Chapter XII: Part 12

"I didn't like to say a word to you, doctor, till I made sure for fear of what I might be bringing some kind of trouble on the wrong man; but as soon as ever I seen that fellow put into my cart beyond at Carrigwee, I said to myself: 'You're mighty like poor Affy Hynes that's gone, only a bit older. I took another look at him as we were coming along the road, and, says I, 'If Affy Hynes is alive this minute you're him. You'll recollect, doctor, that the poor fellow couldn't speak at the time, by reason of the cold that was on him and the broken leg and all the hardships he'd been through. Well, looking at him off and on, till I got to the workhouse I came to be pretty near certain that it was either Affy Hynes or a twin brother of his; and Mrs. Hynes, the mother, that's dead this ten years, never had but the one son."

"And who was Affy Hynes?"

"It was before your time, of course, and before Father Henaghan was parish priest; but the colonel would know who I mean." Michael sank his voice to an impressive whisper. "Affy Hynes was the boy that the police was out after in the bad times, wanting to have him hanged on account of the way that the bailiff was shot. But he made off, and none of us ever knew where he went to, though they did say that it might be to an uncle of his that was in America."

"Did he murder the bailiff?"

"He did not; nor I don't believe he knew who did, though he might."

"Then what did he run away for?"

"For fear they'd hang him," said Michael Geraghty. "Amn't I just after telling you?"

"Go on," said the doctor.

"Well, when Affy came to himself after all the hardship he had it wasn't long before he found out the place he was in. 'It's Ballintra,' says he to himself, 'or it's mighty like it.' There did be a great dread on him then that the police would be out after him again, and have him took; and, says he, into himself like, so as no one would hear him, 'I'll let on I can't understand a word they say to me, so as they won't know my voice, anyway.' And so he did; but he went very near laughing one time when you had the priest and the minister, one on each side of him, and 'Pastor,' says you----"

"Never mind that part," said the doctor.

"If it's displeasing to you to hear about it, I'll not say another word. Only, I'd be thankful if you'd tell me why you called the both of them Manders. It's what Affy was saying to me this minute: 'Michael,' says he, 'is Manders the name that's on the priest that's in the parish presently?' 'It is not,' says I, 'but Henaghan.' 'That's queer,' said he. 'Is it Manders they call the minister?' 'It is not,' I says; 'it's Jackson. There never was one in the place of the name of Manders, priest or minister.' 'That's queer,' says he 'for the doctor called both the two of them Manders.'"

"So he understood every word we said to him all the time?" said the doctor.

"Not the whole of it, nor near the whole," said Michael Geraghty. "He's been about the world a deal, being a sailor and he said he could make out what Miss Glynn was saying pretty well, and knew the minister's lady was talking Dutch, though he couldn't tell what she was saying, for it wasn't just the same Dutch as he'd been accustomed to hearing. The colonel made a middling good offer at the Russian. Affy was a year one time in them parts, and he knows; but he said he'd be damned if he could make any kind of a guess at what either the priest or the minister was at, and he told me to be sure and ask you what they were talking because he'd like to know."

"I'll go up and see him myself," said the doctor.

"If you speak the Irish to him he'll answer you," said Michael.

"I will, if he likes," said the doctor. "But why won't he speak English?"

"There's a sort of dread on him," said Michael Geraghty. "I think he'd be more willing to trust you if you'd speak to him in the Irish, it being all one to you. He bid me say to you, and it's a good job I didn't forget it, that if so be he's dying, you might tell Father Henaghan he's a Catholic, the way he'd attend on him; but if he's to live, he'd as soon no one but yourself and me knew he was in the place."

Dr. Whitty went up to the workhouse, turned the nurse out of the ward, and sat down beside Affy Hynes.

"Tell me this now," he said, "why didn't you let me know who you were? I wouldn't have told on you."

"I was sorry after that I didn't," said Affy, "when I seen all the trouble that I put you to. It was too much altogether fetching the ladies and gentlemen up here to be speaking to the like of me. It's what never happened to me before, and I'm sorry you were bothered."

"Why didn't you tell me then?"

"Sure, I did my best. Did you not see me winking at you once, when you had the priest and the minister in with me, as much as to say: 'Doctor, if I thought I could trust you I'd tell you the truth this minute.' I made full sure you'd understand what it was I was meaning the second time, even if you didn't at the first go-off."

"That's not what I gathered from your wink at all," said the doctor. "I thought you'd got some kind of a nervous affection of the eye."

"It's a queer thing, now," said Affy, "that the two of them reverend gentlemen should have the same name, and that Manders."

"We'll drop that subject," said the Doctor.

"We will, of course, if it's pleasing to you. But it is queer all the same, and I'd be glad if I knew the reason of it, for it must be mighty confusing for the people of this place, both Catholic and Protestant. Tell me now, doctor, is there any fear that I might be took by the police?"

"Not a bit. That affair of yours, whatever it was, is blown over long ago."

"Are you certain of that?"

"I am."

"Then as soon as I'm fit I'll take a bit of a stroll out and look at the old place. I'd like to see it again. Many's the time I've said to myself, me being, may be, in some far-away country at the time, 'I'd like to see Ballintra again, and the house where my mother lived, and the bohireen that the asses does be going along into the bog when the turf's brought home.' Is it there yet?"

"I expect it is," said the doctor.

"God is good," said Affy. "It's little ever I expected to set eyes on it."

A Test of Truth.

_From "Irish Neighbours."_

BY JANE BARLOW.

Jim Hanlon, the cobbler, was said by his neighbours to have had his own share of trouble, and they often added, "And himself a very dacint man, goodness may pity him!" His misfortunes began when poor Mary Anne, his wife, died, leaving him forlorn with one rather sickly little girl, and they seemed to culminate when one frosty morning a few years later he broke his leg with a fall on his way to visit Minnie in hospital. The neighbours, who were so much impressed by her father's good qualities and bad luck, did not hold an equally favourable opinion about this Minnie, inclining to consider her a "cross-tempered, spoilt little shrimp of a thing." But Jim himself thought that the width of the world contained nothing like her, which was more or less true. So when she fell ill of a low fever, and the doctor said that the skilled nursing in a Dublin hospital would be by far her best chance, it was only after a sore struggle that Jim could make up his mind to let her go. And then his visit to her at the first moment possible had brought about the unwary walking and slip on a slide, which resulted so disastrously.

It was indeed a most deplorable accident. If it had happened somewhere near Minnie's hospital, he said to himself, it might have been less unlucky, but, alas, the whole city spread between them and the institution whither he was brought. The sense of his helplessness almost drove him frantic, as he lay in the long ward fretting over the thought that he was tied by the leg, unable to come next or nigh her, whatever might befall, or even to get a word of news about her. But on this latter point his forebodings were not fulfilled, his neighbours proved themselves to be friends in need. At the tidings of his mishap they made their way in to see him from unhandy little Ballyhoy, undeterred by what was often to them no very trivial expense and inconvenience. Nor were they slow to discover that they could do him no greater service than find out for him "what way herself was at all over at the other place." Everybody helped him readily in this matter, more especially three or four good-natured Ballyhoy matrons. On days when they came into town to do their bits of marketing they would augment their toils by long trudges on foot, or costly drives on tramcars, that they might convey to Jim Hanlon the report for which he pined. They considered neither their heavy baskets, nor the circumstance that they were folk to whom time was time, and a penny a penny indeed.

Yet, sad to say, great as was Jim's relief and his gratitude, their very zeal did in some degree diminish the value of their kindness. For their evident desire to please and pacify him awakened in his mind doubts about the means which they might adopt; and it must be admitted that his mistrust was not altogether ungrounded. The tales which they carried to him from "the other place" were not seldom intrinsically improbable, and sounded all the more so to him because of his intimate acquaintance with their subject. When Mrs. Jack Doyle averred that Minnie was devouring all before her, and that the nurse said a strong man would scarce eat as much as she did, Jim remembered Minnie's tomtit-like meals at home, and found the statement hard to accept. It was still worse when they gave him effusively affectionate messages, purporting to come from Minnie, who had always been anything in the world but demonstrative and sentimental. His heart sank as Mrs. Doran assured him that Minnie had sent her love to her own darling treasure of a precious old daddy, for he knew full well that no such greeting had ever emanated from Minnie, and how could he tell, Jim reflected, but that they might be as apt to deceive him about one thing as another? Perhaps there was little or no truth in what they told him about the child being so much better, and able to sit up, and so forth. Like enough one couldn't believe a word they said. On this terribly baffling question he pondered continually with a troubled mind.

Saturday mornings were always the most likely to bring him visitors, and on a certain Saturday he rejoiced to hear that somebody was asking for him. He was all the more pleased because the lateness of the hour had made him despair of seeing any friends, and because this portly, good-humoured Mrs. Connolly was just the person he had been wishing to come. She explained that she would have paid him a visit sooner, had not all her children been laid up with colds, and then, as he had hoped, she went on to say that she was going over to see after little Minnie. "And the Sister here's promised me," said Mrs. Connolly, "she'll let me in to bring you word on me way back, even if I'm a trifle beyond the right visitin' time itself."

Thereupon Jim produced a sixpence from under his pillow, where he had kept it ready all the long morning. "If it wouldn't be throublin' you too much, ma'am," he said, "I was wonderin' is there e'er a place you would be passin' by where you could get some sort of a little doll wid this for Minnie."

"Is it a doll?" said Mrs. Connolly. "Why to be sure I will, and welcome. I know a shop in O'Connell Street where they've grand sixpenny dolls, dressed real delightful. I'll get her a one of them as aisy as anythin'." Mrs. Connolly knew that the price of the dolls she had in her eye was actually sixpence-halfpenny, but she at once resolved to pay the halfpenny herself and not let on.

"And you might maybe be gettin' her an orange wid this," Jim said, handing her a penny.

"Well, now, it's the lucky child poor Minnie is," Mrs. Connolly declared, "to have such a good daddy. Finely set up she will be wid a doll and an orange. I'll bring her the best in Dublin, Jim, no fear."

"She might fancy the orange, anyway," Jim said, half to himself, with a queer remorseful sort of look.

Mrs. Connolly having gone, he began to expect her back again with an unreasonable promptitude which lengthened the afternoon prodigiously. He had suffered innumerable apprehensions, and fidgetted himself into a fever of anxiety before she could possibly have returned. At last, however, when her broad, cheerful countenance did reappear to him, looming through the misty March dusk, he felt that he would almost have chosen a further delay. For he had staked so much upon this venture that the crisis of learning, whether it had failed or succeeded could not but be rather terrible.

There was nothing apparently alarming in Mrs. Connolly's report. She had found Minnie doing finely. Her nurse said she would be out of bed next week, and was very apt to get her health better than before she took bad. The orange had pleased her highly, and she had bid Mrs. Connolly tell her daddy that he might be sending her another one next Saturday if he liked. All this was good as far as it went, but about the doll, Mrs. Connolly kept silence, and it struck Jim that she shrank away from anything which seemed leading towards a reference to the subject. Jim, who at first had half dreaded and half longed every moment to hear her speak of it, began to think that she might go away without mentioning it, which would not do at all. In the end he had to introduce it himself.

"And how about the bit of a doll, ma'am?" he inquired as unconcernedly as he could. "Was you able to get her e'er a one?"

Unmistakably Mrs. Connolly was much disconcerted by the question. Her face fell, and she hesitated for a while before she replied, with evident reluctance--

"Sure, now, man alive, you never can tell what quare notions childer'll take up wid when they're sick, and more especially when they do be about gettin' well agin, the way Minnie is now. Quiet enough the crathurs do be as long as they're rale bad. But, tellin' you the truth, Jim, not a bit of her would look at the doll. Some fantigue she had agin it, whatever ailed her, an' it a great beauty, wid a pink sash on it and all manner. Slingin' it into the middle of the floor she was, only the nurse caught a hould of it, an' biddin' me to take it away out of that. So says I to her, 'What at all should I do wid the lovely doll, after your poor daddy sendin' it to yourself?' And, says she to me, 'Give the ugly big lump of a thing to the ould divil,' says she, 'an' let him give it to the little young black-leggy divils to play wid if they like.' I declare to you, Jim, thim was the very words of her, sittin' up in her bed, not lookin' the size of anythin'. 'Deed, now, she's the comical child. But sure who'd be mindin' her? And the nurse says she'll keep the doll till to-morrow, an' if Minnie doesn't fancy it then, she'll give it to the little girl in the next cot that does be frettin' after her mother, so it won't go to loss. An' besides--"

She stopped short in surprise, for Jim, who had been laughing silently to himself, now broke out in tones of positive rapture--

"'The little young black-leggy divils'--that's Minnie herself, and no mistake this time, glory be to God! Sorra the fantigue it was, but just the nathur of her, for the thoughts of a doll she never could abide all the days of her life. She'd as lief be playin' wid a snake or a toad. So if you'd let on to me that she liked it, ma'am, well I'd know 'twas only romancin' to me you were. But the truth you tould me, right enough, and thank you kindly. The little villin'll be runnin' about before I am, plaze goodness. Och, bedad, I can see her slingin' it neck an' crop out of the bed."

As Jim fell to laughing again, Mrs. Connolly looked at him puzzled, and with some disapproval, though she would not express the latter sentiment to him in his invalided condition. But she soon afterwards took leave, and on her homeward way she said to herself, "Musha, good gracious, mightn't one suppose Jim Hanlon 'ud have more since than to go sind the poor imp of a child a prisint only for the sake of annoyin' her? 'Twas the quare, foolish way to be spendin' a sixpence, in my opinion. But sure, 'twas be way of a joke, an' the poor man hasn't much chance of e'er a one lyin' there. It's wonderful the store men set by nonsense. Sometimes you'd think they were all born fools, they do be that aisy amused. You'll hear thim guffawin' like a jackass bewitched over silly ould blathers that an infant child 'ud have more wit than to be mindin'."

Certainly, Jim was so well satisfied with his joke, if joke it were, that when he grew drowsy towards evening, his last thoughts made him chuckle contentedly. "The little black-leggy divils," he said to himself. "Glory be to God! she's finely." And he fell asleep with a glad and grateful heart.

The Wise Woman.

_From "A Boy in the Country."_

BY JOHN STEVENSON.

That she knew far more than all the doctors put together was commonly considered, in the territory of her operations, as truth beyond question. Sometimes a man body, with a pain for which he could not account, fearing the inquisition and expense of the qualified practitioner, would make believe to doubt the potency of her medicines, the reality of her cures. But even the discernment of a boy was sufficient to detect the insincerity of his contemptuous talk about "auld wife's doctorin'," and to find lurking behind his brave words the strong desire to consult the wise woman. With much show of impatience, and pretence of anger, at the over-persuasion of his womankind, he would give a seemingly reluctant consent to see Mrs. Moloney, "if she should happen to look in." He knew as well as that he lived that her coming would be by invitation.

Such a one, receiving in the field the message that "Mrs. Moloney's in," would probably say, "Hoots, nonsense," and add that he had his work to look after. But, very soon, he would find that he needed a spade or a hook, a pot of paint, or a bit of rope, from home, and he must needs go home for it himself. He believed in a man's doing a thing for himself if he wanted it well done; as like as not a messenger would spend half a day in looking for what he wanted, and bring the wrong thing in the end. At home he would make a fine show of searching out-houses and lofts, passing and repassing, with some noise, the kitchen windows, finally looking in to see if the thing is in the kitchen; and there, of course, quite accidentally, he would see Mrs. Moloney and would not be rude enough to leave without passing the time o' day. Then the womankind took hold of the case, drew out the man's story of distress, took notes of the remedy, and saw to it that the medicine was taken according to direction.

"The innards o' man is tough, and need to be dealt with accordin'," said Mrs. Moloney, and for man she prescribed a dose which gave him some pain and, usually, cured him. It may be that Nature, provoked by the irritant remedy, got rid of it, and the ailment at once; or it may be that the man body, after the racket in "his innards," found his ailment, by comparison, easy to live with, and imagined himself cured. In either case, the result was counted as cure to the credit of Mrs. Moloney.

By profession a seller of needles, pins, buttons, and such small wares, she owed her livelihood, in reality, to payment for her medical skill. Not that she took money for her prescription or advice--"Thanks be to God," she said, "I never took wan penny for curin' man, woman, or child"; but then, no one ever asked her advice without buying something, and if her charges were just a little more than shop prices, she was entitled to something extra for bringing the shop to the customer. Then she got her meals from grateful and believing patients, and her basket had an uncommercial end, covered with a fair, white cloth, into which the good wife, with some show of doing good by stealth, introduced the useful wreck of a boiled fowl, or a ham-bone with broth possibilities.

She did not meddle with diseases of children, except in cases of measles, for which she prescribed whisky and sulphur, and a diet of sweet milk warm from the cow. Decline, she considered to be due to "a sappin' o' the constitution," and she shared the old-time belief in the noxious effect of night air on consumptives, and would have them warm in curtained four-posters, in rooms into which little light and no fresh air could enter. Beyond a recommendation of port wine, she had no message for healing for these poor sufferers. Her strength lay in the treatment of adults' ailments which do not necessarily kill. Her list of diseases was a short one. For the numerous forms of hepatic trouble known to the professional, she had one comprehensive title--

Liver Complent,

and for it one remedy, varied only in magnitude of dose. She recognised also as a common ailment--

Stomach Complent,

differentiating under this heading, Andygestion, Waterbrash, and Shuperfluity o' phlegm on the stomach. She knew, too--

Bowel Complent,
Rheumatism,
Gineral Wakeness,
and
Harry Siplars.[1]

The foundation of her great reputation was, indeed, largely built on her celebrated cure of this last, in the case of Peggy Mulligan. She shall tell of it herself:--

"She come to me, an' she ses, 'Mary,' ses she, 'can ye cure me, for I'm heart-sick o' them doctors at the dispinsary, an' they're not doin' me wan pick o' good.' Ses I to her, ses I, 'What did they give ye?' ses I. 'O the dear knows,' ses she. 'I haven't tuk anythin' they said, for I didn't believe they would do me no good.' An' I had pity on the cratur, for her face was the size o' a muckle pot, an' lek nothin' under the sun. Ses I to her, ses I, 'I can cure you, my good woman, but ye'll hev to do what you're tould,' ses I, 'an' I'll make no saycret about it,' ses I--'it's cow-dung and flour mixed, an' ye'll put it on your face, an' lave it there for a fortnight,' ses I, 'an' when ye'll wash it off, ye'll have no Harry Siplars.' An' nether she had."

She had a fine professional manner, and she knew how to set at ease the anxious patient. The concerned man body, wishful to appear unconcerned, she took at his own valuation; appearing more interested in a bit of chat or gossip of the country than in particulars of pains and aches. And while she talked with him of crops and kine, and the good and ill-doings of men's sons, the wife would urge John to tell Mrs. Moloney about that bit of pain of his and how he could not sleep for it o' nights. Then the wise woman would mention something which the good wife "might" get for the good man--it would cure him in no time, but--turning to the man,--"'deed, an' there's not much the matter with ye. It's yerself that's gettin' younger lookin' every year--shows the good care the mistress takes o' ye." And the gratified creature would retire, proud to think that he had acted so well the part of the unconcerned, and filled with respect for Mrs. Moloney as a woman of "great sinse and onderstandin'."

Of new-fangled diseases she had a perfect horror, speaking of them more in anger than in sorrow, as of things which never should have been introduced. Even the New Ralgy she declined to entertain, dismissing the mention of it, contemptuously, in the formula, "New Ralgy or Ould Ralgy, I'll have nothing to do with it." To it, however, as Tic Doloro,[2] she gave a qualified recognition, allowing its right to existence, but condemning it as outlandish, and a gentry's ailment, which the gentry should keep to themselves. And while she did not refuse to treat it (with "Lodelum" in "sperrits," hot milk, and a black stocking tied round the jaws), the patient was made to feel a certain degree of culpability in touching a thing with which she should not have meddled, and that Mrs. Moloney had reason for feeling displeased.

Very different was her attitude to one suffering from Gineral Wakeness. This was her pet diagnosis, and one much craved by overworked and ailing farmers' wives, for it meant for them justification of rest, and indulgence in food and drink which they would have been afraid or ashamed to ask or take, unfortified by an authoritative command. No man ever suffered from Gineral Wakeness--it was a woman's trouble, and never failed to draw from Mrs. Moloney a flood of understanding sympathy, which was to the despairing one like cool water on the hot and thirsty ground, making hope and health revive ere yet medicament had been prescribed. Seated before the patient, she would sway slowly back and forward, gently patting the while the afflicted's hand, and listening, with rapt attention, to the longest and dreariest tale of woe.

The Patient.--O, but it's the weary woman I am, waitin' and hopin' that you would come roun'. 'Deed, and if it hadn't been for the hope o' seein' ye I would have give up altogether.

Mrs. M.--Puir dear; tell me all aboot it.

The Patient.--It's a cough and a wakeness and a drappin'-down feelin', as if my legs were goin' from under me; and I could no more lift that girdle o' bread there than I could fly--not if ye were to pay me a thousand pound.

Mrs. M.--I know, dear; if it were writ out I cudn't see it plainer.

The Patient.--And when I get up in the mornin', I declare to ye, I have to sit on the edge o' the bed for five minutes before puttin' fut to groun', and if I didn't take a sup of cold water I couldn't put on my clothes.

Mrs. M.--That's it, dear; that's just the way it goes.

The Patient.--And as for breakfast, I declare to ye, ye couldn't see what I ate.

Mrs. M.--That's a sure sign, a sure sign.

The Patient.--And all through the day it's just the same thing. I'm just in a state of collops the whole time. Niver a moment's aise the day through, especially in the afternoon. It's just hingin' on I am; that's what it raly is.

After an hour of alternating symptomatic description and sympathetic response, interrupted only by the making and drinking of tea, the wise woman is prepared to utter, and the patient to hear, the words of healing.

"Now, dearie, listen to me, that's a good woman. It's Gineral Wakeness that ails ye. I knew it the minute I set fut inside the dure. Ses I to myself, ses I, 'There's Gineral Wakeness writ on the mistress's face; it's prented on her face like a book,' ses I, 'before ever she says a word to me.' Now listen, dearie, and do what I tell ye. Ye'll get a bottle o' sherry wine, and ye'll take a bate-up egg in milk every day, with a sup o' sherry in it, at eleven o'clock. And ye'll fill that pot there with dandelion leaves and roots, and a handful o' mint on the top o' it, and ye'll put as much water on it as'll cover it, and ye'll let it sit at the side o' the fire all day until all the vartue is out o' it. And ye'll take a tablespoonful o' it three times a day, immajintly before your meals. And every day, whin it comes to three o'clock, ye'll go to your bed and lie down for an hour, and when ye get up ye'll take a cup o' tay. Do that now, an' ye'll not know yerself whin I come back."

As Mrs. Moloney's list of legitimate and proper country diseases was a short one, so was her pharmacop[oe]ia a small book. Besides such common remedies as Epsom salts, senna, ginger, and powdered rhubarb, it took account of--

Lodelum which is Laudanum,
Hickery pickery " Hiera picra,
Gum Go Whackem " Gum guaiacum,
Assy Fettidy " Asafoetida,

as chemist's stuff fit for her practice, and of various herbs (pronounced yarbs), alterative or curative, such as dandelion, camomile, peppermint, and apple-balm. As she said herself, she made no "saycret" of many of her remedies, but she was wise enough to carry and dispense certain agents; for, to the benefit of the wise woman, these free gifts constituted a claim for the liberal purchase of small wares, and the use of one of these gave a certain cachet to an ailment which, with a prescription of hot milk and pepper, or of ginger tea, would have been sufficiently commonplace. These secret remedies were kept in little bottles, each of which had its own sewed compartment in a large linen pocket hanging at the mistress's waist, between the gown and the uppermost petticoat. A certain solemnity attached to their production--three, four, or five being invariably drawn and set out on the table, even when, as in most cases, the contents of one only was needed. Mrs. Moloney would contemplate the range, attentively and silently, for a few minutes; lifting one after another, wrinkling her brows the while, and, finally, selecting and uncorking one, while she requested "a clane bottle and a good cork." The selected drug was generally a crystal; the bottle, by request, was half-filled with hot water, in which, through vigorous shaking, the crystal rapidly disappeared. Handing the bottle to the patient, the instruction would be given to take a tablespoonful immediately after eating. Silly young folks, who had no need of the good woman's services, were known to say that Mrs. Moloney knew perfectly well what she was going to use, that the consideration was simulated, and that the oft-used crystal was common washing-soda and nothing else. But these flighty children took care not to say such things in the hearing of their mothers, who had been treated for Gineral Wakeness.

Doubtless the prescriptions of Mrs. Moloney lacked precision on the quantitative side. A cure of rheumatism was threepence-worth of "Hickery Pickery in a naggin o' the best sperrits." To be well shaken and taken by the teaspoonful, alternative mornings, on a fasting stomach. "Sixpence worth o' Gum Go Wackem," also made up in the "best sperrits," was a remedy supposed to acquire special potency from a prodigious amount of shaking. "Show me how ye'll shake it," the medicine-woman would say, and when the patient made a great show of half-a-minute's shaking, she--it was oftenest she--would be surprised to hear that _that_ was no shaking, and an exhibition of what was good and sufficient shaking would be made by Mrs. Moloney. In the case of her sovran remedy for sore eyes, to be used very sparingly--a pennorth o' Red Perspitherate,[3] in a tablespoonful of fresh butter--the quantity for an application was always indicated in special and dramatic fashion. She asked, "And how much will ye be puttin' in your eye, now?--jist show me." The patient, desiring to avoid a mean or niggardly use of the remedy, would probably indicate on the finger a lump as large as an eye of liberal measurements could be supposed to accommodate. Then the good woman would lean back and sigh. A pin would be withdrawn from some part of her clothing, and held between the thumb and finger so that only the head appeared.

"Do ye see that pin-head?"

The afflicted nods in acquiescence.

"Do ye see that pin-head? Now take a good look at it."

Again the sore-eyed indicates accurate observation.

"Well, not a pick more nor that, if ye want to keep your eyesight."

Other quantitative directions were given in "fulls"--"the full o' yer fist," "the full o' an egg-cup," even "the full o' yer mooth." Or, by sizes of objects, as, "the size o' a pay," "the size o' a marble." Or by coin areas, "what'll lie on a sixpence," or on a shilling, or on a penny. Or by money values, as in the Hickery Pickery prescription. Fists, peas, marbles vary considerably in size, and in the case of money-values a change of chemist might mean a considerable variation in quantity; but, with the possible exception of "Lodelum," prescribed in drops, the quantities of the good woman's remedies bore variation to a considerable extent without serious difference in result. That "the best sperrits" were so frequently the medium for "exhibition" of her remedies may account for the great popularity with adults which these remedies enjoyed. These were the days when hospitality was not hospitality without "sperrits" free from medicinal addition, and, late in the afternoon, Mrs. Moloney was accustomed to accept graciously "the full o' an egg-cup," qualified by the addition of sugar and hot water. Once, while sipping her punch, she asked that a little should be given to me as a treat, and when the pungent spirit, in the unaccustomed throat, produced a cough, she promptly diagnosed "a wake chist."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Erysipelas.

[2] Tic douloureux.

[3] Red Precipitate--red oxide of mercury.

The Meet of the Beagles.

_From "Patsy."_

BY H. DE VERE STACPOOLE.

Directly Patsy had left the news that the "quality" were coming to the meet and returned to the house the crowd in front of the Castle Knock Inn thickened.

Word of the impending event went from cabin to cabin, and Mr. Mahony, the chimney sweep, put his head out of his door.

"What's the news, Rafferty?" cried Mr. Mahony.

"Mimber of Parlymint and all the quality comin' to the meet!" cried a ragged-looking ruffian who was running by.

"Sure, it'll be a big day for Shan Finucane," said Mrs. Mahony, who was standing behind her husband in the doorway with a baby in her arms.

Mr. Mahony said nothing for a while, but watched the crowd in front of the inn.

"Look at him," said Mr. Mahony, breaking out at last--"look at him in his ould green coat! Look at him with the ould whip undher his arm, and the boots on his feet not paid for, and him struttin' about as if he was the Marqus of Waterford! Holy Mary! did yiz ever see such an objick! Mr. Mullins!"

"Halloo!" replied Mr. Mullins, the cobbler across the way, who, with his window open owing to the mildness of the weather, was whaling away at a shoe-sole, the only busy man in the village.

"Did y' hear the news?"

"What news?"

"Shan's going to get a new coat."

"Faith, thin, I hope he'll pay first for his ould shoes."

"How much does he owe you?"

"Siven and six--bad cess to him!"

"He'll pay you to-night, if he doesn't drink the money first, for there's a Mimber of Parlymint goin' to the meet, and he'll most like put a suverin in the poor box."

Mr. Mullins made no reply, but went on whaling away at his shoe, and Bob Mahony, having stepped into his cottage for a light for his pipe, came back and took up his post again at the door.

The crowd round the inn was growing bigger and bigger. Sneer as he might, Mr. Mahony could not but perceive that Shan was having the centre of the stage, a worshipping audience, and free drinks.

Suddenly he turned to his offspring, who were crowding behind him, and singling out Billy, the eldest:

"Put the dunkey to," said Mr. Mahony.

"Sure, daddy," cried the boy in astonishment, "it's only the tarriers."

"Put the dunkey to!" thundered his father, "or it's the end of me belt I'll be brightenin' your intellects with."

"There's two big bags of sut in the cart and the brushes," said Billy, as he made off to do as he was bidden.

"Lave them in," said Mr. Mahony; "it's only the tarriers."

In a few minutes the donkey, whose harness was primitive and composed mainly of rope, was put to, and the vehicle was at the door.

"Bob!" cried his wife as he took his seat.

"What is it?" asked Mr Mahony, taking the reins.

"Won't you be afther givin' your face the lick of a tow'l?"

"It's only the tarriers," replied Mr. Mahony; "sure, I'm clane enough for them. Come up wid you, Norah."

Norah, the small donkey, whose ears had been cocking this way and that, picked up her feet, and the vehicle, which was not much bigger than a costermonger's barrow, started.

At this moment, also, Shan and the dogs and the crowd were getting into motion, making down the road for Glen Druid gates.

"Hulloo! hulloo! hulloo!" cried Mr. Mahony, as he rattled up behind in the cart, "where are yiz off to?"

"The meet of the baygles," replied twenty voices; whilst Shan, who had heard his enemy's voice, stalked on, surrounded by his dogs, his old, battered hunting horn in one hand, and his whip under his arm.

"And where are they going to meet?" asked Mr. Mahony.

"Glen Druid gate," replied the camp followers. "There's a Mimber of Parlymint comin', and all the quality from the Big House."

"Faith," said Mr. Mahony, "I thought there was somethin' up, for, by the look of Shan, as he passed me house this mornin', I thought he'd swallowed the Lord Liftinant, Crown jew'ls and all. Hulloo! hulloo! hulloo! make way for me carridge! Who are you crowdin'? Don't you know the Earl of Leinsther when y' see him? Out of the way, or I'll call me futman to disparse yiz."

Shan heard it all, but marched on. He could have killed Bob Mahony, who was turning his triumph into a farce, out he contented himself with letting fly with his whip amongst the dogs, and blowing a note on his horn.

"What's that nize?" enquired Mr. Mahony, with a wink at the delighted crowd tramping beside the donkey cart.

"Shan's blowin' his harn," yelled the rabble.

"Faith, I thought it was Widdy Finnegan's rooster he was carryin in the tail pockit of his coat," said the humourist.

The crowd roared at this conceit, which was much more pungent and pointed as delivered in words by Mr. Mahony; but Shan, to all appearances, was deaf.

The road opposite the park gates was broad and shadowed by huge elm trees, which gave the spot in summer the darkness and coolness of a cave. Here Shan halted, the crowd halted, and the donkey-cart drew up.

Mr. Mahony tapped the dottle out of his pipe carefully on the rail of his cart, filled the pipe, replaced the dottle on the top of the tobacco, and drew a whiff.

The clock of Glen Druid House struck ten, and the notes came floating over park and trees; not that anyone heard them, for the yelping of the dogs and the noise of the crowd filled the quiet country road with the hubbub of a fair.

"What's that you were axing me?" cried Mr. Mahony to a supposed interrogator in the crowd. "Is the Prince o' Wales comin'? No, he ain't. I had a tellygrum from him this mornin' sendin' his excuzes. Will some gintleman poke that rat-terrier out that's got under the wheels of me carridge--out, you baste!" He leaned over and hit a rabbit-beagle that had strayed under the donkey-cart a tip with his stick. The dog, though not hurt, for Bob Mahony was much too good a sportsman to hurt an animal, gave a yelp.

Shan turned at the sound, and his rage exploded.

"Who are yiz hittin'? cried Shan.

"I'm larnin' your dogs manners," replied Bob.

The huntsman surveyed the sweep, the cart, the soot bags, and the donkey.

"I beg your pardin'," said he, touchin his hat, "I didn't see you at first for the sut."

Mr. Mahony took his short pipe from his mouth, put it back upside down, shoved his old hat further back on his head, rested his elbows on his knees, and contemplated Shan.

"But it's glad I am," went on Shan, "you've come to the meet and brought a mimber of the family with you."

Fate was against Bob Mahony, for at that moment Norah, scenting another of her species in a field near by, curled her lip, stiffened her legs, projected her head, rolled her eyes, and "let a bray out of her" that almost drowned the howls of laughter from the exulting mob.

But Shan Finucane did not stir a muscle of his face, and Bob Mahony's fixed sneer did not flicker or waver.

"Don't mention it, mum," said Shan, taking off his old cap when the last awful, rasping, despairing note of the bray had died down into silence.

Another howl from the onlookers, which left Mr. Mahony unmoved.

"They get on well together," said he, addressing an imaginary acquaintance in the crowd.

"Whist and hould your nize, and let's hear what else they have to say to wan another."

Suddenly, and before Shan Finucane could open his lips, a boy who had been looking over the rails into the park, yelled:

"Here's the Mimber of Parlyment--here they come--Hurroo!"

"Now, then," said the huntsman, dropping repartee and seizing the sweep's donkey by the bridle, "sweep yourselves off, and don't be disgracin' the hunt wid your sut bags and your dirty faces--away wid yiz!"

"The hunt!" yelled Mahony, with a burst of terrible laughter. "Listen to him and his ould rat-tarriers callin' thim a hunt! Lave go of the dunkey!"

"Away wid yiz!"

"Lave go of the dunkey, or I'll batter the head of you in wid me stick! Lave go of the dunkey!"

Suddenly seizing the long flue brush beside him, and disengaging it from the bundle of sticks with which it was bound, he let fly with the bristle end of it at Shan, and Shan, catching his heel on a stone, went over flat on his back in the road.

In a second he was up, whip in hand; in a second Mr. Mahony was down, a bag half-filled with soot--a terrible weapon of assault--in his fist.

"Harns! harns!" yelled Mahony, mad with the spirit of battle, and unconsciously chanting the fighting cry of long-forgotten ancestors. "Who says cruckeder than a ram's harn!"

"Go it, Shan!" yelled the onlookers. "Give it him, Bob--sut him in the face--Butt-end the whip, y'idgit--Hurroo! Hurroo! Holy Mary! he nearly landed him then--Mind the dogs--"

Armed with the soot-bag swung like a club, and the old hunting-whip butt-ended, the two combatants formed the centre of a circle of yelling admirers.

"Look!" said Miss Lestrange, as the party from the house came in view of the road. "Look at the crowd and the two men!"

"They're fighting!" cried the general. "I believe the ruffians dared to have the impudence to start fighting!"

At this moment came the noise of wheels from behind, and the "tub," which had obtained permission to go to the meet, drew up, with Patsy driving the children.

"Let the children remain here," said the General. "You stay with them, Violet. Come along, Boxall, till we see what these ruffians mean."

So filled was his mind with the objects in view that he quite forgot Dicky Fanshawe.

"You have put on the short skirt," said Dicky, who at that moment would scarcely have turned his head twice or given a second thought had the battle of Austerlitz been in full blast beyond the park palings.

"And my thick boots," said Violet, pushing forward a delightful little boot to speak for itself.

The children were so engaged watching the proceedings on the road that they had no eyes or ears for their elders.

"Have you ever been beagling before?" asked Dicky.

"Never; but I've been paper-chasing."

"You can get through a hedge?"

"Rather!"

"That'll do," said Dicky.

"Mr. Fanshawe," cried Lord Gawdor from the "tub," "look at the chaps in the road--aren't they going for each other!"

"I see," said Mr. Fanshawe, whose back was to the road--"Violet--"

"Yes."

"No one's looking--"

"That doesn't matter--No--not here--Dicky, if you don't behave, I'll get into the tub--Gracious! what's that?"

"He's down!" cried Patsy, who had been standing up to see better.

"Who?" asked Mr. Fanshawe.

"The Mimber of Parlyment--Misther Boxall--Bob Mahony's grassed him--"

"They're all fighting!" cried Violet. "Come, Mr. Fanshawe--Patsy--" She started for the gates at a run.

When the General had arrived on the scene, Shan had just got in and landed his antagonist a drum-sounding blow on the ribs with the butt of his whip.

"Seize the other chap, Boxall!" cried General Grampound, making for Mahony.

He was just half a second too late; the soot bag, swung like a club, missed Shan, and, catching Mr. Boxall fair and square on the side of the face, sent him spinning like a tee-totum across the road, and head over heels into the ditch.

That was all.

A dead silence took the yelling crowd.

"He's kilt!" came a voice.

"He isn't; sure, his legs is wavin'."

"Who is he?"

"He's the Mimber of Parlyment! Run for your life, and don't lave off runnin' till you're out of the country."

"Hold your tongue!" cried General Grampound. "Boxall--hullo! Boxall! are you hurt?"

"I'm all right," replied Mr. Boxall, who, from being legs upwards, was now on hands and knees in the ditch. "I've lost something--dash it!"

"What have you lost?"

"Watch."

"Come out and I'll get some of these chaps to look."

Mr. Boxall came out of the ditch with his handkerchief held to the left side of his forehead.

"Why, your watch and chain are on you!" cried the General.

"So they are," said Mr. Boxall, pulling the watch out with his left hand, and putting it back. "I'm off to the house--I want to wash."

"Sure, you're not hurt?"

"Not in the least, only my forehead scratched."

"What's up?" cried Dicky Fanshawe, who had just arrived.

"Nothing," replied his uncle. "Fellow hit him by mistake--no bones broken. Will you take the governess cart back to the house, Boxall?"

"No, thanks--I'll walk."

"His legs is all right," murmured the sympathetic crowd, as the injured one departed still with his handkerchief to his face, "and his arums. Sure, it's the mercy and all his neck wasn't bruck."

"Did yiz see the skelp Bob landed him?"

"Musha! Sure, I thought it would have sent his head flying into Athy, like a gulf ball."

Patsy, who had pulled the governess cart up, rose to his feet; his sharp eye had caught sight of something lying on the road.

"Hould the reins a moment, Mr. Robert," said he, putting them into Lord Gawdor's hands. He hopped out of the cart, picked up the object in the road, whatever it was, put it in his trousers' pocket, and then stood holding the pony's head; whilst the Meet, from which Bob Mahony had departed as swiftly as his donkey could trot, turned its attention to the business of the day, and Shan, collecting his dogs, declared his intention of drawing the Furzes.

"Was that a marble you picked up, Patsy?" asked Lord Gawdor, as the red-headed one, hearing Shan's declaration, climbed into the "tub" again and took the reins.

Patsy grinned.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Mr. Fanshawe had been writing three important letters in the library. When he had finished and carefully sealed them, he placed them one on top of the other, and looked at his watch.

The three letters he had just written would make everything all right at the other end. This was the hot end of the poker, and it had to be grasped.

Patsy was the person who would help him to grasp it. Patsy he felt to be a tower of strength and 'cuteness, if such a simile is permissible. And, rising from the writing-table and putting the letters in his pocket, he went to find Patsy. He had not far to go, for as he came into the big hall Patsy was crossing it with a tray in hand.

"Patsy," said Mr. Fanshawe, "when does the post go out?"

"If you stick your letters in the letter box by the hall door, sir," said Patsy, "it will be cleared in half-an-hour. Jim Murphy takes the letter-bag to Castle Knock."

"Right!" said Mr. Fanshawe. "And, see here, Patsy!"

"Yes, sir?"

"I'm in a bit of a fix, Patsy, and you may be able to help."

"And what's the fix, sir?" asked Patsy.

"You know the young lady you gave the note to this morning--by the way, how did you give it?"

"I tried to shove it undher her door, sir."

"Yes?"

"It wouldn't go, so I give a knock. 'Who's there?' says she. 'No one,' says I; 'it's only hot wather I'm bringin' you,' for, you see, sir, the ould missis, her ladyship, was in the next room, and she's not as deaf as she looks, and it's afraid I was, every minnit, her door'd open, and she and her ear-trumpet come out in the passidge. 'I have hot wather,' says she. 'Niver mind,' says I, 'this is betther. Open the door, for the love of God, for I can't get it under the door, unless I rowl it up and shove it through the keyhole.' Wid that she opens the door a crack and shoves her head out. 'Who's it from?' she says. 'I don't know,' says I; 'it's just a letther I found on the stairs I thought might belong to you.' 'Thanks,' says she, 'it does,' and wid that she shut the door, and I left her."

"Well, see here, Patsy!"

"Yes, sir?"

"I'm going to marry Miss Lestrange."

"Faith, and I guessed that," said Patsy; "and it's I that'd be joyful to dance at your weddin', sir."

"There won't be any dancing in the business," said Mr. Fanshawe, grimly. "You know Mr. Boxall, Patsy?"

"The Mimber of Parlymint?"

"Yes. Well, he wants to marry Miss Lestrange; and the worst of it is, Patsy, that my uncle, General Grampound, wants him to marry her, too."

"Yes, sir," said Patsy. "And, Mr. Fanshawe?"

"Yes."

"I forgot to tell you, sir, you needn't be afear'd of Mr. Boxall for the next few days."

"How's that?"

"When Bob Mahony hit him the skelp on the head wid the sut bag, his eye popped out of his head on the road."

"His what?--Oh, I remember--"

"Finders is keepers, sir," said Patsy, with a grin.

"Why, good heavens--you don't mean to say--"

"I've got his eye in my pocket, sir," said Patsy, in a hoarse whisper. "He's sint a telygram for another wan but till it comes he's tethered to his bed like a horse to a--"

"That's enough--that's enough," said Mr. Fanshawe. "Here's half a crown for you, Patsy, for--carrying my cartridges."

The Ballygullion Creamery Society, Limited.

_From "Ballygullion."_

BY LYNN DOYLE.

'Twas the man from the Department of Agriculture comin' down to give a lecture on poultry an' dairy-farmin', that set the ball a-rollin'.

The whole farmers av the counthry gathered in to hear him, an' for days afther it was over, there was no talk at all barrin' about hens an' crame, an' iverybody had a schame av their own to propose.

Ould Miss Armitage ap at the Hall was on for encouragin' poultry-farmin'; an' give a prize for the best layin' hen in Ballygullion, that riz more scunners in the counthry than the twelfth av July itself. There was a powerful stir about it, an' near iverybody enthered.