaten in the most relentless manner. It was precisely the same thing on
the part of the Ribbonmen; if a Protestant, but above all, an Orangeman,
came in their way, he was sure to be treated with barbarity; for the
retaliation on either side was dreadfully unjust--the innocent suffering
as well as the guilty. Leaving the window, I found Kelly in a a bad
state below stairs.

“‘What’s to be done?’ said I to Wilson.

“‘I know not,’ replied he, ‘except I put him between us on my jaunting
car, and drive him home.’

“This appeared decidedly the best plan we could adopt; so, after putting
to the horse, we placed him on the car, sitting one on each side of him,
and, in this manner, left him at his own house.

“‘Did you run no risk,’ said I, ‘in going among Kelly’s friends, whilst
they were under the influence of party feeling and exasperated passion?’

“‘No,’ said he; ‘we had rendered many of them acts of kindness, and
had never exhibited any spirit but a friendly one towards them; and
such individuals, but only such, might walk through a crowd of enraged
Catholics or Protestants quite unmolested.’

“The next morning Kelly’s landlord, Sir W. E------, and two magistrates,
were at his house, but he lay like a log, without sense or motion.
Whilst they were there, the surgeon arrived and, after examining
his head declared that the skull was fractured. During that and the
following day, the house was surrounded by crowds, anxious to know his
state; and nothing might be heard amongst most of them but loud and
undisguised expressions of the most ample revenge. The wife was frantic;
and, on seeing me, hid her face in her hands, exclaiming.

“‘Ah, sir, I knew it would come to this; and you, too, tould him the
same thing. My curse and God’s curse on it for quarrelling! Will it
never stop in the counthry till they rise some time and murdher one
another out of the face?’

“As soon as the swelling in his head was reduced, the surgeon performed
the operation of trepanning, and thereby saved his life; but his
strength and intellect were gone, and he just lingered for four months,
a feeble, drivelling simpleton, until, in consequence of a cold, which
produced inflammation in the brain, he died, as hundreds have died
before, the victim of party spirit.”

Such was the account which I heard of my old school-fellow, Denis
Kelly; and, indeed, when I reflected upon the nature of the education he
received, I could not but admit that the consequences were such as might
naturally be expected to result from it.

The next morning a relation of Mrs. Kelly’s came down to my brother,
hoping that, as they wished to have as decent a funeral as possible, he
would be so kind as to attend it.

“Musha, God knows, sir,” said the man, “it’s poor Denis, heavens be his
bed! that had the regard and reverence for every one, young and ould, of
your father’s family; and it’s himself that would be the proud man, if
he was living, to see you, sir, riding after his coffin.”

“Well,” said my brother, “let Mrs. Kelly know that I shall certainly
attend, and so will my brother, here, who has come to puy me a visit.
Why, I believe, Tom, you forget him!”

“Your brother, sir! Is it Master Toby, that used to cudgel the half of
the counthry when he was at school? Gad’s my life, Masther Toby (I was
now about thirty-six), but it’s your four quarters, sure enough! Arrah,
thin, sir, who’d think it--you’re grown so full and stout?--but, faix,
you’d always the bone in you! Ah, Masther Toby!” said he, “he’s lying
cowld, this morning, that would be the happy man to lay his eyes wanst
more upon you. Many an’ manys the winther’s evening did he spind,
talking about the time when you and he were bouchals (* boys) together,
and of the pranks you played at school, but especially of the time you
both leathered the four Grogans, and tuck the apples from thim--my poor
fellow--and now to be stretched a corpse, lavin’ his poor widdy and
childher behind him!”

I accordingly expressed my sorrow for Denis’s death, which, indeed,
I sincerely regretted, for he possessed materials for an excellent
character, had not all that was amiable and good in him been permitted
to run wild.

As soon as my trunk and traveling-bag had been brought from the inn,
where I had left them the preceding night, we got our horses, and, as we
wished to show particular respect to Denis’s remains, rode up, with
some of our friends, to the house. When we approached, there were large
crowds of the country-people before the door of his well-thatched and
respectable-looking dwelling, which had three chimneys, and a set
of sash-windows, clean and well glazed. On our arrival, I was soon
recognized and surrounded by numbers of those to whom I had formerly
been known, who received and welcomed me with a warmth of kindness and
sincerity, which it would be in vain to look for among the peasantry
of any other nation. Indeed, I have uniformly observed, that when no
religious or political feeling influences the heart and principles of an
Irish peasant, he is singularly sincere and faithful in his attachments,
and has always a bias to the generous and the disinterested. To my own
knowledge, circumstances frequently occur, in which the ebullition of
party spirit is, although temporary, subsiding after the cause that
produced it has passed away, and leaving the kind peasant to the
natural, affectionate, and generous impulses of his character. But
poor Paddy, unfortunately, is as combustible a material in politics or
religion as in fighting--thinking it his duty to take the weak side*,
without any other consideration than because it is the weak side.

     * A gentleman once told me an anecdote, of which he was
     an eye-witness. Some peasants, belonging to opposite
     factions, had met under peculiar circumstances; there
     were, however, two on one side, and four on the other--
     in this case, there was likely to be no fight; but, in
     order to balance the number, one of the more numerous
     party joined the weak side--“bekase, boys, it would be
     a burnin’ shame, so it would, for four to kick two;
     and, except I join them, by the powers, there’s no
     chance of there being a bit of sport, or a row, at all
     at all!” Accordingly, he did join them, and the result
     of it was, that he and his party were victorious, so
     honestly did he fight.

When we entered the house I was almost suffocated with the strong
fumes of tobacco-smoke, snuff, and whiskey; and as I had been an old
school-fellow of Denis’s, my appearance was the signal for a general
burst of grief among his relations, in which the more distant friends
and neighbors of the deceased joined, to keep up the keening.

I have often, indeed always, felt that there! is something extremely
touching in the Irish cry; in fact, that it breathes the very spirit
of wild and natural sorrow. The Irish peasantry, whenever a death
takes place, are exceedingly happy in seizing upon any contingent
circumstances that may occur, and making them subservient to the
excitement of grief for the departed, or the exaltation and praise
of his character and virtues. My entrance was a proof of this--I had
scarcely advanced to the middle of the floor, when my intimacy with the
deceased, our boyish sports, and even our quarrels, were adverted to
with a natural eloquence and pathos, that, in spite of my firmness,
occasioned me to feel the prevailing sorrow. They spoke, or chaunted
mournfully, in Irish; but the substance of what they said was as
follows:--

“Oh, Denis, Denis, avourneen! you’re lying low, this morning of
sorrow!--lying low are you, and does not know who it is (alluding to me)
that is standing over you, weeping for the days you spent together in
your youth! It’s yourself, _acushla agus asthore machree_ (the pulse and
beloved of my heart), that would stretch out the right hand warmly to
welcome him to the place of his birth, where you had both been so often
happy about the green hills and valleys with each other! He’s here now,
standing over you; and it’s he, of all his family, kind and respectable
as they are, that was your own favorite, Denis, _avourneen dhelish!_
He alone was the companion that you loved!--with no other could you be
happy!--For him did you fight, when he wanted a friend in your young
quarrels! and if you had a dispute with him, were you not sorry for it?
Are you not now stretched in death before him, and will he not forgive
you?”

All this was uttered, of course, extemporaneously, and without the least
preparation. They then passed on to an enumeration of his virtues as
a father, a husband, son, and brother--specified his worth as he stood
related to society in general, and his kindness as a neighbor and a
friend.

An occurrence now took place which may serve, in some measure, to throw
light upon many of the atrocities and outrages which take place in
Ireland. Before I mention it, however, I think it necessary to make
a few observations relative to it. I am convinced that those who are
intimately acquainted with the Irish peasantry will grant that there is
not on the earth a class of people in whom the domestic affections of
blood-relationship are so pure, strong, and sacred. The birth of a child
will occasion a poor man to break in upon the money set apart for his
landlord, in order to keep the christening, surrounded by his friends
and neighbors, with due festivity. A marriage exhibits a spirit of joy,
an exuberance of happiness and delight, to be found only in the Green
Island; and the death of a member of a family is attended with a
sincerity of grief, scarcely to be expected from men so much the
creatures of the more mirthful feelings. In fact, their sorrow is a
solecism in humanity--at once deep and loud--mingled up, even in its
deepest paroxysms, with a laughter-loving spirit. It is impossible that
an Irishman, sunk in the lowest depths of affliction, could permit his
grief to flow in all its sad solemnity, even for a day, without some
glimpse of his natural humor throwing a faint and rapid light over the
gloom within him. No: there is an amalgamation of sentiments in his mind
which, as I said before, would puzzle any philosopher to account for.
Yet it would be wrong to say, though his grief has something of an
unsettled and ludicrous character about it, that he is incapable of the
most subtle and delicate shades of sentiment, or the deepest and most
desolating intensity of sorrow. But he laughs off those heavy vapors
which hang about the moral constitution of the people of other
nations, giving them a morbid habit, which leaves them neither strength
nor firmness to resist calamity--which they feel less keenly than an
Irishman, exactly as a healthy man will feel the pangs of death with
more acuteness than one who is wasted away by debility and decay. Let
any man witness an emigration, and he will satisfy himself that this is
true. I am convinced that Goldsmith’s inimitable description of one in
his “Deserted Village,” was a picture drawn from actual observation. Let
him observe the emigrant, as he crosses the Atlantic, and he will find,
although he joins the jest, and the laugh, and the song, that he will
seek a silent corner, or a silent hour, to indulge the sorrow which he
still feels for the friends, the companions, and the native fields that
he has left behind him. This constitution of mind is beneficial: the
Irishman seldom or never hangs himself, because he is capable of too
much real feeling to permit himself to become the slave of that which
is factitious. There is no void in his affections or sentiments, which a
morbid and depraved sensibility could occupy; but his feelings, of what
character soever they may be, are strong, because they are fresh and
healthy. For this reason, I maintain, that when the domestic affections
come under the influence of either grief or joy, the peasantry of no
nation are capable of feeling so deeply. Even on the ordinary occasions
of death, sorrow, though it alternates with mirth and cheerfulness, in
a manner peculiar to themselves, lingers long in the unseen recesses
of domestic life: any hand, therefore, whether by law or violence, that
plants a wound here, will suffer to the death.

When my brother and I entered the house, the body had just been put
into the coffin and it is usual after this takes place, and before it
is nailed down, for the immediate relatives of the family to embrace the
deceased, and take their last look and farewell of his remains. In the
present instance, the children were brought over, one by one, to perform
that trying and melancholy ceremony. The first was an infant on the
breast, whose little innocent mouth was held down to that of its dead
father; the babe smiled upon his still and solemn features, and would
have played with his grave-clothes, but that the murmur of unfeigned
sorrow, which burst from all present, occasioned it to be removed. The
next was a fine little girl, of three or lour years, who inquired where
they were going to bring her daddy, and asked if he would not soon come
back to her.

“My daddy’s sleeping a long time,” said the child, “but I’ll waken him
till he sings me ‘Peggy Slevin.’ I like my daddy best, bekase I sleep
wid him--and he brings me good things from the fair; he bought me this
ribbon,” said she, pointing to a ribbon which he had purchased for her.

The rest of the children were sensible of their loss, and truly it was
a distressing scene. His eldest son and daughter, the former about
fourteen, the latter about two years older, lay on the coffin, kissing
his lips, and were with difficulty torn away from it.

“Oh!” said the boy, “he is going from us, and night or day we will never
see him or hear him more! Oh! father--father--is that the last sight we
are ever to see of your face? Why, father dear, did you die, and leave
us forever?--forever--wasn’t your heart good to us, and your words kind
to us--Oh! your last smile is smiled--your last kiss given--and your
last kind word spoken to your children that you loved, and that loved
you as we did. Father, core of my heart, are you gone forever, and your
voice departed? Oh! the murdherers, oh! the murdherers, the murdherers!”
 he exclaimed, “that killed my father; for only for them, he would be
still wid us: but, by the God that’s over me, if I live, night or day I
will not rest, till I have blood for blood; nor do I care who hears it,
nor if I was hanged the next minute.”

As these words escaped him, a deep and awful murmur of suppressed
vengeance burst from his relations. At length their sorrow became
too strong to be repressed; and as it was the time to take their last
embrace and look of him, they came up, and after fixing their eyes
on his face in deep affliction, their lips began to quiver, and their
countenances became convulsed. They then burst out simultaneously into a
tide of violent grief, which, after having indulged in it for some time,
they checked. But the resolution of revenge was stronger than their
grief, for, standing over his dead body, they repeated, almost word for
word, the vow of vengeance which the son had just sworn. It was really
a scene dreadfully and terribly solemn; and I could not avoid reflecting
upon the mystery of nature, which can, from the deep power of domestic
affection, cause to spring a determination to crime of so black a
dye. Would to God that our peasantry had a clearer sense of moral and
religious duties, and were not left so much as they are to the headlong
impulse of an ardent temperament and an impetuous character; and would
to God that the clergy who superintend their morals, had a better
knowledge of human nature, and a more liberal education!

During all this time the heart-broken widow sat beyond the coffin,
looking upon what passed with a stupid sense of bereavement; and when
they had all performed this last ceremony, it was found necessary to
tell her that the time was come for the procession of the funeral, and
they only waited for; her to take, as the rest did, her last look and
embrace of her husband. When she heard this, it pierced her like an
arrow; she became instantly collected, and her complexion assumed a dark
shade of despairing anguish, which it was an affliction even to look
upon, one then stooped over the coffin, and kissed him several times,
after which she ceased sobbing, and lay silently with her mouth to his.

The character of a faithful wife sorrowing for a beloved husband has
that in it which compels both respect and sympathy. There was not at
this moment a dry eye in the house. She still lay silent on the coffin;
but, as I observed that her bosom seemed not to heave as it did a little
before, I was convinced that she had become insensible. I accordingly
beckoned to Kelly’s brother, to whom I mentioned what I had suspected;
and on his going over to ascertain the truth, he found her as I
had said. She was then brought to the air, and after some
trouble--recovered; but I recommended them to put her to bed, and not to
subject her to any unnecessary anguish, by a custom which was really
too soul-piercing to endure. This, however, was, in her opinion, the
violation of an old rite, sacred to her heart and affections--she would
not hear of it for an instant. Again she was helped out between her
brother and brother-in-law; and, after stooping down, and doing as the
others had done--

“Now,” said she, “I will sit here, and keep him under my eye as long as
I can--surely you won’t blame me for it; you all know the kind husband
he was to me, and the good right I have to be sorry for him! Oh!” she
added, “is it thrue at all?--is he, my own Denis, the young husband of
my early--and my first love, in good airnest, dead, and going to leave
me here--me, Denis, that you loved so tindherly, and our childher, that
your brow was never clouded aginst? Can I believe myself or is it a
dhrame? Denis, _avick machree! avick machree!_* your hand was dreaded,
and a good right it had, for it was the manly hand, that was ever and
always raised in defence of them that wanted a friend; abroad, in
the faction-fight, against the oppressor, your name was ever feared,
acushla?--but at home--at home--where was your fellow Denis, agrah, do
you know the lips that’s spaking to you?--your young bride--your heart’s
light--Oh! I remimber the day you war married to me like yesterday. Oh!
avourneen, then and since wasn’t the heart of your own Honor bound up
in you--yet not a word even to me. Well, agrah, machree, ‘tisn’t your
fault, it’s the first time you ever refused to spake to your own Honor.
But you’re dead, avourneen, or it wouldn’t be so--you’re dead before my
eyes--husband of my heart, and all my hopes and happiness goes into the
coffin and the grave along wid you, forever!”

     * Son of my heart! Son of my heart!

All this time she was rocking herself from side to side, her complexion
pale and ghastly as could be conceived, and the tears streaming from her
eyes. When the coffin was about to be closed, she retired until it was
nailed down, after which she returned with her bonnet and cloak on her,
ready to accompany it to the grave. I was astonished--for I thought
she could not have walked two steps without assistance; but it was the
custom, and to neglect it, I found, would have thrown the imputation
of insincerity upon her grief. While they were preparing to bring the
coffin out, I could hear the chat and conversation of those who were
standing in crowds before the door, and occasionally a loud, vacant
laugh, and sometimes a volley of them, responsive to the jokes of some
rustic wit, probably the same person who acted master of the revels at
the wake.

Before the coffin was finally closed, Ned Corrigan, whom I had put to
flight the preceding night, came up, and repeated the De Profundis, in
very strange Latin, over the corpse. When this was finished, he got a
jug of holy water, and after dipping his thumb in it, first made the
sign of the cross upon his own forehead, and afterwards sprinkled it
upon all present, giving my brother and myself an extra compliment,
supposing, probably, that we stood most in need, of it. When this
was over, he sprinkled the corpse and the coffin in particular most
profusely. He then placed two pebbles from Lough Derg* and a bit of holy
candle, upon the breast of the corpse, and having said a Pater and Ave,
in which he was joined by the people, he closed the lid and nailed it
down.

     * Those who make a station at Lough Derg are in the
     habit of bringing home some of its pebbles, which are
     considered to be sacred and possessed of many virtues.

“Ned,” said his brother, “are his feet and toes loose?”

“Musha, but that’s more than myself knows,” replied Ned--“Are they,
Katty?” said he, inquiring from the sister of the deceased.

“Arrah, to be sure, avourneen!” answered Katty--“do you think we would
lave him to be tied that way, when he’d be risin’ out of his last bed at
the day of judgment? Wouldn’t it be too bad to have his toes tied thin,
avourneen?”

The coffin was then brought out and placed upon four chairs before the
door, to be keened; and, in the mean time, the friends and well-wishers
of the deceased were brought into the room to get each a glass of
whiskey, as a token of respect. I observed also, that such as had not
seen any of Kelly’s relations until then, came up, and shaking
hands with them, said--“I’m sorry for your loss!” This expression of
condolence was uniform, and the usual reply was, “Thank you, Mat, or
Jim!” with a pluck of the skirt, accompanied by a significant nod, to
follow. They then got a due share of whiskey; and it was curious, after
they came out, their faces a little flushed, and their eyes watery with
the strong, ardent spirits, to hear with what heartiness and alacrity
they entered into Denis’s praises.

When he had been keened in the street, there being no hoarse, the coffin
was placed upon two handspikes, which were fixed across, but parallel
to each other under it. These were borne by four men, one at the end of
each, with the point of it crossing his body a little below his stomach;
in other parts of Ireland, the coffin is borne upon a bier on the
shoulders, but this is more convenient and less distressing.

When we got out upon the road, the funeral was of great extent--for
Kelly had been highly respected. On arriving at the merin which bounded
the land he had owned, the coffin was laid down, and a loud and wailing
keene took place over it. It was again raised, and the funeral proceeded
in a direction which I was surprised to see it take, and it was not
until an acquaintance of my brother’s had explained the matter that I
understood the cause of it. In Ireland when a murder is perpetrated, it
is sometimes usual, as the funeral proceeds to the grave-yard, to bring
the corpse to the house of him who committed the crime, and lay it down
at his door, while the relations of the deceased kneel down, and, with
an appaling solemnity, utter the deepest, imprecations, and invoke
the justice of heaven on the head of the murderer. This, however, is
generally omitted if the residence of the criminal be completely out
of the line of the funeral, but if it be possible, by any circuit, to
approach it, this dark ceremony is never omitted. In cases where the
crime is doubtful, or unjustly imputed, those who are thus visited
come out, and laying their right hand upon the coffin, protest their
innocence of the blood of the deceased, calling God to witness the truth
of their asseverations; but, in cases where the crime is clearly proved
against the murderer, the door is either closed, the ceremony repelled
by violence, or the house abandoned by the inmates until the funeral
passes.*

     * Many of these striking and startling old customs have
     nearly disappeared, and indeed it is better that they
     should.

The death of Kelly, however, could not be actually, or, at least,
directly considered a murder, for it was probable that Grimes did
not inflict the stroke with an intention to take away his life, and,
besides, Kelly survived it four months. Grimes’s house was not more
than fifteen perches from the road: and when the corpse was opposite the
little bridleway that led up to it, they laid it down for a moment, and
the relations of Kelly surrounded it, offering up a short prayer, with
uncovered heads. It was then borne toward the house, whilst the keening
commenced in a loud and wailing cry, accompanied with clapping of hands,
and every other symptom of external sorrow. But, independent of their
compliance with this ceremony, as an old usage, there is little doubt
that the appearance of anything connected with the man who certainly
occasioned Kelly’s death, awoke a keener and more intense sorrow for his
loss. The wailing was thus continued until the coffin was laid opposite
Ghimes’s door; nor did it cease then, but, on the contrary, was renewed
with louder and more bitter lamentations.

As the multitude stood compassionating the affliction of the widow and
orphans, it was the most impressive and solemn spectacle that could be
witnessed. The very house seemed to have a condemned look; and, as a
single wintry breeze waved a tuft of long grass that grew on a seat
of turf at the side of the door, it brought the vanity of human enmity
before my mind with melancholy force. When the keening ceased, Kelly’s
wife, with her children, knelt, their faces towards the house of their
enemy, and invoked, in the strong language of excited passion, the
justice of heaven upon the head of the man who had left her a widow, and
her children fatherless. I was anxious to know if Grimes would appear
to disclaim the intention of murder; but I understood that he was at
market--for it happened to be market-day.

“Come out!” said the widow--“come out, and look at the sight that’s
here before you! Come and view your own work! Lay but your hand upon the
coffin, and the blood of him you murdhered will spout, before God and
these Christian people, in your guilty face! But, oh! may the Almighty
God bring this home to you!--May you never lave this life, John Grimes,
till worse nor has overtaken me and mine fall upon you and yours! May
our curse light upon you this day!--the curse, I say, of the widow and
the orphans, that your bloody hand has made us, may it blast you! May
you, and all belonging to you wither off of the ‘airth! Night and day,
sleeping and waking--like snow off the ditch, may you melt, until your
name and your place be disremimbered, except to be cursed by them
that will hear of you and your hand of murdher! Amin, we pray God this
day!--and the widow and orphans’ prayer will not fall to the ground
while your guilty head is above it! Childhre, do you all say it?”

At this moment a deep, terrific murmur, or rather ejaculation,
corroborative of assent to this dreadful imprecation, pervaded the crowd
in a fearful manner; their countenances darkened, their eyes gleamed,
and their scowling visages stiffened into an expression of determined
vengeance.

When these awful words were uttered, Grimes’s wife and daughters
approached the window in tears, sobbing, at the same time, loudly and
bitterly.

“You’re wrong,” said the wife--“you’re wrong, Widow Kelly, in saying
that my husband murdhered him:--he did not murdher him; for when you
and yours were far from him, I heard John Grimes declare before the God
who’s to judge him, that he had no thought or intention of taking his
life; he struck him in anger, and the blow did him an injury that was
not intended. Don’t curse him, Honor Kelly,” said she, “don’t curse him
so fearfully; but, above all, don’t curse me and my innocent childher,
for we never harmed you, nor wished you ill! But it was this party
work did it! Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands in utter
bitterness of spirit, “when will it be ended between friends and
neighbors, that ought to live in love and kindness together instead of
fighting in this bloodthirsty manner!”

She then wept more violently, as did her daughters.

“May God give me mercy in the last day, Mrs. Kelly, as I pity from my
heart and soul you and your orphans,” she continued; “but don’t curse
us, for the love of God--for you know we should forgive our enemies, as
we ourselves, that are the enemies of God, hope to be forgiven.”

“May God forgive me, then, if I have wronged you or your husband,” said
the widow, softened by their distress; “but you know, that whether he
intended his life or not, the stroke he gave him has left my childher
without a father, and myself dissolate. Oh, heavens above me!” she
exclaimed, in a scream of distraction and despair, “is it possible--is
it thrue--that my manly husband--the best father that ever breathed the
breath of life--my own Denis, is lying dead--murdhered before my eyes?
Put your hands on my head, some of you--put your hands on my head, or
it will go to pieces. Where are you, Denis--where are you, the strong
of hand, and the tender of heart? Come to me, darling, I want you in
my distress. I want comfort, Denis; and I’ll take it from none but
yourself, for kind was your word to me in all my afflictions!”

All present were affected; and, indeed, it was difficult to say, whether
Kelly’s wife or Grimes’s was more to be pitied at the moment. The
affliction of the latter and of her daughters was really pitiable; their
sobs were loud, and the tears streamed down their cheeks like rain. When
the widow’s exclamations had ceased, or rather were lost in the loud
cry of sorrow which were uttered by the keeners and friends of the
deceased--they, too, standing somewhat apart from the rest, joined in it
bitterly; and the solitary wail of Mrs. Grimes, differing in character
from that of those who had been trained to modulate the most profound
grief into strains of a melancholy nature, was particularly wild
and impressive. At all events, her Christian demeanor, joined to the
sincerity of her grief, appeased the enmity of many; so true is it that
a soft answer turneth away wrath. I could perceive, however, that the
resentment of Kelly’s male relations did not appear to be in any degree
moderated.

The funeral again proceeded, and I remarked that whenever a strange
passenger happened to meet it, he always turned back, and accompanied
it for a short distance, after which he resumed his journey, it being
considered unlucky to omit this visage on meeting a funeral. Denis’s
residence was not more than two miles from the churchyard, which was
situated in the town where he had received the fatal blow. As soon as we
had got on about the half of this way, the priest of the parish met
us, and the funeral, after proceeding a few perches more, turned into a
green field, in the corner of which stood a table with the apparatus for
saying mass spread upon it.

The coffin was then laid down once more, immediately before this
temporary altar; and the priest, after having robed himself, the wrong
or the sable side of the vestments out, as is usual in the case of
death, began to celebrate mass for the dead, the congregation all
kneeling. When this was finished, the friends of the deceased approached
the altar, and after some private conversation, the priest turned round,
and inquired aloud--

“Who will give Offerings?”

The people were acquainted with the manner in which this matter is
conducted, and accordingly knew what to do. When the priest put the
question, Denis’s brother, who Was a wealthy man, came forward, and laid
down two guineas on the altar; the priest took this up, and putting it
on a plate, set out among the multitude, accompanied by two or three of
those who were best acquainted with the inhabitants of the parish. He
thus continued putting the question, distinctly, after each man had
paid; and according as the money was laid down, those who accompanied
the priest pronounced the name of the person who gave it, so that all
present might hear it. This is also done to enable the friends of the
deceased to know not only those who show them this mark of respect,
but those who neglect it, in order that they may treat them in the same
manner on similar occasions. The amount of money so received is very
great; for there is a kind of emulation among the people, as to who will
act with most decency and spirit, that is exceedingly beneficial to
the priest. In such instances the difference of religion is judiciously
overlooked; for although the prayers of Protestants are declined on
those occasions, yet it seems the same objection does not hold good
against their money, and accordingly they pay as well as the rest. When
the priest came round to where I stood, he shook hands with my brother,
with whom he appeared to be on very friendly and familiar terms; he and
I were then introduced to each other.

“Come,” said he, with a very droll expression of countenance, shaking
the plate at the same time up near my brother’s nose,--“Come, Mr.
D’Arcy, down with your offerings, if you wish to have a friend with St.
Peter when you go as far as the gates; down with your money, sir, and
you shall be remembered, depend upon it.”

“Ah,” said my brother, pulling out a guinea, “I would with the greatest
pleasure; but I fear this guinea is not orthodox. I’m afraid it has a
heretical mark upon it.”

“In that case,” replied his Reverence laughing heartily, “your only plan
is to return it to the bosom of the church, by laying it on the plate
here--it will then be within the pale, you know.”

This reply produced a great deal of good-humor among that part of the
crowd which immediately surrounded them--not excepting his nearest
relations, who laughed heartily--

“Well,” said my brother, as he laid it on the plate, “how many prayers
will you offer up in my favor for this?”

“Leave that to myself,” said his Reverence, looking at the money; “it
will be before you, I say, when you go to St. Peter.”

He then held the plate over to me in a droll manner; and I added another
guinea to my brother’s gift; for which I had the satisfaction of having
my name called out so loud, that it might be heard a quarter of a mile
off.

“God bless you, sir,” said the priest, “and I thank you.”

“John,” said I, when he left us, “I think that is a pleasant and rather
a sensible man?”

“He’s as jovial a soul,” replied my brother, “as ever gave birth to a
jest, and he sings a right good song. Many a convivial hour have he and
I spent together; and a more hospitable man besides, never yet existed.
Although firmly attached to his own religion, he is no bigot; but, on
the contrary, an excellent, liberal, and benevolent man.”

When the offerings were all collected, he returned to the altar,
repeated a few additional prayers in prime style--as rapid as lightning;
and after hastily shaking the holy water on the crowd, the funeral
moved oh. It was now two o’clock, the day clear and frosty, and the sun
unusually bright for the season. During mass, many were added to those
who formed the funeral train at the outset; so that, when we got out
upon the road, the procession appeared very large. After this, few or
none joined it; for it is esteemed by no means “dacent” to do so after
mass, because, in that case, the matter is ascribed to an evasion of the
offerings; but those whose delay has not really been occasioned by this
motive, make it a point to pay them at the grave-yard, or after the
interment, and sometimes even on the following day--so jealous are
the peasantry of having any degrading suspicion attached to their
generosity.

The order of the funeral now was as follows:--Foremost the women--next
to them the corpse, surrounded by the relations--the eldest son, in deep
affliction, “led the coffin,” as chief mourner, holding in his hand the
corner of a sheet or piece of linen, fastened to the mort-cloth, called
moor-cloth. After the coffin came those who were on foot, and in the
rear were the equestrians. When we were a quarter of a mile from the
churchyard, the funeral was met by a dozen of singing-boys, belonging to
a chapel choir, which the priest, who was fond of music, had some time
before formed. They fell in, two by two, immediately behind the corpse,
and commenced singing the Requiem, or Latin hymn for the dead.

The scene through which we passed at this time, though not clothed with
the verdure and luxuriant beauty of summer, was, nevertheless, marked
by that solemn and decaying splendor which characterizes a fine
country, lit up by the melancholy light of a winter setting sun. It was,
therefore, much more in character with the occasion. Indeed--I felt it
altogether beautiful; and, as the “dying day-hymn stole aloft,” the
dim sunbeams fell, through a vista of naked, motionless trees, upon
the coffin, which was borne with a slower and more funereal pace than
before, in a manner that threw a solemn and visionary light upon the
whole procession, this, however, was raised to something dreadfully
impressive, when the long train, thus proceeding with a motion so
mournful, as seen, each, or at least the majority of them, covered
with a profusion of crimson ribbons, to indicate that the corpse they
bore--owed, his death to a deed of murder. The circumstance of the sun
glancing his rays upon the coffin was not unobserved by the peasantry,
who considered it as a good omen to the spirit of the departed.

As we went up the street which had been the scene of the quarrel that
proved so fatal to Kelly, the coffin was again laid down on the spot
where he received his death-blow; and, as was usual, the wild and
melancholy keene was raised. My brother saw many of Grimes’s friends
among the spectators, but he himself was not visible. Whether Kelly’s
party saw then or not, we could not say; if they did, they seemed not to
notice them, for no expression of revenge or indignation escaped them.

At length we entered the last receptacle of the dead. The coffin was now
placed upon the shoulders of the son and brothers of the deceased, and
borne round the church-yard; whilst the priest, with his stole upon him,
preceded it, reading prayers for the eternal repose of the soul. Being
then laid beside the grave, a “De profundis” was repeated by the priest
and the mass-server; after which a portion of fresh clay, carried from
the fields, was brought to his Reverence, who read a prayer over it,
and consecrated it. This is a ceremony which is never omitted at the
interment of a Roman Catholic. When it was over, the coffin was laid
into the grave, and the blessed clay shaken over it. The priest now
took the shovel in his own hands, and threw in the three first
shovelfuls--one in the name of the Father, one in the name of the Son,
and one in the name of the Holy Ghost. The sexton then took it, and in a
short time Denis Kelly was fixed for ever in his narrow bed.

While these ceremonies were going forward, the churchyard presented a
characteristic picture. Beside the usual groups who straggle through the
place, to amuse themselves by reading the inscriptions on the tombs,
you might see many individuals kneeling on particular graves, where
some relation lay--for the benefit of whose soul they offered up their
prayers with an attachment and devotion which one cannot but admire.
Sometimes all the surviving members of the family would assemble, and
repeat a Rosary for the same purpose. Again, you might see an unhappy
woman beside a newly-made grave, giving way to lamentation and sorrow
for the loss of a husband, or of some beloved child. Here, you might
observe the “last bed” ornamented with hoops, decked in white paper,
emblematic of the virgin innocence of the individual who slept
below;--there, a little board-cross informing you that “this monument
was erected by a disconsolate husband to the memory of his beloved
wife.” But that which excited greatest curiosity was a sycamore-tree,
which grow in the middle of the burying-ground.

It is necessary to inform the reader, that in Ireland many of the
church-yards are exclusively appropriated to the interment of Roman
Catholics, and, consequently, the corpse of no one who had been a
Protestant would be permitted to pollute or desecrate them. This was
one of them: but it appears that by some means or other, the body of a
Protestant had been interred in it--and hear the consequence! The next
morning heaven marked its disapprobation of this awful visitation by a
miracle; for, ere the sun rose from the east, a full-grown sycamore
had shot up out of the heretical grave, and stands there to this day,
a monument at once of the profanation and its consequence. Crowds wore
looking at this tree, feeling a kind of awe, mingled with wonder, at
the deed which drew down such a visible and lasting mark of God’s
displeasure. On the tombstones near Kelly’s grave, men and women were
seated, smoking tobacco to their very heart’s content; for, with that
profusion which characterizes the Irish in everything, they had brought
out large quantities of tobacco, whiskey, and bunches of pipes. On such
occasions it is the custom for those who attend the wake or the funeral
to bring a full pipe home with them; and it is expected that, as often
as it is used, they will remember to say “God be merciful to the soul of
him that this pipe was over.”

The crowd, however, now began to disperse; and the immediate friends of
the deceased sent the priest, accompanied by Kelly’s brother, to request
that we would come in, as the last mark of respect to poor Denis’s
memory, and take a glass of wine and a cake.

“Come, Toby,” said my brother, “we may as well go in, as it will gratify
them; we need not make much delay, and we will still be at home in
sufficient time for dinner.”

“Certainly you will,” said the Priest; “for you shall both come and dine
with me to-day.”

“With all my heart,” said my brother; “I have no objection, for I know
you give it good.”

When we went in, the punch was already reeking from immense white jugs,
that couldn’t hold less than a gallon each.

“Now,” said his Reverence, very properly, ‘you have had a decent and
creditable funeral, and have managed every thing with great propriety;
let me request, therefore, that you will not get drunk, nor permit
yourselves to enter into any disputes or quarrels; but be moderate in
what you take, and go home peaceably.”

“Why, thin, your Reverence,” replied the widow, “he’s now in his grave,
and, thank God, it’s he that had the dacent funeral all out--ten good
gallons did we put over you, asthore, and it’s yourself that liked the
dacent thing, any how--but sure, sir, it would shame him where he’s
lyin’, if we disregarded him so far as to go home widout bringing in our
friends, that didn’t desart us in our throuble, an’ thratin’ them for
their kindness.”

While Kelly’s brother was filling out all their glasses, the priest, my
brother, and I, were taking a little refreshment. When the glasses were
filled, the deceased’s brother raised his in his hand, and said,--

“Well, gintlemen,” addressing us, “I hope you’ll pardon me for not
dhrinking your healths first; but people, you know, can’t break through
an ould custom, at any rate--so I give poor Denis’s health that’s in his
warm grave, and God be merciful to his sowl.”

The priest now winked at me to give them their own way; so we filled our
glasses, and joined the rest in drinking “Poor Denis’s health, that’s
now in his warm grave, and God be merciful to his soul.”

When this was finished, they then drank ours, and thanked us for our
kindness in attending the funeral. It was now past five o’clock; and we
left them just setting into a hard bout of drinking, and rode down to
his Reverence’s residence.

“I saw you smile,” said he, on our way, “at the blundering toast of Mat
Kelly; but it would be labor in vain to attempt setting them right. What
do they know about the distinctions of more refined life? Besides, I
maintain, that what they said was as well calculated to express their
affection, as if they had drunk honest Denis’s memory. It is, at least,
unsophisticated. But did you hear,” said he, “of the apparition that was
seen last night, on the mountain road above Denis’s?”

“I did not hear of it,” I replied, equivocating a little.

“Why,” said he, “it is currently reported that the spirit of a murdered
pedlar, which haunts the hollow of the road at Drumfurrar bridge, chased
away the two servant men as they were bringing home the coffin, and that
finding it a good fit, he got into it, and walked half a mile along the
road, with the wooden surtout upon him; and, finally, that to wind
up the frolic, he left it on one end half-way between the bridge and
Denis’s house, after putting a crowd of the countrymen to flight. I
suspect some droll knave has played them a trick. I assure you, that a
deputation of them, who declared that they saw the coffin move along of
itself, waited upon me this morning, to know whether they ought to have
put him into the coffin, or gotten another.”

“Well,” said my brother, in reply to him, “after dinner we will probably
throw some light upon that circumstance; for I believe my brother here
knows something about it.”

“So, sir,” said the priest, “I perceive you have been amusing yourself
at their expense.”

I seldom spent a pleasanter evening than, I did with Father Miloy (so
he was called), who was, as my brother said, a shrewd, sensible man,
possessed of convivial powers of the first order. He sang us several
good songs; and, to do him justice, he had an excellent voice. He
regretted very much the state of party and religious feeling, which he
did every thing in his power to suppress. “But,” said he, “I have little
co-operation in my efforts to communicate knowledge to my flock, and
implant better feelings among them. You must know,” he added, “that I
am no great favorite with them. On being appointed to this parish by my
bishop, I found that the young man who was curate to my predecessor had
formed a party against me, thinking, by that means, eventually to get
the parish himself. Accordingly, on coming here, I found the chapel
doors closed on me: so that a single individual among them would not
recognize me as their proper pastor. By firmness and spirit, however, I
at length succeeded, after a long struggle against the influence of
the curate, in gaining admission to the altar; and, by a proper
representation of his conduct to the bishop, I soon made my gentleman
knock under. Although beginning to gain ground in the good opinion of
the people, I am by no means yet a favorite. This curate and I scarcely
speak; but I hope that in the course of time, both he and they will
begin to find, that by kindness and a sincere love for their welfare on
my part, good-will and affection will ultimately be established among
us. At least, there shall be nothing left undone, so far as I am
concerned, to effect it.”

It was now near nine o’clock, and my brother was beginning to relate an
anecdote concerning the clergyman who had preceded Father Molloy in the
parish, when a messenger from Mr. Wilson, already alluded to, came up in
breathless haste, requesting the priest, for God’s sake, to go down into
town instantly, as the Kellys and the Grimeses were engaged in a fresh
quarrel.

“My God!” he exclaimed--“when will this work have an end? But, to tell
you the truth, gentlemen, I apprehended it; and I fear that something
still more fatal to the parties will yet be the consequence. Mr. D’Arcy,
you must try what you can do with the Grimeses, and I will manage the
Kellys.”

We then proceeded to the town, which was but a very short distance from
the Priest’s house; and, on arriving, found a large crowd before the
door of the house in which the Kellys had been drinking, engaged in hard
conflict. The priest was on foot, and had brought his whip with him, it
being an argument, in the hands of a Roman Catholic pastor, which tells
so home that it is seldom gainsaid. Mr. Molloy and my brother now dashed
in amongst them: and by remonstrance, abuse, blows, and entreaty, they
with difficulty succeeded in terminating the fight. They were also
assisted by Mr. Wilson and other persons, who dared not, until their
appearance, run the risk of interfering between them. Wilson’s servant,
who had come for the priest, was still standing beside me, looking on;
and, while my brother and Mr. Molloy were separating the parties, I
asked him how the fray commenced.

“Why, sir,” said he, “it bein’ market-day, the Grimeses chanced to be
in town, and this came to the ears of the Kellys, who were drinking in
Cassidy’s here, till they got tipsy; some of them then broke out,
and began to go up and down the street, shouting for the face of
a murdhering Grimes. The Grimeses, sir, happened at the time to be
drinking with a parcel of their friends in Joe Sherlock’s, and hearing
the Kellys calling out for them, why, as the dhrop, sir, was in on both
sides, they were soon at it. Grimes has given one of the Kelly’s a great
bating; but Tom Grogan, Kelly’s cousin, a little before we came down,
I’m tould, has knocked the seven senses out of him, with the pelt of a
brick-bat in the stomach.”

Soon after this, however, the quarrel was got under; and, in order to
prevent any more bloodshed that night, my brother and I got the Kellys
together, and brought them as far as our residence, on their way home.
As they went along, they uttered awful vows, and determinations of the
deepest revenge, swearing repeatedly that they would shoot Grimes from
behind a ditch, if they could not in any other manner have his blood.
They seemed highly intoxicated; and several of them were cut and abused
in a dreadful manner; even the women were in such a state of excitement
and alarm, that grief for the deceased was, in many instances,
forgotten. Several of both sexes were singing; some laughing with
triumph at the punishment they had inflicted on the enemy; others of
them, softened by what they had drunk, were weeping in tones of sorrow
that might be heard a couple of miles off. Among the latter were many
of the men, some of whom, as they staggered along, with their frieze
big coats hanging off one shoulder, clapped their hands, and roared
like bulls, as if they intended, by the loudness of their grief then, to
compensate for their silence when sober. It was also quite ludicrous to
see the men kissing each other, sometimes in this maudlin sorrow, and at
others when exalted into the very madness of mirth. Such as had been
cut in the scuffle, on finding the blood trickle down their faces, would
wipe it off--then look at it, and break out into a parenthetical volley
of curses against the Grimeses; after which, they would resume their
grief, hug each other in mutual sorrow, and clap their hands as before.
In short, such a group could be seen nowhere but in Ireland.

When my brother and I had separated from them, I asked him what had
become of Vengeance, and if he were still in the country.

“No,” said he; “with all his courage and watchfulness, he found that
his life was not safe; he, accordingly, sold off his property, and
collecting all his ready cash, emigrated to America, where, I hear, he
is doing well.”

“God knows,” I replied, “I shouldn’t be surprised if one-half of the
population were to follow his example, for the state of society here,
among the lower orders, is truly deplorable.”

“Ay, but you are to consider now,” he replied, “that you have been
looking at the worst of it. If you pass an unfavorable opinion upon
our countrymen when in the public house or the quarrel, you ought to
remember what they are under their own roofs, and in all the relations
of private life.”


The “Party Fight,” described in the foregoing sketch, is unhappily no
fiction, and it is certain that there are thousands still alive who
have good reason to remember it. Such a fight, or I should rather say
battle--for such in fact it was--did not take place in a state of civil
society, if I can say so, within the last half century in this country.
The preparations for it were secretly being made for two or three months
previous to its occurrence, and however it came to light, it so happened
that each party became cognizant of the designs of the other. This
tremendous conflict, of which I was an eye-witness,--being then but
about twelve years of age--took place in the town, or rather city, of
Clogher, in my native county of Tyrone. The reader may form an opinion
of the bitterness and ferocity with which it was fought on both
sides when he is informed that the Orangemen on the one side, and the
Ribbonmen on the other, had called in aid from the surrounding counties
of Monaghan, Cavan, Fermanagh, and Derry; and, if I mistake not, also
from Louth. In numbers, the belligerents could not have been less than
from four to five thousand men. The fair day on which it occurred is
known simply as “the Day of the great Fight.”



THE LOUGH DERG PILGRIM.


In describing the habits, superstitions, and feelings of the Irish
people, it would be impossible to overlook a place which occupies
so prominent a position in their religious usages as the celebrated
Purgatory of St. Patrick, situated in a lake that lies among the bleak
and desolate looking mountains of Donegal.

It may also be necessary to state to the reader, that the following
sketch, though appearing in this place, was the first production from my
pen which ever came before the public. The occasion of its being written
was this:--I had been asked to breakfast by the late Rev. Caesar Otway,
some time I think in the winter of 1829. About that time, or a little
before, he had brought out his admirable work called, “Sketches in
Ireland, descriptive of interesting portions of Donegal, Cork, and
Kerry.” Among the remarkable localities of Donegal, of course it was
natural to suppose, that “_Lough Derg_,” or the celebrated “_Purgatory
of St. Patrick_,” would not be omitted. Neither was it; and nothing
can exceed the accuracy and truthful vigor with which he describes its
situation and appearance. In the course of conversation, however, I
discovered that he had never been present during the season of making
the Pilgrimages, and was consequently ignorant of the religious
ceremonies which take place in it. In consequence, I gave him a pretty
full and accurate account I of them, and of the Station which I myself
had made there. After I had concluded, he requested me to put what I had
told him upon paper, adding, “I will dress it up and have it inserted in
the next edition.”

I accordingly went home, and on the fourth evening afterwards brought
him the Sketch of the Lough Derg Pilgrim as it now appears, with the
exception of some offensive passages which are expunged in this edition.
Such was my first introduction to literary life.

And here I cannot omit paying my sincere tribute of grateful
recollection to a man from whom I have received so many acts of the
warmest kindness. To me he was a true friend in every sense of the word.
In my early trials his purse and his advice often supported, soothed,
and improved me. In a literary point of view I am under the deepest
obligations to his excellent judgment and good taste. Indeed were it
not for him, I never could have struggled my way through the severe
difficulties with which in my early career I was beset.

     “Green be the turf above thee,
     Friend of my early days;
     None knew thee but to love thee,
     Or named thee but to praise.”

But to my theme, which will be better understood, as will my description
of the wild rites performed on the shores of its most celebrated island,
by the following extracts, taken from this able and most vivid describer
of Irish scenery:

“The road from the village of Petigo leading towards Lough Derg, runs
along a river tumbling over rocks; and then after proceeding for a time
over a boggy valley, you ascend into a dreary and mountainous tract,
extremely ugly in itself, but from which you have a fine view indeed
of the greatest part of the lower lake of Lough Erne, with its
many elevated islands, and all its hilly shores, green, wooded,
and cultivated, with the interspersed houses of its gentry, and
the comfortable cottages of its yeomanry--the finest yeomanry in
Ireland--men living in comparative comfort, and having in their figures
and bearing that elevation of character which a sense of loyalty and
independence confers. I had at length, after traveling about three
miles, arrived where the road was discontinued, and by the direction of
my guide, ascended a mountain-path that brought me through a wretched
village, and led to the top of a hill. Here my boy left me, and went
to look for the man who was to ferry us to Purgatory, and on the ridge
where I stood I had leisure to look around. To the south-west lay Lough
Erne, with all its isles and cultivated shores; to the north-west lay
Lough Derg, and truly never did I mark such a contrast. Lough Derg under
my feet--the lake, the shores, the mountains, the accompaniments of all
sorts presented the very landscape of desolation; its waters expanding
in their highland solitude, amidst a wide waste of moors, without one
green spot to refresh the eye, without a house or tree--all mournful in
the brown hue of its far-stretching bogs, and the gray uniformity of its
rocks; the surrounding mountains even partook of the sombre character
of the place; their forms without grandeur, their ranges continuous and
without elevation. The lake itself was certainly as fine as rocky shores
and numerous islands could make it: but it was encompassed with such
dreariness; it was deformed so much by its purgatorial island; the
associations connected with it were of such a degrading character,
that really the whole prospect before me struck my mind with a sense of
painfulness, and I said to myself, ‘I am already in Purgatory.’ A person
who has never seen the picture that was now under my eye, who had read
of a place consecrated by the devotion of ages, towards which the tide
of human superstition had flowed for twelve centuries, might imagine
that St. Patrick’s Purgatory, secluded in its sacred island, would have
all the venerable and gothic accompaniments of olden time; and its ivied
towers and belfried steeples, its carved windows, and cloistered arches,
its long dark aisles and fretted vaults would have risen out of the
water, rivalling Iona or Lindisfarn; but nothing of the sort was to be
seen. The island, about half a mile from the shore, presented nothing
but a collection of hideous slated houses and cabins, which gave you
an idea that they were rather erected for the purpose of tollhouses or
police-stations than any thing else.

“I was certainly in an interesting position. I looked southerly towards
Lough Erne, with the Protestant city of Enniskillen rising amidst its
waters, like the island queen of all the loyalty, and industry, and
reasonable worship that have made her sons the admiration of past
and present time; and before me, to the north, Lough Derg, with its
far-famed isle, reposing there as the monstrous birth of a dreary and
degraded superstition, the enemy of mental cultivation, and destined to
keep the human understanding in the same dark unproductive state as the
moorland waste that lay outstretched around. I was soon joined by my
guide and by two men carrying oars, with whom I descended from the ridge
on which I was perched, towards the shores of the lake, where there
was a sort of boat, or rather toll-house, at which the pilgrims paid a
certain sum before they were permitted to embark for the island. In a
few minutes we were afloat; and while sitting in the boat I had time to
observe my ferrymen: one was a stupid countryman, who did not speak;
the other was an old man with a Woollen night-cap under his hat, a
brown snuff-colored coat, a nose begrimed with snuff, a small gray eye
enveloped amidst wrinkles that spread towards his temples in the form of
birds’ claws, and gave to his countenance a sort of leering cunning
that was extremely disagreeable. I found he was the clerk of the island
chapel; that he was a sort of master of the ceremonies in purgatory, and
guardian and keeper of it when the station time was over and priests and
pilgrims had deserted it. I could plainly perceive that he had smoked me
out as a Protestant, that he was on his guard against me as a spy,
and that his determination was to get as much and to give as little
information as he could; in fact, he seemed to have the desire to obtain
the small sum he expected from me with as little exposure of his cause,
and as little explanation of the practices of his craft as possible.
The man informed me that the station time was over about a month, and he
confirmed my guide’s remark that the Pope’s jubilee had much diminished
the resort of pilgrims during the present season. He informed me also
that the whole district around the lough, together with all its islands,
belonged to Colonel L------, a relation of the Duke of Wellington; and
that this gentleman, as landlord, had leased the ferry of the island to
certain persons who had contracted to pay him L260 a year; and to make
up this sum, and obtain a suitable income for themselves, the ferrymen
charged each pilgrim five pence. Therefore, supposing that the
contractors make cent, per cent, by their contract, which it may be
supposed they do, the number of pilgrims to this island may be estimated
at 13,000; and, as my little guide afterwards told me (although the
cunning old clerk took care to avoid it), that each pilgrim paid the
priest from 1s. 8d. to 2s. 6d., therefore we may suppose that the profit
to the prior of Lough Derg and his priests was no small sum.

“In a short time I arrived at the island, and as stepping out of the
boat I planted my foot on the rocks of this scene of human absurdity,
I felt ashamed for human nature, and looked on myself as one of the
millions of fools that have, century after century, degraded their
understandings by coming hither. The island I found to be of an oval
shape.

“The buildings on it consisted of a slated house for the priests, two
chapels, and a long range of cabins on the rocky surface of the island,
which may contain about half an acre; there were also certain round
walls about two feet high, enclosing broken stone and wooden crosses;
these were called saints’ beds, and around these circles, on the sharp
and stony rocks, the pilgrims go on their naked knees. Altogether I
may briefly sum up my view of this place, and say that it was filthy,
dreary, and altogether detestable--it was a positive waste of time to
visit it, and I hope I shall never behold it again.” *

     * Fire at Lough Derg.--On the 15th Aug 1842, the
     station at this celebrated place was brought to a
     conclusion; but in the course of the night it was
     discovered that some of the houses were on fire, and
     four dwellings which, we believe, were recently
     erected, were altogether consumed. The people of the
     neighboring country directed their efforts chiefly to
     the preservation of the prior’s house, which adjoined
     those in flames, and by pouring a continued supply of
     water against its windows, succeeded in saving it. The
     night being calm, and the wind in a favorable
     direction, the injury sustained was less than must have
     existed under different circumstances. The houses burnt
     were occupied as lodgings for pilgrims when on station.

The following is extracted from Bishop Henry Jones’s account, published
in 1647:

“The island called St. Patrick’s Purgatory is altogether rocky, and
rather level; within the compass of the island, in the water towards
the north-east, about two yards from the shore, stand certain rocks, the
least of which, and next the shore, is the one St. Patrick knelt on for
the third part of the night in prayer, he did another third in his cell,
which is called his bed, and another third in the cave or purgatory; in
this stone there is a cleft or print, said to be made by St. Patrick’s
knees; the other stone is much greater and further off in the lake,
and covered with water, called Lachavanny: this is esteemed of singular
virtue; standing thereon healeth pilgrims’ feet, bleeding as they are
with cuts and bruises got in going barefoot round the blessed beds.

“The entrance into the island is narrow and rocky; these rocks they
report to be the guts of a great serpent metamorphosed into stones.
When Mr. Copinger, a gentleman drawn thither by the fame of the place,
visited it, there was a church covered with shingles dedicated to St.
Patrick, and it was thus furnished: at the east end was a high altar
covered with linen, over which did hang the image of our Lady with our
Saviour in her arms; on the right did hang the picture of the three
kings offering their presents to our Saviour; and on the left the
picture of our Saviour on the cross; near the altar, and on the south
side, did stand on the ground an old worm-eaten image of St. Patrick;
and behind the altar was another of the same fabric, but still older
in appearance, called. St Arioge; and on the right hand another image
called St. Volusianus.

“Between the church and the cave there is a small rising ground, and on
a heap of stones lay a little stone cross, part broken, part standing;
and. in the east of the church was another cross made of twigs
interwoven: ‘this is known by the name of St. Patrick’s altar, on which
lie three pieces of a bell, which they say St. Patrick used to carry
in, his hand. Here also was laid a certain knotty bone of some bigness,
hollow in the midst like the nave of a wheel, and out of which issue,
as it were, natural spokes: this was: shown as a great rarity, being
part of a great, serpent’s tail--one of those monsters the blessed
Patrick expelled out of Ireland.

“Towards the narrowest part of the island were six circles--some call
them saints’ beds, or beds of penance. Pilgrims are continually praying
and kneeling about these beds; and they are compassed around with
sharp stones and difficult passages for the accommodation of such as go
barefooted.

“In the farthest part northward of the island, are certain beds of stone
cast together; as memorials for some that are elsewhere; buried; but
who trust to the prayers and merits of those who daily resort to this
Purgatory. Lastly, in this island are several Irish cabins covered with
thatch, and another for shriving or confession; and there are: separate
places assigned for those who come from the four provinces of Ireland.

“In all, the pilgrims remain on the island nine days; they eat but once
in the twenty-four hours, of oatmeal and water. They have liberty to
refresh themselves with the water of the lake, which, as Roth says, ‘is
of such virtue, that though thou shouldst fill thyself with it, yet
will it not offend; but is as if it flowed from some mineral.’

“The pilgrims at night lodge or lie on straw, without pillow or pallet,
rolling themselves in their mantles, and wrapping their heads in their
breeches; only on some one of the eight nights they must lie on one of
the saints’ beds, whichever they like.”

          *     *     *     *     *

I was, at the time of performing this station, in the middle of
my nineteenth year--of quick perception--warm imagination--a mind
peculiarly romantic--a morbid turn for devotion, and a candidate for the
priesthood, having been made slightly acquainted with Latin, and more
slightly still with Greek.

At this period, however, all my faculties merged like friendly streams
into the large current of my devotion. Of religion I was completely
ignorant, although I had sustained a very conspicuous part in the
devotions of the family, and signalized myself frequently; by taking
the lead in a rosary. I had often out-prayed and out-fasted an old
circulating pilgrim, who occasionally visited our family; a feat on
which few would have ventured; and I even arrived to such a pitch of
perfection at praying, that with the assistance of young and powerful
lungs, I was fully able to distance him at any English prayer in which
we joined. But in Latin, I must allow, that owing to my imperfect
knowledge of its pronunciation, and to some twitches of conscience I
felt on adventuring to imitate, him by overleaping this impediment, he
was able to throw me back a considerable distance in his turn; so that
when we both started for a _De Profundis_, I was always sure to come
in second. Owing to all this I was considered a young man of promise,
being, moreover, as my master often told my father, a youth of
prodigious parts and great cuteness. Indeed, on this subject my master’s
veracity could not be questioned; because when I first commenced Latin,
I was often heard repeating the prescribed tasks in my sleep. Many of
his relations had already, even upon the strength of my prospective
priesthood, begun to claim relationship with our family, and before I
was nineteen, I found myself godfather to a dozen godsons and as many
god-daughters; every one of whom I had with unusual condescension
taken under my patronage; and most of the boys were named after myself.
Finding that I was thus responsible for so much, in the opinion of my
friends, and having the aforesaid character of piety to sustain, I found
it indispensable to make the pilgrimage. Not that I considered myself a
sinner, or by any means bound to go from that motive, for although the
opinion of my friends, as to my talents and sanctity, was exceedingly
high, yet, I assure you, it cut but a very indifferent figure, when
compared with my own on both these subjects.

I very well remember that the first sly attempt I ever made at a miracle
was in reference to Lough Derg; I tried it by way of preparation for
my pilgrimage. I heard that there had been a boat lost there, about the
year 1796, and that a certain priest who was in her as a passenger, had
walked very calmly across the lake to the island, after the bout and the
rest of the passengers in her had all gone to the bottom. Now, I had,
from my childhood, a particular prejudice against sailing in a boat,
although Dick Darcy, a satirical and heathenish old bachelor, who never
went to Mass, used often to tell me, with a grin which I was never able
rightly to understand, that I might have no prejudice against sailing,
“because,” Dick would say, “take my word for it, you’ll never die by
drowning.” At all events, I thought to myself, that should any such
untoward accident occur to me, it would be no unpleasant circumstance
to imitate the priest; but that it would be infinitely more agreeable
to make the first experiment in a marl-pit, on my father’s farm, than
on the lake. Accordingly, after three days’ fasting, and praying for the
power of not sinking in the water, I slipped very quietly down to the
pit, and after reconnoitering the premises, to be sure there was no
looker-on, I approached the brink. At this moment my heart beat high
with emotion, my soul was wrapt up to a most enthusiastic pitch
of faith, and my whole spirit absorbed in feelings, where
hope--doubt--gleams of uncertainty--visions of future eminence--twitches
of fear--reflections on my expertness in swimming--on the success of the
water-walking priest afore-mentioned--and on the depth of the pond--had
all insisted on an equal share of attention. At the edge of the pit grew
large water-lilies, with their leaves spread over the surface; it is
singular to reflect upon what slight and ridiculous circumstances
the mind will seize, when wound up in this manner to a pitch of
superstitious absurdity. I am really ashamed, even whilst writing this,
of the confidence I put for a moment in a treacherous water-lily, as its
leaf lay spread so smoothly and broadly over the surface of the pond, as
if to lure my foot to the experiment. However, after having stimulated
myself by a fresh pater and ave, I advanced, my eyes turned up
enthusiastically to heaven--my hands resolutely clenched--my
teeth locked together--my nerves set--and my whole soul strong in
confidence--I advanced, I say, and lest I might give myself time to cool
from this divine glow, I made a tremendous stride, planting my right
foot exactly in the middle of the treacherous water-lily leaf, and
the next moment was up to the neck in water. Here was devotion cooled.
Happily I was able to bottom the pool, or could swim very well, if
necessary; so I had not much difficulty in getting out. As soon as I
found myself on the bank, I waited not to make reflections, but with a
rueful face set off at full speed for my father’s house, which was not
far distant; the water all the while whizzing out of nay clothes, by
the rapidity of the motion, as it does from a water-spaniel after having
been in that element. It is singular to think what a strong authority
vanity has over the principles and passions in the weakest and strongest
moments of both; I never was remarkable, at that open, ingenuous period
of my life, for secrecy; yet did I now take especial care not to invest
either this attempt at the miraculous, or its concomitant failure, with
anything like narration. It was, however, an act of devotion that had
a vile effect on my lungs, for it gave me a cough that was intolerable;
and I never felt the infirmities of humanity more than in this ludicrous
attempt to get beyond them; in which, by the way, I was nearer being
successful than I had intended, though in a different sense. This
happened a month before I started for Lough Derg.

It was about six o’clock of a delightful morning in the pleasant month
of July, when I set out upon my pilgrimage, with a single change of
linen in my pocket, and a pair of discarded shoes upon my bare feet;
for, in compliance with the general rule, I wore no stockings. The sun
looked down upon all nature with great good humor; everything smiled
around me; and as I passed for a few miles across an upland country
which stretched down from a chain of dark rugged mountains that lay
westward, I could not help feeling, although the feeling was indeed
checked--that the scene was exhilarating. The rough upland was in
several places diversified with green spots of cultivated land, with
some wood, consisting of an old venerable plantation of mountain pine,
that hung on the convex sweep of a large knoll away to my right,--with
a broad sheet of lake that curled to the fresh arrowy breeze of morning,
on which a variety of water-fowl were flapping their wings or skimming
along, leaving a troubled track on the peaceful waters behind them;
there were also deep intersections of precipitous or sloping glens,
graced with hazel, holly, and every description of copse-wood. On other
occasions I have drunk deeply of pleasure, when in the midst of this
scenery, bearing about me the young, free, and bounding spirit, its
first edge of enjoyment unblunted by the collision of base minds and
stony hearts, against which experience jostles us in maturer life.

The dew hung shining upon the leaves, and fell in pattering showers
from the trees, as a bird, alarmed at my approach, would spring from the
branch and leave it vibrating in the air behind her; the early challenge
of the cock grouse, and the _quick-go-quick_ of the quail, were
cheerfully uttered on all sides. The rapid martins twittered with
peculiar glee, or, in the light caprice of their mirth, placed
themselves for a moment upon the edge of a scaur, or earthly precipice,
in which their nests were built, and then shot up again to mingle with
the careering and joyful flock that cut the air in every direction.
Where is the heart which could not enjoy such a morning scene? Under any
other circumstances it would have enchanted me; but here, in fact,
that intensity of spirit which is necessary to the due contemplation of
beautiful prospects, was transferred to a gloomier object. I was under
the influence of a feeling quite new to me. It was not pleasure, nor was
it pain, but a chilliness of soul which proceeded from the gloomy and
severe task that I had undertaken--a task which, when I considered the
danger and the advantages annexed to its performance, was sufficient to
abstract me from every other object. It was really the first exercise
of that jealous spirit of mistaken devotion which keeps the soul in
perpetual sickness, and invests the innocent enjoyments of life with
a character of sin and severity. It was this gloomy feeling that could
alone have strangled in their birth those sensations which the wisdom
of God has given as a security in some degree against sin, by opening
to the heart of man sources of pleasure, for which the soul is not
compelled to barter away her innocence, as in those of a grosser nature.
I may be wrong in analyzing the sensation, but for the first time in my
life I felt anxious and unhappy; yet, according to my own opinions, I
should have been otherwise. I was startled at what I experienced, and
began to consider it as a secret intimation that I had chosen a wrong
time for my journey. I even felt as if it would not prosper--as if some
accident or misfortune would befall me ere my return. The boat might
sink, as in 1796: this was quite alarming. The miraculous experiment
on the pond here occurred to me with full force, and came before my
imagination in a new point of view. The drenching I got had a deep
and fearful meaning. It was ominous--it was prophetic,--and sent by a
merciful Providence to deter me from attending the pilgrimage at this
peculiar time--perhaps on this particular day: to-morrow the spell might
be broken, the danger past, and the difference of a single day could be
nothing. Just at this moment an unlucky hare, starting from an adjoining
thicket, scudded across my path, as if to fill up the measure of these
ominous predictions. I paused, and my foot was on the very turn to the
rightabout, when instantly a thought struck me which produced a reaction
in my imagination. Might not all this be the temptation of the devil,
suggested to prevent me from performing this blessed work? not the hare
itself be some------? In short, the counter-current carried me with
it. I had commenced my journey, and every one knows that when a man
commences a journey it is unlucky to turn back. On I went, but still
with a subdued and melancholy tone of feeling. If I met a cheerful
countryman, his mirth found no kindred spirit in me: on the contrary,
my taciturnity seemed to infect him; for, after several ineffectual’
attempts at conversation, he gradually became silent, or hummed a tune
to himself, and, on parting, bade me a short, doubtful kind of good day,
looking over his shoulder, as he departed, with a face of scrutiny and
surprise.

After getting five or six miles across the country, I came out on one
of these by-roads which run independently of all advantages of locality,
“up hill and down dale,” from one little obscure village to another.
These roads are generally paved with round broad stones, laid curiously
together in longitudinal rows like the buttons on a schoolboy’s jacket;
Owing to the infrequency of travellers on them, they are quite overgrown
with grass, except in one stripe along the middle, which is kept naked
by the hoofs of horses and the tread of foot passengers. There is some
tradition connected with these roads, or the manner of their formation,
which I do not remember.

At last I came out upon the main road; and you will be pleased to
imagine to yourself the figure of a tall, gaunt, gawkish young man,
dressed in a good suit of black cloth, with shirt and cravat like snow,
striding solemnly along, without shoe or stocking; for about this time I
was twelve miles from home, and blisters had already risen upon my feet,
in consequence of the dew having got into my shoes, which at the best
were enough to cut up any man; I had therefore to strip and carry my
shoes--one in my pocket, and another stuffed in my hat; being thus with
great reluctance compelled to travel barefoot: yet I soon turned even
this to account, when I reflected that it would enhance the merit of
my pilgrimage, and that every fresh blister would bring down a fresh
blessing. ‘Tis true I was nettled to the soul, on perceiving the face
of a laborer on the way-side, or of a traveller who met me, gradually
expanding into a broad sarcastic grin, as such an unaccountable figure
passed him. But these I soon began to suspect were Protestant grins;
for none but heretics would presume by any means to give me a sneer. The
Catholics taking me for a priest, were sure to doff their hats to me; or
if they wore none, as is not unfrequent when at labor, they would catch
their forelocks with their finger and thumb, and bob down their heads
in the act of veneration. This attention of my brethren more than
compensated for the mirth of all other sects; in fact, their mistaking
me for a priest began to give me a good opinion of myself, and perfectly
reconciled me to the fatiguing severity of the journey.

I have had occasion to remark, while upon this pilgrimage, or rather
long afterwards,--for I was but little versed then in the science of
reflection--that it is impossible to calculate upon the capabilities
of either body or mind, until they are drawn out by some occasion of
peculiar interest, in which those of either or both are thrown upon
their own energies and resources. In my opinion, the great secret or
the directing principle of all enterprise rests in the motive of action;
for, whenever a suitable interest can be given to the principles of
human conduct, the person bound by, and feeling that interest will not
only perform as much as could possibly be expected from his natural
powers, but he will recruit his energies by drawing in all the
adventitious aid which the various relations of that interest, as they
extend to other objects, are capable of affording him. It was amazing,
for instance, to observe the vigor and perseverance with which feeble,
sickly old creatures, performed the necessary austerities of this
dreadful pilgrimage;--creatures, who if put to the same fatigue, on any
other business, would at once sink under it; but the motive supplied
energy, and the infirmities of nature borrowed new strength from the
deep and ardent devotion of the spirit.

The first that I suspected of being fellow pilgrims were two women whom
I overtook upon the way. They were dressed in gray cloaks, striped red
and blue petticoats; drugget, or linseywoolsey gowns, that came within
about three inches of their ankles. Each had a small white bag slung at
her back, which contained the scanty provisions for the journey, and the
oaten cakes, crisp and hard-baked, for the pilgrimage to the lake. The
hoods of their cloaks fell down their backs, and each dame had a spotted
cotton kerchief pinned around her _dowd_ cap at the chin, whilst the
remainder of it fell down the shoulders, over the cloaks. Each had also
a staff in her hand, which she held in a manner peculiar to a travelling
woman--that is, with her hand round the upper end of it, her right thumb
extended across its head, and her arm, from the elbow down, parallel
with the horizon. The form of each, owing to the want of that spinal
strength and vigor which characterize the erect gait of man, was bent a
little forward, and this, joined to the idea produced by the nature
of their journey, gave to them something of an ardent and devoted
character, such as the mind and eye would seek for in a pilgrim, I saw
them at some distance before me, and knew by the staves and white bags
behind them that they were bound for Lough Derg. I accordingly stretched
out a little that I might overtake them; for in consequence of the
absorbing nature of my own reflections, my journey had only been a
solitary one, and I felt that society would relieve me. I was not a
little surprised, however, on finding that as soon as I topped one
height of the road, I was sure to find my two old ladies a competent
distance before me in the hollow (most of the northern roads are of this
nature), and that when I got to the bottom, I was as sure to perceive
their heads topping the next hill, and then gradually sinking out of
my sight. I was surprised at this, and perhaps a little nettled, that a
fresh active young fellow should not have sufficient mettle readily to
overtake two women. I did stretch out, therefore, with some vigor, yet
it was not till after a chase of two miles or so that I found myself
abreast of them. As soon as they noticed me they dropped a curtesy each,
addressing me at the same time as a clergyman, and I returned their
salutation with all due gravity. Upon my inquiring how far they had
travelled that day, it appeared that they had actually performed a
journey seven miles longer than mine: “We needn’t ax your Reverence if
you’re for the Islan’?” said one of them. “I am,” I replied, not caring
to undeceive her as to my Reverentiality.

The truth was, in the midst of all my sanctity I felt proud of the old
woman’s mistake as to my priesthood, and really had not so much ready
virtue about me, on the occasion, as was sufficient to undeceive her.
I was even thankful to her for the inquiry, and thought, on a
closer inspection, I perceived an uncommon portion of good sense and
intelligence in her face. “My very excellent, worthy woman,” said I,
“how is it that you are able to travel at such a rate, when one would
suppose you should be fatigued by this time, after so long a journey?”

“Musha?” said she, “but your Reverence ought to know that.”--I felt
puzzled at this: “How should I know it?” said I.

“I’m sure,” she continued, “you couldn’t expect a poor ould crathur o’
sixty to travel at this rate, at all at all; except for raisons, your
Reverence:”--looking towards me quite confidently and knowingly. This
was still more oracular, and I felt very odd under it; my character for
devotion was at stake, and I feared that the old lady was drawing me
into a kind of vicious circle. “Your Reverence knows, that for the likes
o’ me, that can hardly move to the market of a Saturday, Lord help me!
an’ home agin, for to travel at this rate, would be impossible, any
how, except,” she added, “for what I’m carryin’, sir, blessed be God for
it!”--peering at me again with more knowing and triumphant look.

“Why that’s true,” said I, thoughtfully; and then, assuming a bit of
the sacerdotal privilege, and suddenly raising my voice, though I was as
innocent as the child unborn of her meaning,--“that’s true; but now
as you appear to be a sensible, pious woman, I hope you-understand the
nature of what you are carrying--and in a proper manner, too, for you
know that’s the chief point.”

“Why, Father dear, I do my best, avourneen; an’ I ought of a sartinty to
know it, bekase blessed Friar Hagan spent three dys instructin’ Mat and
myself in it; an’ more betoken, that Mat sent him a sack o’ phaties,
an’ a bag of oats for his trouble, not forgettin’ the goose he got
from myself, the Micklemas afther.--Arrah how long is that ago, Katty
a-haygur?” said she, addressing her companion.

“Ten years,” said Katty. “Oh! it’s more, I’m thinkin’; it’s ten years
since poor Dick, God rest his sowl, died, and this was full two years
afore that: but no matther, agra, I’ll let your Reverence hear the
prayer, at any rate.” She here repeated a beautiful Irish prayer to the
Blessed Virgin, of which that beginning with “Hail, holy Queen!” in the
Roman Catholic prayer-books is a translation, or perhaps the original.
While she was repeating the prayer, I observed her hand in her bosom,
apparently extricating something, which, on being brought out, proved
to be a scapular; she held it up, that I might see it: “Your Reverence,”
 said she, “this is the ninth journey of the kind I made: but you don’t
wonder now, I bleeve, how stoutly I’m able to stump it.”

“You really do stump it stoutly, as you’ say,” I replied.

“Ay,” said she, “an’ not a wan’ o’ me but’s as weak as a cat, at home
scarce can put a hand to any thing; but then, your Reverence, my eldest
daughter, Ellish, jist minds the house, an’ lots the ould mother mind
the prayers, as I’m not able to do a hand’s turn, worth namin’.”

“But you appear to be stout and healthy,” I observed, “if a person may
judge by your looks.”

“Glory be to them that giv it to me then! that I am at the present time,
_padre dheelish_. But don’t you know I’m always so durin’ this journey;
I’ve a wicket heart-burn that torments the very life out o’ me, all the
year round till this; and what ‘ud your Reverence think, but it’s sure
to lave me, clear and clane, and a fortnight or so afore I come here; I
never wanst feels a bit iv it, while I rouse and prepare myself for the
Island, nor for a month after I come here agen, Glory be to God.”
 She then turned to her companion, and commenced, in a voice half
audible--“Musha! Katty a-haygur, did ye iver lay your two livin’ eyes
on so young a priest? a sweet and holy crathur he is, no doubt, and has
goodness in his face, may the Lord bless him!”

“Musha!” said she, “surely your Reverence can’t be long afther bein’
ordained, I’m thinkin’?”

“Well, that’s very strange,” said I, evading her, “so you tell me your
heartburn leaves you, and that you get stout every year about the time
of your pilgrimage?”

“An’ troth an’ I do!--hut! what am I sayin’? Indeed, sir, may be that’s
more than I can say, either, your Reverence: but for sartin’it is”--

“Do you mean that you do, or that you do not?” I inquired.

“Indeed, your Reverence, you jist hot it--the Lord bless you, and spare
you to the parents that reared ye; an’ proud people may they be at
having the likes of ‘im, Katty avourneen”--turning abruptly to Katty,
that she might disarm my interogatories on this tender subject with a
better grace--“proud people, as I said afore, the Lord may spare him to
them!”

We here topped a little hill, and saw the spire of a steeple, and the
skirts of a country town, which a passenger told us was about three
miles distant.

My feet by this time were absolutely in griskins, nor was I by any means
prepared for a most unexpected proposal, which the spokeswoman, after
some private conversation with the other, undertook to make. I could not
imagine what the purport of the dialogue was; but I easily saw, that
I myself was the subject of it, for I could perceive them glance at me
occasionally, as if they felt a degree of hesitation in laying down
the matter for my approval; at length she opened it with great
adroitness:--“Musha, an’ to be sure he will, Katty dear an’ darlin’--and
mightn’t you know he would--the refusin’ to do it isn’t in his face, as
any body that has eyes to see may know--you ashamed!--and what for would
ye be ashamed?--asthore, it’s ‘imself that’s not proud, or he wouldn’t
tramp it, barefooted, along wud two ould crathurs like huz; him that has
no sin to answer for--but I’ll spake to ‘im myself, and yell see it’s
he that won’t refuse it. Why thin, your Reverence, Katty an’ I war
thinkin’, that as there’s only three of us, an’ the town’s afore us,
where we’ll rest a while, plaise God--for by that time the shower that’s
away over there will be comin’ down;--that as there’s but three of us,
would it be any harm if we sed a bit of a Rosary, and your Reverence to
join us?”

This was, indeed, a most unexpected attack; but it was evident that I
was set down by this curious woman as a paragon of piety; though
indeed her object was rather to smooth the way in my mind, for what she
intended should be a very excellent opinion of her own godliness.

I looked about me, and as far as my eye could reach, the road appeared
solitary. I did, ‘tis true, debate the matter with myself, pro and con,
for I felt the absurdity of my situation, and of this abrupt proposal,
more than I was willing to suppose I did. Still, thought I, it is a
serious thing to refuse praying with this poor woman, because she is
poor--God is no respecter of person--this too is a Rosary to the Blessed
Virgin; besides, nothing can be too humbling for a person when once
engaged in this holy station--“So, pride, I trample you under my feet!”
 said I to myself, at a moment when the appearance of a respectable
person on the road would have routed all my humility. I complied,
however, with a very condescending grace, and to it we went. The old
women pulled out their beads, and I got my hat, which had one of my
shoes in it, under my arm. They requested that I would open the Rosary,
which I did: and thus we kept tossing the ball of prayer from one to
another along the way, whilst I was bending and sinking on the hard
gravel in perfect agony. But we had not gone far, when the shower, which
we did not suppose would have fallen until we should reach the town,
began to descend with greater bounty than we were at all prepared for,
or than I was, at least; for I had no outside coat: but indeed the
morning was so beautiful, that rain was scarcely to be apprehended. With
respect to the old lady, she appeared to be better acquainted with the
necessary preparations for such a journey than I had been: for as soon
as the shower became heavy (and it fell very heavily), she whipped off
her cloak, and before I could say a syllable to the contrary, had it
pinned about me. She then drew out of a large four-cornered pocket
of red cloth, that hung at her side, a hare’s-skin cap, which in
a twinkling was on her own cranium. But what was most singular,
considering the heat of the weather, was the appearance of an excellent
frieze jacket, such as porters and draymen usually wear, with two
outside pockets on the sides, into one of which she drove her arm up to
the elbow, and in the other hand carried her staff like a man--I thought
she wore the cap, too, a little to the one side on her head. Indeed,
a more ludicrous appearance could scarcely be conceived than she now
exhibited. I, on the other hand, cut an original figure, being six
feet high, with a short gray cloak pinned tightly about me, my black
cassimere small-clothes peeping below it--my long, yellow, polar legs,
unencumbered with calves, quite naked--a good hat over the cloak--but
no shoes on my feet, marching thus gravely upon my pilgrimage, with two
such figures!

In this singular costume did we advance the rain all the time falling
in torrents. The town, however, was not far distant, and we arrived at
a little thatched house, where “dry lodgin’” was offered above the door,
both to “man and baste;” and never did an unfortunate group stand more
in need of dry lodging, for we were wet to the skin. On entering the
town, we met a carriage, in which were a gentleman and two ladies: I
chanced to be walking a little before the woman, but could perceive, by
casting a glance into the carriage, that they were in convulsions with
laughter; to which I have strong misgivings of having contributed in no
ordinary degree. But I felt more indignant at the wit, forsooth, of the
well-fed serving-man behind the coach, who should also have his joke
upon us; for as we passed, he turned to my companion, whom he addressed
as a male personage--“And why, you old villain, do you drive your cub to
the ‘island’ pinioned in such a manner,--give him the use of his
arms, you sinner!”--thus intimating that I was a booby son of her’s
in leading-strings. The old lady looked at him with a very peculiar
expression of countenance; I thought she smiled, but never did a smile
appear to me so pregnant with bitterness and cursing scorn. “Ay,” said
she, “there goes the well-fed heretic, that neither fasts nor prays--his
God is his belly--they have the fat of the land for the present, your
Reverence, but wait a bit. In the mane time, we had betther get in
here a little, till this shower passes--you see the sun’s beginnin’ to
brighten behind the rain, so it can’t last long: and a bit of breakfast
will do none of us any harm.” We then entered the house aforesaid, which
presented a miserable prospect for refreshment; but as I was in some
measure identified with my fellow-travelers, I could not with a good
grace give them up. I had not at the time the least experience of the
world, was incapable of that discrimination which guides some people, as
it were by instinct, in choosing their society, and had altogether but
a poor notion of the more refined decorum of life. When we got in, the
equivocal lady began to exercise some portion of authority. “Come,” said
she, “here’s a clargyman, and you had betther lose no time in gettin’
his Reverence his breakfast;” then, said, the civil creature to the
mistress, in the same kind of half audible tone--

“Avourneen, if you have anything comfortable, get it for him; he is
generous, an’ will pay you well for it; a blessed crathur he is too, as
ever brought good luck under your roof; Lord love you, if ye hard him
discoursin’ uz along the road, as if he was one of ourselves, so mild
and sweet! I’m sure I’ll always have a good opinion of myself for
puttin’ on the jacket this bout, at any rate, as I was able to spare his
Reverence the cloak, a-haygur! the mild crathur!”

While my fellow traveller was thus talking, I had time to observe that
the woman of the house was a cleanly-looking creature, with something of
a sickly appearance. An old gray-headed man sat in something between a
chair and a stool, formed of one solid piece of ash, supported by three
legs sloping outwards; the seat of it was quite smooth by long use, and
a circular row of rungs, capped by a piece of semicircular wood, shaped
to receive the reclining body of whoever might occupy it, rose from the
seat in presumptuous imitation of an arm-chair. There were two other
chairs besides this, but the remainder of the seats were all stools. The
room was square, with a bed in each of the corners adjoining the fire,
covered with blue drugget quilts, stoutly quilted; there was another
room in which the travellers slept. Opposite me on the wall was the
appropriate picture of St. Patrick himself, with his crosier in hand,
driving all kinds of venomous reptiles out of the kingdom. The Hermit
of Killamey was on his right, and the Yarmouth Tragedy, or the dolorious
history of Jemmy and Nancy, two unfortunate lovers, on his left. Such is
the rigorous economy of a pilgrimage, and such is the circumstances of
the greater part of those who undertake it, that it is to houses of this
description the generality of them resort. These “dry lodging” houses
may not improperly be called Pilgrims’ Inns, a great number of them
being opened only during the continuance of the three months in which
the stations are performed.

Breakfast was now got ready, but it was evident that my two companions
had not been taken into account; for there was “an equipage” only for
one. I inquired from my speaking partner if she and her fellow-traveller
would not breakfast. The only reply I received was a sorrowful shake
of the head, and “Och, no, plaise your Reverence, no!” in quite an
exhausted cadence. On hearing this, the kind landlady gave them a look
of uncommon pity, exclaiming at the same time, as if in communication
with her own feelings, “Musha, God pity them, the poor crathurs; an
they surely can’t but be both wake an ungry afther sich a journey, this
blessed an’ broilin’day--och! och! if I had it or could afford it, an’
they shouldn’t want, any way--arrah, won’t ye thry and ate a bit of
something?” addressing herself to them. “Ooh, then, no, alanna, but I’d
just thank ye for a dhrink of cowld wather, if ye plase; an’ that may
be the strengthenin’ of us a bit.” I saw at once that their own little
stock of provisions, if they really had any, was too scanty to allow the
simple creatures the indulgence of a regular meal; still I thought
they might, if they felt so very weak, have taken even the slightest
refreshment from their bags. However, I was bound in honor, and also in
charity, to give them their breakfast, which I ordered accordingly
for them both, it being, I considered, only fair that as we had prayed
together we should eat together. Whilst we were at breakfast, the
landlady, with a piece of foresight for which I afterwards thanked her,
warmed a pot of water, in which my feet were bathed; she then took out a
large three-cornered pincushion with tassels, which hung at her side, a
darning needle, and having threaded it, she drew a white woollen thread
several times along a piece of soap, pressing it down with her thumb
until it was quite soapy; this she drew very tenderly through the
blisters which were risen on my feet, cutting it at both ends, and
leaving a part of it in the blister. It is decidedly the best remedy
that ever was tried, for I can declare that during the remainder of my
pilgrimage, not one of these blisters gave me the least pain.

When breakfast was over, and these kind attentions performed, we set out
once more; and from this place, I remarked, as we advanced, that an odd
traveller would fall in upon the way: so that before we had gone many
miles farther, the fatigue of the journey was much lessened by the
society of the pilgrims. These were now collected into little groups, of
from three to a dozen, each, with the exception of myself and one or
two others of a decenter cast, having the staff and bag. The chat and
anecdotes were, upon the whole, very amusing; but although there was a
great variety of feature, character, and costume among so many, as
must always be the case where people of different lives, habits, and
pursuits, are brought together; still I could perceive that there was a
shade of strange ruminating abstraction apparent on all. I could observe
the cheerful narrator relapse into a temporary gloom, or a fit of
desultory reflection, as some train of thought would suddenly rise
in his mind. I could sometimes perceive a shade of pain; perhaps of
anguish, darken the countenance of another, as if a bitter recollection
was awakened; yet this often changed, by an unexpected transition, to
a gleam of joy and satisfaction, as if a quick sense or hope of relief
flashed across his heart.

When we came near Petigo, the field for observation was much enlarged.
The road was then literally alive with pilgrims, and reminded me, as far
as numbers were concerned, of the multitudes that flocked to market on
a fair-day. Petigo is a snug little town, three or four miles from the
lake, where the pilgrims all sleep on the night before the commencement
of their stations. When we were about five or six miles from it, the
road presented a singular variety of grouping. There were men and
women of all ages, from the sprouting devotee of twelve, to the hoary,
tottering pilgrim of eighty, creeping along, bent over his staff, to
perform this soul-saving work, and die.

Such is the reverence in which this celebrated place is held, that as
we drew near it, I remarked the conversation to become slack; every face
put on an appearance of solemnity and thoughtfulness, and no man was
inclined to relish the conversation of his neighbor or to speak himself.
The very women were silent. Even the lassitude of the journey was
unfelt, and the unfledged pilgrim, as he looked up in his father’s or
mother’s face, would catch the serious and severe expression he saw
there, and trot silently on, forgetting that he was fatigued.

For my part, I felt the spirit of the scene strongly, yet, perhaps, not
with such an exclusive interest as others. I had not only awe, terror,
enthusiasm, pride, and devotion to manage, but suffered heavy annoyance
from the inroad of a villanous curiosity which should thrust itself
among the statelier feelings of the occasion, and set all attempts to
restrain it at defiance. It was a sad bar to my devotions, which,
but for its intrusion, I might have conducted with more meritorious.
steadiness. How, for instance, was it possible for me to register the
transgressions of my whole life, heading them under the “seven deadly
sins,” with such a prospect before me as the beautiful waters and shores
of Lough Erne?

Despite of all the solemnity about me, my unmanageable eye would turn
from the very blackest of the seven deadly offences, and the stoutest
of the four cardinal virtues, to the beetling, abrupt, and precipitous
rocks which hung over the lake as if ready to tumble into its waters. I
broke away, too, from several “acts of contrition” to conjecture
whether the dark, shadowy inequalities which terminated the horizon,
and penetrated, methought, into the very skies far beyond the lake, were
mountains or clouds: a dark problem, which to this day I have not been
able to solve. Nay, I was taken twice, despite of the most virtuous
efforts to the contrary, from a _Salve Regina_, to watch a little skiff,
which shone with its snowy sail spread before the radiant evening sun,
and glided over the waters, like an angel sent on some happy-message. In
fact, I found my heart on the point of corruption, by indulging in what
I had set down in my vocabulary as the lust of the eye, and had some
faint surmise that I was plunging into obduracy. I accordingly made a
private mark with the nail of my thumb, on the “act of contrition” in my
prayer-book, and another on the _Salve Regina_, that I might remember
to confess for these devilish wanderings. But what all my personal piety
could not effect, a lucky turn in the road accomplished, by bringing me
from the view of the lake; and thus ended my temptations and my defeats
on these points.

When we got into Petigo, we found the lodging-houses considerably
crowded. I contrived, however, to establish myself as well as another,
and in consequence of my black, dress and the garrulous industry of my
epicene companion, who stuck close to me all along, was treated with
more than common respect. And here I was deeply impressed with the
remarkable contour of many visages, which I had now a better opportunity
of examining than while on the road. There seemed every description of
guilt, and every degree of religious feeling, mingled together in the
same mass, and all more or less subdued by the same principle of abrupt
and gloomy abstraction.

There was a little man dressed in a turned black coat, and drab
cassimere small-clothes, who struck me as a remarkable figure; his back
was long, his legs and thighs short and he walked on the edge of his
feet. He had a pale, sorrowful face, with bags hung under his eyes,
drooping eyelids, no beard, no brows, and no chin; for in the place of
the two latter, there was a slight frown where the brows ought to have
been, and a curve in the place of the chin, merely perceptible from the
bottom of his underlip to his throat. He wore his own hair, which was a
light bay, so that you could scarcely distinguish it from a wig. I was
given to understand that he was a religious tailor under three blessed
orders.

There was another round-shouldered man, with black, twinkling eyes,
plump face, rosy cheeks, and nose twisted at the top. In his character,
humor appeared to be the predominant principle. He was evidently an
original, and, I am sure, had the knack of turning the ludicrous side
of every object towards him. His eye would roll about from one person to
another while fingering his beads, with an expression of humor something
like delight beaming from his fixed, steady countenance; and when
anything that would have been particularly worthy of a joke met his
glance, I could perceive a tremulous twinkle of the eye intimating his
inward enjoyment. I think still this jocular abstinence was to him the
severest part of the pilgrimage. I asked him was he ever at the “Island”
 before; he peered into my face with a look that infected me with
risibility, without knowing why, shrugged up his shoulders, looked into
the fire, and said “No,” with a dry emphatic cough after it--as much as
to say, you may apply my answer to the future as well as to the past.
Religion, I thought, was giving him up, or sent him here as a last
resource. He spoke to nobody.

A little behind the humorist sat a very tall, thin, important-looking
personage, dressed in a shabby black coat; there was a cast of severity
and self-sufficiency in his face, which at once indicated him to be
a man of office and authority, little accustomed to have his own
will disputed. I was not wrong in my conjecture; he was a classical
schoolmaster, and was pompously occupied, when I first saw him,
reading through his spectacles, with his head raised aloft, the seven
Penitential Psalms in Latin, out of the Key of Paradise, to a circle
of women and children, along with two or three men in frieze coats, who
listened with profound attention.

A little to the right of Syntax, were a man and woman--the man engaged
in teaching the woman a Latin charm against the colic, to which it seems
she was subject. Although they all, for the most part, who were in the
large room about us, prayed aloud, yet by fastening the attention on any
particular person, you could hear what he said. I therefore heard, the
words of this charm, and as my memory is not bad, I still remember them;
they ran thus:

_Petrus sedebat super lapidem marmoreain juxta cedem Jerusalem et
dolebat, Jesus veniebat et rogabat “Petre, quid doles?” “Doleo vento
ventre.” “Surge, Petre, et sanus esto.” Et quicunque haec verba non
scripta sed memoriter tradita recitat nunquam dolebit vento ventre_.

These are the words literally, but I need not say, that had the poor
woman sat there since, she would not have got them impressed on her
memory.

There were also other countenances in which a man might almost read
the histories of their owners. Methought I could perceive the lurking,
unsubdued spirit of the battered rake, in the leer of his roving eye,
while he performed, in the teeth of his flesh, blood, and principles,
the delusive vow to which the shrinking spirit, at the approach of
death, on the bed of sickness, clung, as to its salvation; for it was
evident that superstition had only exacted from libertinism what fear
and ignorance had promised her.

I could note the selfish, griping miser, betraying his own soul, and
holding a false promise to his heart, as with lank jaw, keen eye, and
brow knit with anxiety for the safety of his absent wealth, he joined
some group, sager if possible to defraud them even of the benefit of
their prayers, and attempting to practise that knavery upon heaven which
had been so successful upon earth.

I could see the man of years, I thought, withering away under the
disconsolation of an ill-spent life, old without peace, and gray without
wisdom, flattering himself that he is religious because he prays,
and making a merit of offering to God that which Satan had rejected;
thinking, too, that he has withdrawn from sin, because the ability
of committing it has left him, and taking credit for subduing his
propensities, although they have only died in his nature.

I could mark, too, I fancied, the stiff, set features of the pharisee,
affecting to instruct others, that he might show his own superiority,
and descanting on the merits of works, that his hearers might know he
performed them himself.

I could also observe the sly, demure over-doings of the hypocrite, and
mark the deceitful lines of grave meditation running along that part
of his countenance where in others the front of honesty lies open and
expanded. I could trace him when he got beyond his depth, where the want
of sincerity in religion betrayed his ignorance of its forms. I could
note the scowling, sharp-visaged bigot, wrapt up in the nice observance
of trifles, correcting others, if the object of their supplications
embraced anything within a whole hemisphere of heresy, and not so much
happy because he thought himself the way of salvation, as because he
thought others out of it--a consideration which sent pleasure tingling
to his fingers’ ends.

But notwithstanding all this, I noticed, through the gloom of the place,
many who were actuated by genuine, unaffected piety, from whom charity
and kindness beamed forth through all the disadvantages around them.
Such people, for the most part, prayed in silence and alone. Whenever
I saw a man or woman anxious to turn away their faces, and separate
themselves from the flocks of gregarious babblers, I seldom failed to
witness the outpouring of a contrite spirit. I have certainly seen, in
several instances, the tear of heartfelt repentance bedew the sinner’s
cheek. I observed one peculiarly interesting female who struck me
very much. In personal beauty she was very lovely--her form perfectly
symmetrical, and she evidently belonged to rather a better order of
society. Her dress was plain, though her garments were by no means
common. She could scarcely be twenty, and yet her face told a tale of
sorrow, of deep, wasting, desolating sorrow. As the prayers, hymns, and
religious conversations which wont on, were peculiar to the place, time,
and occasion--it being near the hour of rest:--she probably did not
feel that reluctance in going to pray in presence of so many which she
otherwise would have felt. She kept her eye on a certain female who had
a remote dusky corner to pray in, and the moment she retired from it,
this young creature went up and there knelt down. But what a contrast to
the calm, unconscious, and insipid mummery which went on at the moment
through the whole room! Her prayer was short, and she had neither book
nor beads; but the heavings of her bosom, and her suppressed sobs,
sufficiently proclaimed her sincerity. Her petition, indeed, seemed to
go to heaven from a broken heart. When it was finished, she remained a
few moments on her knees, and dried her eyes with her handkerchief. As
she rose up, I could mark the modest, timid glance, and the slight
blush as she presented herself again amongst the company, where all were
strangers. I thought she appeared, though in the midst of such a number,
to be woefully and pitiably alone.

As for my own companion, she absolutely made the grand tour of all the
praying knots on the promises, having taken a very tolerable bout with
each. There were two qualities in which she shone preeminent--voice and
distinctness; for she gave by far the loudest and most monotonous chant.
Her visage also was remarkable, for her complexion resembled the dark,
dingy red of a winter apple. She had a pair of very piercing black eyes,
with which, while kneeling with her body thrown back upon her heels as
if they were a cushion, she scrutinized, at her ease, every one in the
room, rocking herself gently from side to side. The poor creature paid
a marked attention to the interesting young woman I have just mentioned.
At last, they dropped off one by one to bed, that they might be up early
the next morning for the Lough, with the exception of some half-dozen,
more long-winded than the rest whose voices I could hear at their sixth
rosary, in the rapid elevated tone peculiar to Catholic devotion, until
I fell asleep.

The next morning, when I awoke, I joined with all haste the aggregate
crowd that proceeded in masses towards the lake--or Purgatory--which
lies amongst the hills that extend to the north-east of Petigo. While
ascending the bleak, hideous mountain range, whose ridge commands a full
view of this celebrated scene of superstition, the manner and appearance
of the pilgrims were deeply interesting. Such groupings as pressed
forward around me would have made line studies either for him who wished
to deplore or to ridicule the degradations and absurdities of human
nature; indeed there was an intense interest in the scene. I look
back at this moment with awe towards the tremulous and high-strained
vibrations of my mind, as it responded to the excitement. Reader, have
you ever approached the Eternal City? have you ever, from the dreary
solitudes of the Campagna, seen the dome of St. Peter’s for the first
time? and have the monuments of the greatest men and the mightiest deeds
that ever the earth witnessed--have the names of the Caesars, and the
Catos, and the Scipios, excited a curiosity amounting to a sensation
almost too intense to be borne? I think I can venture to measure the
expansion of your mind, as it enlarged itself before the crowding
visions of the past, as the dim grandeur of ages rose up and developed
itself from amidst the shadows of time; and entranced amidst the magic
of your own associations, you desired to stop--you were almost content
to go no farther--your own Rome, you were in the midst of--Rome
free--Rome triumphant--Rome classical. And perhaps it is well you
awoke in good time from your shadowy dream, to escape from the unvaried
desolation and the wasting malaria that brooded all around. Reader, I
can fancy that such might have been your sensations when the domes
and the spires of the world’s capital first met your vision; and I can
assure you, that while ascending the ridge that was to give me a view of
Patrick’s Purgatory, my sensations were as impressively, as powerfully
excited. For I desire you to recollect, that the welfare of your
immortal soul was not connected with your imaginings, your magnificent
visions did not penetrate into the soul’s doom. You were not submitted
to the agency, of a transcendental power. You were, in a word, a poet,
but not a fanatic. What comparison, then, could there be between the
exercise of your free, manly, cultivated understanding, and my feelings
on this occasion, with my thick-coming visions of immortality, that
almost lifted me from the mountain-path I was ascending, and brought me,
as it were, into contact with the invisible world? I repeat it, then,
that such were my feelings, when all the faculties which exist in the
mind were aroused and concentrated upon one object. In such a case,
the pilgrim stands, as it were, between life and death; and as it was
superstition that placed him there, she certainly conjures up to his
heated fancy those dark, fleeting, and indistinct images which are
adjusted to that gloom which she has already cast over his mind.
Although there could not be less than two hundred people, young and old,
boys and girls, men and women, the hale and the sickly, the blind and
the lame, all climbing to gain the top with as little delay as possible,
yet was there scarcely a sound, certainly not a word, to be heard among
them. For my part, I plainly heard the palpitations of my heart, both
loud and quick. Had I been told that the veil of eternity was about
to be raised before me at that moment, I could scarcely have felt more
intensely. Several females were obliged to rest for some time, in order
to gain both physical and moral strength--one fainted; and several old
men were obliged to sit down. All were praying, every crucifix was out,
every bead in requisition; and nothing broke a silence so solemn but a
low, monotonous murmur of deep devotion.

As soon as we ascended the hill, the whole scene was instantly before
us: a large lake, surrounded by an amphitheatre of mountains, bleak,
uncomfortable, and desolate. In the lake itself, about half a mile from
the edge next us, was to be seen the “Island,” with two or three slated
houses on it, naked and un-plastered, as desolate-looking almost as the
mountains. A little range of exceeding low hovels, which a dwarf could
scarcely enter without stooping, appeared to the left; and the eye could
rest on nothing more, except a living mass of human beings crawling
slowly about. The first thing the pilgrim does when he gets a sight of
the lake, is to prostrate himself, kiss the earth, and then on his
knees offer up three Paters and Aves, and a Creed for the favor of being
permitted to see this blessed place. When this is over, he descends to
the lake, and after paying tenpence to the ferry-man, is rowed over to
the Purgatory.

When the whole view was presented to me, I stood for some time to
contemplate it; I cannot better illustrate the reaction which, took
place in my mind, than by saying that it resembles that awkward
inversion which a man’s proper body experiences when, on going to pull
something from which he expects a marvellous assistance, it comes with
him at a touch, and the natural consequence is, that he finds his head
down and his heels up. That which dashed the whole scene from the
dark elevation in which the romance of devotion had placed it was the
appearance of slated houses, and of the smoke that curled from the
hovels and the prior’s residence. This at once brought me back to
humanity: and the idea of roasting meat, boiling pots, and dressing
dinners, dispossessed every fine and fearful image which had floated
through my imagination for the last twelve hours. In fact, allowing for
the difference of situation, it nearly resembled John’s Well, or James’s
Fair, when beheld at a distance, turning the slated houses into inns,
and the hovels into tents. A certain idea, slight, untraceable, and
involuntary, went over my brain on that occasion, which, though it did
not then cost me a single effort of reflection, I think was revived
and developed at a future period of my life, and became, perhaps to a
certain extent, the means of opening a wider range of thought to my
mind, and of giving a new tone to my existence. Still, however,
nothing except my idea of its external appearance disappointed, me; I
accordingly ascended with the rest, and in a short time found myself
among the living mass upon the island.

The first thing I did was to hand over my three cakes of oaten bread
which I had got made in Petigo, tied up in a handkerchief, as well as
my hat and second shirt, to the care of the owner of one of the, huts:
having first, by the way, undergone a second prostration on touching the
island, and greeted it with fifteen holy kisses, and another string
of prayers. I then, according to the regulations, should commence the
stations, lacerated as my feet were after so long a journey; so that I
had not a moment to rest. Think, therefore, what I must have suffered,
on surrounding a large chapel, in the direction of from east to west,
over a pavement of stone spikes, every one of them making its way along
my nerves and muscles to my unfortunate brain. I was absolutely stupid
and dizzy with the pain, the praying, the jostling, the elbowing, the
scrambling and the uncomfortable penitential murmurs of the whole crowd.
I knew not what I was about, but went through the forms in the same
mechanical spirit which pervaded all present. As for that solemn,
humble, and heartfelt sense of God’s presence, which Christian prayer
demands, its existence in the mind would not only be a moral but
a physical impossibility in Lough Derg. I verily think that if
mortification of the body, without conversion of the life or heart--if
penance and not repentance could save the soul, no wretch who performed
a pilgrimage here could with a good grace be damned. Out of hell the
place is matchless, and if there be a purgatory in the other world, it
may very well be said there is a fair rehearsal of it in the county of
Donegal in Ireland.

When I commenced my station, I started from what is called the “Beds,”
 and God help St. Patrick if he lay upon them: they are sharp stones
placed circularly in the earth, with the spike ends of them up, one
circle within another; and the manner in which the pilgrim gets as far
as the innermost, resembles precisely that in which school-boys enter
the “Walls of Troy” upon their slates. I moved away from these upon
the sharp stones with which the whole island is surfaced, keeping the
chapel, or “Prison,” as it is called, upon my right; then turning, I
came round again with a circumbendibus, to the spot from which I
set out. During this circuit, as well as I can remember, I repeated
fifty-five paters and aves, and five creeds, or five decades; and be it
known, that the fifty prayers were offered up to the Virgin Mary, and
the odd five to God! I then commenced getting round the eternal beds,
during which I repeated, I think, fifteen paters and aves more; and as
the bods decreased in circumference, the prayers decreased in length,
until a short circuit and three paters and aves finished the last and
innermost of these blessed couches. I really forgot how many times each
day the prison and these beds are to be surrounded, and how many hundred
prayers are to be repeated during the circuit, though each circuit is in
fact making the grand tour of the island; but I never shall forget that
I was the best part of a July day at it, when the soles of my feet were
flayed, and the stones hot enough to broil a beefsteak! When the first
day’s station was over, it is necessary to say that a little rest would
have been agreeable? But no, this would not suit the policy of the
place; here it may be truly said that there is no rest for the wicked.
The only luxury allowed me was the privilege of feasting upon one of my
cakes (having not tasted food that blessed day until then); upon one of
my cakes, I say, and a copious supply of the water of the lake, which,
to render the repast more agreeable, was made lukewarm! This was to keep
my spirits up after the delicate day’s labor I had gone through, and to
cheer me against the pleasant prospect of a hard night’s praying without
sleep, which lay in the back ground! But when I saw everyone at this
refreshing meal with a good, thick, substantial bannock, and then looked
at the immateriality of my own, I could not help reverting to the woman
who made them for me, with a degree of vivacity not altogether in unison
with the charity of a Christian. The knavish creature defrauded me of
one-half of the oatmeal, although I had purchased it myself in Petigo
for the occasion; being determined that as I was only to get two meals
in the three days, they should be such as a person could fast upon.
Never was there a man more bitterly disappointed; for they were not
thicker than crown-pieces, and I searched for them in my mouth to no
purpose--the only thing like substance I could feel there was the warm
water. At last, night came; but here to describe the horrors of what I
suffered I hold myself utterly inadequate. I was wedged in a shake-down
bed with seven others, one of whom was a Scotch Papist--another a man
with a shrunk leg, who wore a crutch--all afflicted with that disease
which northern men that feed on oatmeal are liable to; and then the
swarms that fell upon my poor young skin, and probed, and stung, and
fed on me! it was pressure and persecution almost insupportable, and yet
such was my fatigue that sleep even here began to weigh down my eyelids.

I was just on the point of enjoying a little rest, when a man ringing
a large hand-bell, came round crying out in a low, supernatural growl,
which could be heard double the distance of the loudest shout--“Waken
up, waken up, and come to the prison!” The words were no sooner out of
his mouth, than there was a sudden start, and a general scramble in the
dark for our respective garments. When we got dressed, we proceeded to
the waters of the lake, in which we washed our face and hands, repeating
prayers during the ablution. This to me was the most impressive and
agreeable part of the whole station. The night, while we were in bed,
or rather in torture, had become quite stormy, and the waves of the lake
beat against the shore with the violence of an agitated sea. There was
just sufficient moon to make the “darkness visible,” and to show the
black clouds drifting with rapid confusion, in broken masses, over our
heads. This, joined to the tossing of the billows against the shore--the
dark silent groups that came, like shadows, stooping for a moment over
the surface of the waters, and retreating again in a manner which the
severity of the night rendered necessarily quick, raising thereby in the
mind the idea of gliding spirits--then the preconceived desolation
of the surrounding scenery--the indistinct shadowy chain of dreary
mountains which, faintly relieved by the lurid sky, hemmed in the
lake--the silence of the forms, contrasted with the tumult of the
elements about us--the loneliness of the place--its isolation and
remoteness from the habitations of men--all this put together, joined
to the feeling of deep devotion in which I was wrapped, had really a
sublime effect upon me. Upon the generality of those who were there,
blind to the natural beauty and effect of the hour and the place, and
viewing it only through the medium of superstitious awe, it was indeed
calculated to produce the notion of something not belonging to the
circumstance and reality of human life.

From this scene we passed to one, which, though not characterized by its
dark, awful beauty, was scarcely inferior to it in effect. It was called
the “Prison,” and it is necessary to observe here, that every pilgrim
must pass twenty-four hours in this place, kneeling, without food or
sleep, although one meal of bread and warm water, and whatever sleep he
could get in Petigo with seven in a bed, were his allowance of food and
sleep during the twenty-four hours previous. I must here beg the good
reader’s attention for a moment, with, reference to our penance in the
“Prison.” Let us consider how the nature of this pilgrimage: it must be
performed on foot, no matter what the distance of residence (allowing
for voyages)--the condition of life--the age or the sex of the pilgrim
may be. Individuals from France, from America, England, and Scotland,
visit it--as voluntary devotees, or to perform an act of penance for
some great crime, or perhaps to atone for a bad life in general. It is
performed, too, in the dead heat of summer, when labor is slack, and the
lower orders have sufficient leisure to undertake it; and, I may add,
when travelling on foot is most fatiguing; they arrive, therefore,
without a single exception, blown and jaded almost to death. The first
thing they do, notwithstanding this, is to commence the fresh rigors of
the station, which occupies them several hours. This consists in what
I have already described, viz., the pleasant promenade upon the stony
spikes around the prison and the “beds;” that over, they take their
first and only meal for the day; after which, as in my own case just
related, they must huddle themselves in clusters, on what is barefacedly
called a bed, but which is nothing more nor less than a beggarman’s
shakedown, where the smell, the heat, the filth, and above all, the
vermin, are intolerable to the very farthest stretch of the superlative
degree. As soon as their eyes begin to close here, they are roused
by the bell-man, and summoned at the hour of twelve--first washing
themselves as aforesaid, in the lake, and then adjourning to the prison
which I am about to describe. There is not on earth, with the exception
of pagan rites,--and it is melancholy to be compelled to compare any
institution of the Christian religion with a Juggernaut,--there is not
on earth, I say, a regulation of a religious nature, more barbarous
and inhuman than this. It has destroyed thousands since its
establishment--has left children without parents, and parents childless.
It has made wives widows, and torn from the disconsolate husband the
mother of his children; and is itself the monster which St. Patrick is
said to have destroyed in the place--a monster, which is a complete and
significant allegory of this great and destructive superstition.
But what is even worse than death, by stretching the powers of human
sufferance until the mind cracks under them, it is said sometimes
to return these pitiable creatures maniacs--exulting in the laugh
of madness, or sunk for ever in the incurable apathy of religious
melancholy. I mention this now, to exhibit the purpose for which these
calamities are turned to account, and the dishonesty which is
exercised over these poor, unsuspecting people, in consequence of their
occurrence. The pilgrims, being thus aroused at midnight are sent to
prison; and what think you is the impression under which they enter it?
one indeed, which, when we consider their bodily weakness and mental
excitement, must do its work with success. It is this: that as soon as
they enter the prison a supernatural tendency to sleep will come over
them, which, they say, is peculiar to the place; that this is an emblem
of the influence of sin over the soul, and a type of their future fate;
that if they resist this they will be saved; but if they yield to it,
they will not only be damned in the next world, but will go mad, or
incur some immediate and dreadful calamity in this. Is it any wonder
that a weak mind and exhausted body, wrought upon by these bugbears,
should induce upon by itself, by its own terrors, the malady of
derangement? We know that nothing acts so strongly and so fatally upon
reason, as an imagination diseased by religious terrors: and I regret
to say, that I had upon that night an opportunity of witnessing a fatal
instance of it.

After having washed ourselves in the dark waters of the lake, we entered
this famous prison, which is only a naked, unplastered chapel, with
an altar against one of the sides and two galleries. On entering this
place, a scene presented itself altogether unparalleled on the earth,
and in every point of view capable to sustain the feelings raised in the
mind by the midnight scenery of the lake as seen during the ablutions.
The prison was full, but not crowded; for had it been crowded, we would
have been happy. It was, however, just sufficiently filled to give every
individual the pleasure of sustaining himself, without having it in his
power to recline for a moment in an attitude of rest, or to change that
most insupportable of all bodily suffering, uniformity of position.
There we knelt upon a hard ground floor, and commenced praying; and
again I must advert to the policy which prevails in this island.
During the period of imprisonment, there are no prescribed prayers nor
ceremonies whatever to be performed, and this is the more strange, as
every other stage of the station has its proper devotions. But these are
suspended here, lest the attention of the prisoners might be fixed on
any particular object, and the supernatural character of drowsiness
imputed to the place be thus doubted--they are, therefore, turned in
without anything to excite them to attention or to resist the propensity
to sleep occasioned by their fatigue and want of rest Having thus
nothing to do, nothing to sustain, nothing to stimulate them, it is very
natural that they should, even if unexhausted by previous lassitude, be
inclined to sleep; but everything that can weigh them down is laid upon
them in this heavy and oppressive superstition, that the strong delusion
may be kept up.

On entering the prison, I was struck with the dim religious twilight
of the place. Two candles gleamed faintly from the altar, and there was
something I thought of a deadly light about them, as they burned feebly
and stilly against the darkness which hung over the other part of the
building. Two priests, facing the congregation, stood upon the altar in
silence, with pale spectral visages, their eyes catching an unearthly
glare from the sepulchral light of the slender tapers. But that which
was strangest of all, and, as I said before, without a parallel in
this world, was the impression and effect produced by the deep, drowsy,
hollow, hoarse, guttural, ceaseless, and monotonous hum, which proceeded
from about four hundred individuals, half asleep and at prayer; for
their cadences were blended and slurred into each other, as they
repeated, in an awe-struck and earnest undertone, the prayers in which
they were engaged. It was certainly the strangest sound I ever heard,
and resembled a thousand subterraneous groans, uttered in a kind of low,
deep, unvaried chant. Nothing could produce a sense of gloomy alarm in
a weak superstitious mind equal to this; and it derived much of its wild
and singular character, as well as of its lethargic influence, from its
continuity; for it still--still rung lowly and supernaturally on my ear.
Perhaps the deep, wavy prolongation of the bass of a large cathedral
bell, or that low, continuous sound, which is distinct from its higher
and louder intonations, would give a faint notion of it, yet only a
faint one; for the body of hoarse monotony here was immense. Indeed,
such a noise had something so powerfully lulling, that human nature,
even excited by the terrible suggestions of superstitious fear, was
scarcely able to withstand it.

Now the poor pilgrims forget, that this strong disposition to sleep
arises from the weariness produced by their long journeys--by the
exhausting penance of the station, performed without giving them time
to rest--by the other still more natural consequence of not giving
them time to sleep--by the drowsy darkness of the chapel--and by the
heaviness caught from the low peculiar murmur of the pilgrims, which
would of itself overcome the lightest spirit. I was here but a very
short time when I began to doze, and just as my chin was sinking
placidly on my breast, and the words of an Ave Maria dying upon my
lips, I felt the charm all at once broken by a well-meant rap upon the
occiput, conferred through the instrumentality of a little angry-looking
squat urchin of sixty years, and a remarkably good black-thorn cudgel,
with which he was engaged in thwacking the heads of such sinners, as,
not having the dread of insanity and the regulations of the place before
their eyes, were inclined to sleep. I declare the knock I received
told to such a purpose on my head, that nothing occurred during the
pilgrimage that vexed me so much.

After all, I really slept the better half of the night; yet so
indescribably powerful was the apprehension of derangement, that my
hypocritical tongue wagged aloud at the prayers, during these furtive
naps. Nay, I not only slept but dreamed. I experienced also that
singular state of being, in which, while the senses are accessible
to the influence of surrounding objects, the process of thought is
suspended, the man seems to enjoy an inverted existence, in which the
soul sleeps, and the body remains awake and susceptible of external
impressions. I once thought I was washing myself in the lake, and that
the dashing noise of its waters rang in my ears: I also fancied myself
at home in conversation with my friends; yet, in neither case, did I
altogether forget where I was. Still in struggling to bring my mind
back, so paramount was the dread of awaking deranged should I fall
asleep, that these occasional visions--associating themselves with this
terror--and this again broken in upon by the hoarse murmurs about me,
throwing their dark shades on every object that passed my imagination,
the force of reason being too vague at the moment; these occasional
visions I say, and this jumbling together of broken images and
disjointed thoughts, had such an effect upon me, that I imagined several
times that the awful penalty was exacted, and that my reason was gone
for ever. I frequently started, and on seeing two dim lights upon the
altar, and on hearing the ceaseless and eternal murmurs going on--going
on--around me, without being immediately able to ascribe them to their
proper cause, I set myself down as a lost man; for on that terror I
was provokingly clear during the whole night. I more than once gave an
involuntary groan or shriek, on finding myself in this singular state;
so did many others, and these groans and shrieks were wildly and
fearfully contrasted with the never-ending hum, which, like the
ceaseless noise of a distant waterfall, went on during the night. The
perspiration occasioned by this inconceivable distress, by the heat of
the place, and by the unchangeableness of my position, flowed profusely
from every core. About two o’clock in the morning an unhappy young man,
either in a state of lethargic indifference, or under the influence
of these sudden paroxysms, threw himself, or fell from one of the
galleries, and was so shattered by the fall that he died next day at
twelve o’clock,--and, what was not much to the credit of the clergymen
on the island--without the benefit of the clergy; for I saw a priest
with his stole and box of chrism finishing off his extreme unction when
he was quite dead. This is frequently done in the Church of Rome, under
a hope that life may not be utterly extinct, and that consequently the
final separation of the soul and body may not have taken place.

In this prison, during the night, several persons go about with rods and
staves, rapping those on the head whom they see heavy; snuff-boxes
also go around very freely, elbows are jogged, chins chucked, and ears
twitched, for the purpose of keeping each other awake. The rods and
staves are frequently changed from hand to hand, and I thought it would
be a lucky job if I could get one for a little, to enable me to change
my position. I accordingly asked a man who had been a long time banging
in this manner, if he would allow me to take his place for some time,
and he was civil enough to do so. I therefore set out on my travels
through the prison, rapping about me at a great rate, and with
remarkable effect; for, whatever was the cause of it, I perceived that
not a soul seemed the least inclined to doze after a visit from me; on
the contrary, I observed several to scratch their heads, giving me at
the same time significant looks of very sincere thankfulness.

But what I am convinced was the most meritorious act of my whole
pilgrimage, as it was certainly the most zealously performed, was a
remembrance I gave the squat fellow, who visited me in the early part
of the night. He was engaged, tooth and nail, with another man, at a _De
Profundis_, and although not asleep at the time, yet on the principle
that prevention is better than cure, I thought it more prudent to
let him have his rap before the occasion for it might come on: he
accordingly got full payment, at compound interest, for the villanous
knock he had lent me before.

This employment stirred my blood a little, and I got much lighter. I
could now pay some attention to the scene about me, and the first object
that engaged it was a fellow with a hare-lip, who had completely taken
the lead at prayer. The organs of speech seemed to have been transferred
from his mouth to his nose, and, although Irish was his vernacular
language, either some fool or knave had taught him to say his prayers in
English: and you may take this as an observation founded on fact,
that the language which a Roman Catholic of the lower class does not
understand, is the one in which it is disposed to pray. As for him he
had lots of English prayers, though he was totally ignorant of that
language. The twang from the nose, the loud and rapid tone in which he
spoke, and the malaproprian happiness with which he travestied every
prayer he uttered, would have compelled any man to smile. The priests
laughed outright before the whole congregation, particularly one of
them, whom I well knew; the other turned his face towards the altar, and
leaning over a silver pix, in which, according to their own tenets, the
Redeemer of the world must have been at that moment, as it contained
the consecrated wafers, gave full vent to his risibility. Now it is
remarkable that no one present attached the slightest impropriety to
this--I for one did not; although it certainly occurred to me with full
force at a subsequent period.

When morning came, the blessed light of the sun broke the leaden charm
of the prison, and infused into us a wonderful portion of fresh vigor.
This day being the second from our arrival, we had our second station to
perform, and consequently all the sharp spikes to re-traverse. We were
not permitted at all to taste food during these twenty-four hours, so
that our weakness was really very great. I beg leave, however, to return
my special acknowledgments for the truly hospitable allowance of wine
with which I, in common with every other pilgrim, was treated. This
wine is made by filling a large pot with the lake water, and making it
lukewarm. It is then handed round in jugs and wooden noggins--to their
credit be it recorded--in the greatest possible abundance. On this alone
I breakfasted, dined, and supped, during the second or prison day of my
pilgrimage.

At twelve o’clock that night we left prison, and made room for another
squadron, who gave us their kennels. Such a luxury was sleep to me,
however, that I felt not the slightest inconvenience from the vermin,
though I certainly made a point to avoid the Scotchman and the cripple.
On the following day I confessed; and never was an unfortunate soul so
grievously afflicted with a bad memory as I was on that occasion--the
whole thing altogether, but particularly the prison scene, had knocked
me up, I could not therefore remember a tithe of my sins; and the
priest, poor man, had really so much to do, and was in such a hurry,
that he had me clean absolved before I had got half through the preface,
or knew what I was about. I then went with a fresh batch to receive the
sacrament, which I did from the hands of the good-natured gentleman who
enjoyed so richly the praying talents of the hare-lipped devotee in the
prison.

I cannot avoid mentioning here a practice peculiar to Roman Catholics,
which consists in an exchange of one or more prayers, by a stipulation
between two persons: I offer up a pater and ave for you, and you
again for me. It is called swapping or exchanging prayers. After I had
received the sacrament, I observed a thin, sallow little man, with a
pair of beads, as long as himself, moving from knot to knot, but never
remaining long in the same place. At last he glided up to me, and in a
whisper asked me if I knew him. I answered in the negative. “Oh, then, a
lanna, ye war never here before?” “Never.” “Oh, I see that, acushla, you
would a known me if you had: well then, did ye never hear of Sol Donnel,
the pilgrim?”

“I never did,” I replied, “but are we not all pilgrims while here?”

“To be sure, aroon, but I’m a pilgrim every place else, you see, as well
as here, my darlin’ sweet young man.”

“Then you’re a pilgrim by profession?”

“That’s it, asthore machree; everybody that comes here the second time,
sure, knows Sol Donnel, the blessed pilgrim.”

“In that case it was impossible for me to know you, as I was-never here
before.”

“Acushla, I know that, but a good beginnin’ are ye makin’ of it--an’ at
your time of life too; but, avick, it must prosper wid ye, comin’ here I
mane.”

“I hope it may.” “Well yer parents isn’t both livin’ it’s likely?”
 “No.” “Aye! but yell jist not forget that same, ye see; I b’lieve I sed
so--your father dead, I suppose?” “No, my mother.” “Your mother; well,
avick, I didn’t say that for a sartinty; but still, you see, avourneen,
maybe somebody could a tould ye it was the mother, forhaps, afther
all.” “Did you know them?” I asked. “You see, a lanna, I can’t say that,
without first hearin’ their names.” “My name is B------.” “An’ a dacent
bearable name it is, darlin’. Is yer father of them da-cent people, the
B------s of Newtownlimavady, ahagur!” “Not that I know of.” “Oh, well,
well, it makes no maxim between you an’ me, at all, at all; but the Lord
mark you to grace, any how; it’s a dacent name sure enough, only if yer
mother was livin’, it’s herself ‘ud be the proud woman, an’ well she
might, to see such a clane, promisin’ son steppin’ home to her from
Lough Derg.” “Indeed I’m obliged to you,” said I; “I protest I’m obliged
to you, for your good opinion of me.” “It’s nothin’ but what ye desarve,
avick! an’ more nor that--yer the makin’s of a clargy I’m guessin’?” “I
am,” said I, “surely designed for that.” “Oh, I knew it, I knew it,
it’s in your face; you’ve the sogarth in yer very face; an’ well will ye
become the robes when ye get them on ye: sure, an’ to tell you the truth
(in a whisper, stretching up his mouth to my ear), I feel my heart warm
towardst you, somehow.” “I declare I feel much the same towards you,”
 I returned, for the fellow in spite of me was gaining upon my good
opinion; “you are a decent, civil soul.” “An’ for that raison, and for
your dacent mother’s sake (_sobies-coat inpassy, amin_), (* Requiescat
in pace.) I’ll jist here offer up the _gray profungus_ (* De profundis)
for the release of her sowl out o’ the burning flames of pur-gathur.” I
really could not help shuddering at this. He then repeated a psalm for
that purpose, the 130th in our Bible, but the 129th in theirs. When it
was finished, with all due gesticulation, that is to say, having thumped
his breast with great violence, kissed the ground, and crossed himself
repeatedly, he says to me, like a man confident that he had paved his
way to my good graces, “Now, avick, as we _did_ do so much, you’re the
very darlin’ young man that I won’t lave, widout the best, maybe, that’s
to come yet, ye see; bekase I’ll swap a prayer wid you, this blessed
minute.” “I’m very glad you mentioned it,” said I. “But you don’t know,
maybe, darlin’, that I’m undher five ordhers.” “Dear me! is it possible
you’re under so many?” “Undher five ordhers, acushla!”--“Well,” I
replied, “I am ready.”--“Undher five ordhers--but I’ll lave it to
yourself; only when it’s over, maybe, ye’ll hear somethin’ from me
that’ll make you thankful you ever gave me silver any way.”

By this time I saw his drift: but he really had managed his point so
dexterously--not forgetting the De profundis--that I gave him tenpence
in silver: he pocketed it with great alacrity, and was at the prayer
in a twinkling, which he did offer up in prime,style--five paters, five
aves, and a creed, whilst I set the same number to his credit. When we
had finished, he made me kneel down to receive his blessing, which he
gave in great form:--“Now,” said he, in a low, important tone, “I’m
goin’ to show you a thing that’ll make you bless the born day you ever
seen my face; and it’s this--did ye ever hear of the blessed Thirty
Days’ Prayer?” * “I can’t say I did.” “Well, avick, in good time still;
but there’s a blessed book, if you can get it, that has a prayer in it,
named the Thirty Bays’ Prayer, an’ if ye jist repate that same, every
day for thirty days fastin’, there’s no request ye’ll ax from heaven,
good, bad, or indifferent, but ye’ll get. And now do you begrudge
givin’me what I got?” “Not a bit,” said I, “and I’ll certainly look
for the book.” “No, no, the darlin’ fine young man,” soliloquizing
aloud--“Well and well did I know you wouldn’t, nor another along wid
it--sensible and learned as ye are, to know the blessed worth of what
ye got for it; not makin’, at the same time, any comparishment at all at
all atween it and the dirty thrash of riches of this earth, that every
wan has their heart fixed upon--exceptin’ them that the Lord gives the
larnin’ an’ the edication to, to know betther.”

     * There is such a prayer, and I have often seen it in
     Catholic Prayer-books.

Oh, flattery! flattery! and a touch of hypocrisy on my part! Between ye,
did ye make another lodgment on my purse, which was instantly lightened
by an additional bank token, value tenpence, handed over to this
sugar-tongued old knave. When he Pocketed this, he shook me cordially
by the band, bidding me “not to forgit the Thirty Days’ Prayer, at any
rate.” He then glided off with his small, sallow face, stuck between his
little shrugged shoulders, fingering his beads, and praying audibly with
great apparent fervor, whilst his little keen eye was reconnoitering for
another pigeon. In the course of a few minutes, I saw him lead a large,
soft, warm-looking, countryman, over to a remote corner, and enter into
an earnest conversation with him, which, I could perceive, ended by
their both kneeling down, I suppose, to swap a prayer; and I have no
doubt but he lightened the honest countryman’s purse, as well as mine.

On the third day I was determined, if possible, to leave it early; so
I performed my third and last station round the chapel and the beds,
reduced to such a state of weakness and hunger, that the coats of my
stomach must have been rubbing against each other; my feet were quite
shapeless. I therefore made the shortest circuit and the longest strides
possible, until I finished it.

I witnessed this day, immediately before my departure from this gloomy
and truly purgatorial settlement, a scene of some interest. A priest was
standing before the door of the dwelling-house, giving tickets to such
as were about to confess, this being a necessary point. When he had
despatched them all, I saw an old man and his son approach him, the man
seemingly sixty, the boy about fourteen. They had a look of peculiar
decency, but were thin and emaciated, even beyond what the rigor of
their penance here could produce. The youth tottered with weakness, and
the old man supported him with much difficulty. It is right to mention
here, that this pilgrimage was performed in a season when sickness and
famine prevailed fearfully in this kingdom. They advanced up to the
priest to pay their money on receiving the tickets; he extended his palm
from habit, but did not speak. The old man had some silver in his hand;
and as he was about to give it to the priest, I saw the child look up
beseechingly in his father’s face, whilst an additional paleness came
over his own, and his eyes filled with tears. The father saw and felt
the appeal of the child, and hesitated; the priest’s arm was still
extended, his hand open:--“Would you, sir,” said the old man, addressing
the priest, “be good enough to hear a word from me?” “For what?” replied
the priest, in a sharp tone. “Why, sir,” answered the old man, “I am
very much distressed.” “Ay--it is the common story! Come, pay the money;
don’t you see I’ve no time to lose?” “I won’t detain you a minute, sir,”
 said the man; “this child”----“You want to keep the money, then? that’s
your object; down with it on the instant, and begone.”

The old man dropped it into the priest’s hand, in a kind of start,
produced by the stern tone of voice in which he was addressed. When the
priest got the money he seemed in a better humor, not wishing, I could
see, to send the man away with a bad impression of him. “Well, now
what’s that you were going to say to me?” “Why, sir,” resumed the old
man, “that I have not a penny in my possession behind what I have just
now put into your hand--not the price of a morsel for this child or
myself, although we have forty miles to travel!” “Well, and how am I to
remedy that? What brought you here, if you had not what would bear your
expenses?” “I had, sir, on setting out; but my little boy was five
days sick in Petigo, and that took away with it what we had to carry
us home.” “And you expect me, in short, to furnish you with money to do
that? Do you think, my good man, there are not paupers in my own parish,
that have a better right to assistance than you have!” “I do not doubt
it, sir,” said he, “I do not doubt it; and as for myself I could crawl
home upon anything; but what is this child to do? he is already sinking
with hunger and--” The poor man’s utterance here failed him as he cast
his eyes on the poor, pale boy. When he had recovered himself a little,
he proceeded:-- “He is all that it has pleased God to leave to his
afflicted mother and me, out of seven of them. His other brother and
sister and him were all we had living for some years; they are seven
weeks dead yesterday, of the fever; and when he was given over, sir, his
mother and I vowed, that if God would spare him to us, either she or
I would bring him to the ‘Island,’ as soon as he would be able for the
journey. He was but weakly settin’ out, and we had no notion that the
station was so tryin’ as it is: it has nearly overcome my child, and how
he will be able to walk forty miles in this weak, sickly state, God only
knows?” “Oh! sir,” said the boy, “my poor father is worse off and weaker
than I am, and he is sick too, sir; I am only weak, but not sick; but
my poor father’s both weak and sick,” said he, his tears streaming from
him, as he pressed his father’s arm to his breast--“my poor father is
both weak and. sick, ay, and hungry too,” said he. “Take this,” said the
priest, “it is as much as I can afford to give you,” putting a silver
fivepenny-piece into his hand; “there’s a great deal of poor in my own
parish.” “Alas I thought, you are not a father. Indeed, sir,” said the
poor man, “I thought you would have allowed me to keep the silver I gave
you, as how can we travel two-and-forty miles on this?” “I tell you,
my good man,” said the priest, resuming a sterner tone, “I have done as
much for you as I can afford: and if every one gives you as much, you
won’t be ill off.”

The tears stood in the old man’s eyes, as he fixed them hopelessly upon
his boy whilst the child looked ravenously at the money, trifling as it
was, and seemed to think of nothing except getting the worth of it of
food. As they left the priest, “Oh, come, come father,” said the little
fellow, “come and let us get something to eat.” “Easy, dear, till I draw
my breath a little, for, John I am weak; but the Lord is strong, and
will bring us home, if we put our trust in him; for if he’s not more
merciful to his poor creatures, than some that acts in his name here,
John, we would have a bad chance.” They here sat down on the ledge of
a rock, a few yards from the chapel, and I still remained bound to the
spot by the interest I felt in what I had just witnessed. “What do you
want, sir,” said the priest to me; “did you get your ticket?” “I did,
sir,” I replied; “but I hope you will permit me to become an advocate
for that poor man and his son, as I think their case is one in which
life and death are probably concerned!” “Really, my good young man, you
may spare your advocacy, I’m not to be duped with such tales as you’ve
heard.” “By the tale, sir, if tale you call it,” I returned, “which the
father told, I think, any man might be guided in his charity; but really
I think the most pitiful story was to be read in their faces.” “Do
you think so? Well, if that’s your opinion, I’m sure you have a fair
opportunity of being charitable; as for me, I have no more time to
lose with either you or them,” said he, going into a comfortable house,
whilst I could have fairly seen him up to the neck in the blessed
element about us. I here stepped over, and instantly desired the old man
to hand me the fivepence, telling him at the same time that there
was something better in prospect, as a proof of which I gave him
half-a-crown. I then returned to the priest, and laid his fivepence down
on the table before him; for I had the generosity, the fire, and the
candor of youth about me, unrepressed by the hardening experience of
life. “What’s this, sir?” said he. “Your money, sir,” I replied--“it
is such a very trifle, that it would be of no service to them, and they
will be enabled to go home without it; the old man returns it.” “That is
as much as to say,” he replied, sarcastically, “that you will patronize
them yourself; I wish you joy of it. Was it to witness the distresses of
others that you came to the island, let me ask?” “Perhaps I came from a
worse motive,” I returned. “I haven’t the least doubt of it,” said he;
“but move off--one word of insolence more,” said he, stretching to a
cutting whip, for the use of which he was deservedly famous. “I will cut
you up, sirrah, while I’m able to stand over you.” “Upon my word,” said
I, extending my feet one after another, “you have cut me up pretty
well already, I think; but,” I added, with coolness, “is that, sir, the
weapon of a Christian?” “Is it the weapon of a Christian, sir? whatever
weapon it is, you will soon feel the weight of it,” said he, brandishing
it over my head. “My good father,” said I, “do you remember, since
nothing else will restrain you, that the laws of the country will not
recognize such horsewhip Christianity?” “The laws of the country. Oh,
God help it for a country! Yes! yes! excellent. Here Michael--I say,
come here--drive out this follow. I’ll be calm; I’ll not, put myself in
a passion--out with him! this fellow.” On turning round to contemplate
the person spoken to, we recognized each other as slight aquaintances.
“Bless me,” said he, “what’s the matter? Why,” he added, addressing me,
“what’s this?” “How? do you know him, Michael?” “Tut, I do--isn’t he
for the mission?” “Oh--ho!--is that it? well, I’m glad I know so much;
good-bye to you, for the present; never fear but I’ll keep my eye upon
you.” So saying, we separated. Michael followed me out. “This is an
awkward business,” said he, “you had better make submission, and ask his
pardon; for you know he can injure your prospects, and will do so,
if you don’t submit; he is not of the most forgiving cast--but that’s
between ourselves.” “What o’clock is it?” said I. “Near three.” “Well,
good-bye, and God bless you; if he had a spark of humanity in him, I
would beg his pardon at once, if I thought I had offended him; but as
to making submission to such a man, as you call it--why--this is a very
sultry day, my friend.” I returned directly to the old man and his son;
and, let purity or motive go as it may, truth to tell, they were no
losers by the priest’s conduct; as I certainly slipped them a few
additional shillings, out of sheer contempt for him. On tasting a little
refreshment in one of the cabins, the son fainted--but on the whole they
were enabled to accomplish their journey home; and the father’s blessing
was surely a sufficient antidote against the Priest’s resentment.

I was now ready to depart; and on my way to the boat, found my two old
female companions watching, lest I should pass, and they might miss my
company on the way. It was now past three o’clock, and we determined to
travel as far as we could that night, as the accommodations were vile
in Petigo; and the spokeswoman mentioned a house of entertainment, about
twelve miles forward, where, she said, we would find better treatment.
When we got on terra firma, the first man I saw was the monosyllabic
humorist, sitting on a hillock resting himself--his eyes fixed on the
earth, and he evidently in a brown study on what he had gone through. He
was drawing in his breath gradually, his cheeks expanding all the while,
until they reached the utmost point of distention, when he would all
at once let it go with a kind of easy puff, ending in a groan, as he
surveyed his naked feet, which were now quite square, and, like my own,
out of all shape. I asked him how he liked the station; he gave me one
of the old looks, shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing--it was,
however, a shrug condemnatory. I then asked him would he ever make
another pilgrimage? He answered me by another shrug, a grave look, dryly
raising his eye-brows, and a second appeal to his feet, all of which
I easily translated into strong negatives. We refreshed ourselves in
Petigo.

When we were on the way home, I observed that, although the singular
and fatal accident which befell the young man in the prison excited very
little interest at the time of its occurrence, yet no sooner had they
who witnessed it got clear of the island, than it was given with every
possible ornament; so that it would be as easy to recognize the
plain fact, when decked out by their elucidations, as it would be to
understand the sense of an original author, after it has come through
the hands of half a hundred commentators. But human nature is a darker
enigma than any you could find, in the “Lady’s Magazine.” Who would
suppose, for instance, that it was the same motive which set their
tongues wagging now, that had chained their spirits by the strong force
of the marvellous and the terrible, while they were in prison! Yet this
was the fact; but their influence hung while there, like the tyrant’s
sword, over each individual head; and until the danger of falling asleep
in the “Prison” was past, they could feel no interest for anything
beyond themselves. In both cases, however, they were governed by the
force of the marvellous and the terrible.

When we had finished our journey for the day, I was glad to find a
tolerable bed; and never did man enjoy such a luxury of sweet sleep as I
did that night. My old companion, too, evinced an attention to me seldom
experienced in an accidental traveller. She made them get down water and
bathe my feet, and asked me at what hour I would set out in the morning,
telling me that she would see my clothes brushed, and everything done
herself--so minute was the honest creature in her little attentions. I
told her I would certainly take a nap in the morning, as I had slept so
little for the last three nights, and was besides so fatigued. “Musha to
be sure, and why not, agra! afther the hard bout you had in that blessed
Island! betoken that you’re tinder and too soft rared to bear it
like them that the work hardens; sleep!--to be sure you’ll sleep your
fill--you want it, in coorse; and now go to bed, and you’ll appear quite
another man in the mornin’, plaise God!”

I did not awake the next morning till ten o’clock, when I found the sun
shining full into the room. I accordingly dressed myself partially, and
I say partially--for I was rather surprised to find an unexpected chasm
in my wardrobe; neither my hat, coat, nor waistcoat being forthcoming.
But I immediately made myself easy, by supposing that my kind companion
had brought them to be brushed. Yet I relapsed into something more than
surprise when I saw my fellow-traveler’s redoubtable jacket lying on the
seat of a chair, and her hare’s-skin cap on the top of it. My misgivings
now were anything but weak; nor was I at all improved, either in my
religion or philosophy, when, on calling up the landlady I heard that my
two companions had set out that morning at four o’clock. I then inquired
about my clothes, but all to no purpose; the poor landlady knew nothing
about them: which, in fact, was the case; but she told me that the old
one brushed them before she went away, saying that they were ready
for me to put on whenever I wanted them. “Well,” said I, “she has made
another man of me.” The landlady desired me to try if I had my purse;
and I found that the kind creature had certainly spared my purse, but
showed no mercy at all to what it contained, which was one pound in
paper, and a few shillings in silver, the latter, however, she left me.
I had now no alternative but to don the jacket and the hare’s-skin cap,
which when I had done, with as bad a grace and as mortified a visage
as ever man dressed himself with, I found I had not the slightest
encouragement to throw my eye over the uniform gravity of my appearance,
as I used to do in the black, for, alas! that which I was proudest of,
viz. the clerical cut which it bestowed upon me was fairly gone--I had
now more the appearance of a poacher than a priest.

[Illustration: PAGE 818-- In this trim did I return to my friends]

In this trim did I return to my friends--a goose stripped of my
feathers; a dupe beknaved and beplundered--having been almost starved
to death in the “island,” and nearly cudgelled by one of the priests. As
soon as I crossed the threshold at home, the whole family were on their
knees to receive my blessing, there being a peculiar virtue in the Lough
Derg blessing. The next thing I did, after giving them an account of
the manner in which I was plundered and stripped, was to make a due
distribution of the pebbles* of the lake, to contain which my sisters
had, previous to my journey, wrought me a little silk bag. This I
brought home, stuffed as full as my purse was empty; for the epicene old
villain left it to me in all its plenitude--disdaining to touch it. When
I went to mass the following Sunday, I was surrounded by crowds, among
whom I distributed my blessing, with an air of seriousness not at all
lessened by the loss of my clothes and the emptying of my purse. On
telling that part of my story to the priest, he laughed till the tears
ran down his cheeks. He was a small, pleasant little man, who was seldom
known to laugh at anybody’s joke but his own. Now, the said merriment of
the Reverend Father I felt as contributing to make me look exceedingly
ridiculous and sheepish. “So,” says he, “you have fallen foul of
Nell M’Collum, the most notorious shuler in the province! a gipsy, a
fortuneteller, and a tinker’s widow; but rest contented, you are not the
first she has gulled--but beware the next time.”--“There is no danger of
_that_,” said I, with peculiar emphasis.

     * An uncommon virtue in curing all kinds of complaints
     is ascribed to these pebbles, small bags of which are
     brought home by the pilgrims, and distributed to their
     respective relations and friends.





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