Chapter VI: Part 6

It was nigh hand a year from the time whin the news iv Leum-a-rinka bein' killed by the Frinch came home, an' in place iv forgettin' him, as the saisins wint over, it's what Molly was growin' paler and more lonesome every day, antil the neighbours thought she was fallin' into a decline; and this is the way it was with her whin the fair of Lisnamoe kem round.

It was a beautiful evenin', just at the time iv the reapin' iv the oats, and the sun was shinin' through the red clouds far away over the hills iv Cahirmore.

Her father an' mother, an' the biys an' girls, was all away down in the fair, and Molly sittin' all alone on the step of the stile, listenin' to the foolish little birds whistlin' among the leaves--and the sound of the mountain-river flowin' through the stones an' bushes--an' the crows flyin' home high overhead to the woods iv Glinvarlogh--an' down in the glen, far away, she could see the fair-green iv Lisnamoe in the mist, an' sunshine among the grey rocks and threes--an' the cows an' horses, an' the blue frieze, an' the red cloaks, an' the tents, an' the smoke, an' the ould round tower--all as soft an' as sorrowful as a dhrame iv ould times.

An' while she was looking this way, an' thinking iv Leum-a-rinka--poor Bill iv the dance, that was sleepin' in his lonesome glory in the fields of Spain--she began to sing the song he used to like so well in the ould times:

"Shule, shule, shule a-roon;"

an' when she ended the verse, what do you think but she heard a manly voice just at the other side iv the hedge, singing the last words over again!

Well she knew it; her heart fluttered up like a little bird that id be wounded, and then dhropped still in her breast. It was himself. In a minute he was through the hedge and standing before her.

"Leum!" says she.

"Mavourneen cuishla machree!" says he; and without another word they were locked in one another's arms.

Well, it id only be nansinse for me thryin' to tell ye all the foolish things they said, and how they looked in one another's faces, an' laughed, an' cried, an' laughed again; and how, when they came to themselves' and she was able at last to believe it was raly Billy himself that was there, actially holdin' her hand, and lookin' in her eyes the same way as ever, barrin' he was browner and boulder, an' did not, maybe, look quite as merry in himself as he used to do in former times--an' fondher for all, an' more lovin' than ever--how he tould her all about the wars wid the Frinchmen--an' how he was wounded, and left for dead in the field of battle, bein' shot through the breast, and how he was discharged, an' got a pinsion iv a full shillin' a day--and how he was come back to live the rest iv his days in the sweet glen iv Lisnamoe, an' (if only she'd consint) to marry herself in spite iv them all.

Well, ye may aisily think they had plinty to talk about, afther seven years without seeing one another; and so signs on, the time flew by as swift an' as pleasant as a bird on the wing, an' the sun wint down, an' the moon shone sweet, yet they didn't mind a ha'port about it, but kept talkin an' whisperin', an' whisperin' an' talkin'; for it's wondherful how often a tinder-hearted girl will bear to hear a purty boy tellin' her the same story constant over an' over; ontil at last, sure enough, they heerd the ould man himself comin' up the boreen, singin' the "Colleen Rue"--a thing he never done barrin' whin he had a dhrop in; an' the misthress walkin' in front iv him an' two illigant Kerry cows he just bought in the fair, an' the sarvint biys dhriving them behind.

"Oh, blessed hour!" says Molly, "here's my father."

"I'll spake to him this minute," says Bill.

"Oh, not for the world," says she; "he's singin' the 'Colleen Rue,'" says she, "and no one dar raison with him," says she.

"An' where'll I go?" says he, "for they're into the haggard an top iv us," says he, "an' they'll see me iv I lep through the hedge," says he.

"Thry the pig-sty," says she, "mavourneen," says she, "in the name iv God," says she.

"Well, darlint," says he, "for your sake," says he, "I'll condescend to them animals," says he.

An' wid that he makes a dart to get in; bud, begorra, it was too late--the pigs was all gone home, and the pig-sty was as full as the Birr coach wid six inside.

"Och! blur-an'-agers," says he, "there is not room for a suckin'-pig," says he, "let alone a Christian," says he.

"Well, run into the house, Billy," says she, "this minute," says she, "an' hide yourself antil they're quiet," says she, "an' thin you can steal out," says she, "anknownst to them all," says she.

"I'll do your biddin'," says he, "Molly asthore," says he.

"Run in thin," says she, "an' I'll go an' meet them," says she.

So wid that away wid her, and in wint Billy, an' where did he hide himself bud in a little closet that was off iv the room where the ould man and woman slep'. So he closed the doore, and sot down in an ould chair he found there convanient.

Well, he was not well in it when all the rest iv them comes into the kitchen, an' ould Tim Donovan singin' the "Colleen Rue" for the bare life, an' the rest i' them sthrivin' to humour him, an doin' exactly everything he bid them, because they seen he was foolish be the manes of the liquor.

Well, to be sure all this kep' them long enough, you may be sure, from goin' to bed, so that Billy could get no manner iv an advantage to get out iv the house, and so he sted sittin' in the dark closet in state, cursin' the "Colleen Rue," and wondhering to the divil whin they'd get the ould man into his bed. An', as if that was not delay enough, who should come in to stop for the night but Father O'Flaherty, of Cahirmore, that was buyin' a horse at the fair! An' av course, there was a bed to be med down for his Raverance, an' some other attintions; an' a long discoorse himself an' ould Mrs. Donovan had about the slaughter iv Billy Malowney, an' how he was buried on the field of battle; an' his Raverance hoped he got a dacent funeral, an' all the other convaniences iv religion. An' so you may suppose it was pretty late in the night before all iv them got to their beds.

Well, Tim Donovan could not settle to sleep at all at all, an' he kep' discoorsin' the wife about the new cows he bought, an' the strippers he sould, an' so on for better than an hour, ontil from one thing to another he kem to talk about the pigs, an' the poulthry, and at last, having nothing betther to discoorse about, he begun at his daughter Molly, an' all the heartscald she was to him be raisin iv refusin' the men. An' at last says he:

"I onderstand," says he, "very well how it is," says he. "It's how she was in love," says he, "wid that bliggard, Billy Malowney," says he, "bad luck to him!" says he; for by this time he was coming to his raison.

"Ah!" says the wife, says she, "Tim darlint, don't be cursin' them that's dead an' buried," says she.

"An' why would not I," says he, "if they desarve it?" says he.

"Whisht," says she, "an' listen to that," says she. "In the name of the Blessed Vargin," says she, "what is it?" says she.

An' sure enough what was it bud Bill Malowney that was dhroppin' asleep in the closet, an' snorin' like a church organ.

"Is it a pig," says he, "or is it a Christian?"

"Arra! listen to the tune iv it," says she; "sure a pig never done the like iv that," says she.

"Whatever it is," says he, "it's in the room wid us," says he. "The Lord be marciful to us!" says he.

"I tould you not to be cursin'," says she; "bad luck to you," says she, "for an ommadhaun!" for she was a very religious woman in herself.

"Sure, he's buried in Spain," says he; "an' it is not for one little innocent expression," says he, "he'd be comin' all that way to annoy the house," says he.

Well, while they war talkin,' Bill turns in the way he was sleepin' into an aisier imposture; and as soon as he stopped snorin' ould Tim Donovan's courage riz agin, and says he.

"I'll go to the kitchen," says he, "an' light a rish," says he.

An' with that away wid him, an' the wife kep' workin' the beads all the time, an' before they kem back Bill was snorin' as loud as ever.

"Oh! bloody wars--I mane the blessed saints above us!--that deadly sound," says he; "it's going on as lively as ever," says he.

"I'm as wake as a rag," says his wife, says she, "wid the fair anasiness," says she. "It's out iv the little closet it's comin'," says she.

"Say your prayers," says he, "an' hould your tongue," says he, "while I discoorse it," says he. "An' who are ye," says he, "in the name iv all the holy saints?" says he, givin' the door a dab iv a crusheen that wakened Bill inside.

"I ax," says he, "who you are?" says he.

Well, Bill did not rightly remember where in the world he was, but he pushed open the door, an' says he:

"Billy Malowney's my name," says he, "an' I'll thank ye to tell me a betther," says he.

Well, whin Tim Donovan heard that, an' actially seen that it was Bill himself that was in it, he had not strength enough to let a bawl out iv him, but he dhropt the candle out iv his hand, an' down wid himself on his back in the dark.

Well, the wife let a screech you'd hear at the mill iv Killraghlin, an'--

"Oh," says she, "the spirit has him, body an' bones!" says she. "Oh, holy St. Bridget--oh Mother iv Marcy--oh, Father O'Flaherty!" says she, screechin' murdher from out iv her bed.

Well, Bill Malowney was not a minute rememberin' himself, an' so out wid him quite an' aisy, an' through the kitchen; bud in place iv the door iv the house, it's what he kem to the door iv Father O'Flaherty's little room, where he was jist wakenin' wid the noise iv the screechin' an' battherin'; an', bedad, Bill makes no more about it, but he jumps, wid one boult, clever an' clane into his Raverance's bed.

"What do ye mane, you uncivilised bliggard?" says his Raverance. "Is that a venerable way," says he, "to approach your clargy?" says he.

"Hould your tongue," says Bill, "an' I'll do ye no harum," says he.

"Who are you, ye schoundhrel iv the world?" says his Raverance.

"Whisht!" says he, "I'm Bill Malowney," says he.

"You lie!" says his Raverance--for he was frightened beyont all bearin'--an' he makes bud one jump out iv the bed at the wrong side, where there was only jist a little place in the wall for a press, an' his Raverance could not as much as turn in it for the wealth iv kingdoms. "You lie," says he; "but for fear it's the thruth you're tellin'," says he, "here's at ye in the name iv all the blessed saints together!" says he.

An' wid that, my dear, he blazes away at him wid a Latin prayer iv the strongest description, an', as he said to himself afterwards, that was iv a nature that id dhrive the divil himself up the chimley like a puff iv tobacky smoke, wid his tail betune his legs.

"Arra, what are ye sthrivin' to say," says Bill, says he; "if ye don't hould your tongue," says he, "wid your parly voo," says he, "it's what I'll put my thumb on your windpipe," says he, "an' Billy Malowney never wint back iv his word yet," says he.

"Thunder-an-owns," says his Raverance, says he--seein' the Latin took no infect on him, at all at all, an' screechin' that you'd think he'd rise the thatch up iv the house wid the fair fright--"an' thundher and blazes, boys, will none of yes come here wid a candle, but lave your clargy to be choked by a spirit in the dark?" says he.

Well, be this time the sarvint boys and the rest iv them wor up an' half dressed, an' in they all run, one on top iv another, wid pitchforks and spades, thinkin' it was only what his Raverance slep' a dhrame iv the like, by means of the punch he was afther takin' just before he rowl'd himself into the bed. But, begorra, whin they seen it was raly Billy Malowney himself that was in it, it was only who'd be foremost out agin, tumblin' backways, one over another, and his Raverance roarin' an' cursin' them like mad for not waitin' for him.

Well, my dear, it was betther than half an hour before Billy Malowney could explain to them all how it raly was himself, for begorra they were all iv them persuadin' him that he was a spirit to that degree it's a wondher he did not give in to it, if it was only to put a stop to the argiment.

Well, his Raverance tould the ould people then there was no use in sthrivin' agin the will iv Providence an' the vagaries iv love united; an' whin they kem to undherstand to a sartinty how Billy had a shillin' a day for the rest iv his days, begorra they took rather a likin' to him, and considhered at wanst how he must hav riz out of all his nansinse entirely, or His gracious Majesty id never have condescinded to show him his countenance every day of his life on a silver shillin'.

An' so, begorra, they never stopt till it was all settled--an' there was not sich a weddin' as that in the counthry sinst. It's more than forty years ago, an' though I was no more nor a gossoon meself, I remimber it like yesterday. Molly never looked so purty before, an' Billy Malowney was plisant beyont all hearin', to that degree that half the girls in it was fairly tarin' mad--only they would not let on--they had not him to themselves in place iv her. An' begorra, I'd be afeared to tell ye, because you would not believe me, since that blessid man Father Mathew put an ent to all soorts of sociality, the Lord reward him, how many gallons iv pottieen whisky was dhrank upon that most solemn and tindher occaison.

Pat Hanlon, the piper, had a faver out iv it; an' Neddy Shawn Heigue, mountin' his horse the wrong way, broke his collar-bone, by the manes iv fallin' over his tail while he was feelin' for his head; an' Payther Brian, the horse-docther, I am tould, was never quite right in the head ever afther; an' ould Tim Donovan was singin' the "Colleen Rue" night and day for a full week; an', begorra the weddin' was only the foundation iv fun, and the beginning iv divarsion, for there was not a year for ten years afther, an' more, but brought round a christenin' as regular as the sasins revarted.

A Pleasant Journey.

_From the Confessions of Harry Lorrequer._

BY CHARLES LEVER.

I, Harry Lorrequer, was awaiting the mail coach anxiously in the Inn at Naas, when at last there was the sound of wheels, and the driver came into the room, a spectacle of condensed moisture.

"Going on to-night, sir," said he, addressing me; "severe weather, and no chance of its clearing--but, of course, you're inside."

"Why, there is very little doubt of that," said I. "Are you nearly full inside?"

"Only one, sir; but he seems a real queer chap; made fifty inquiries at the office if he could not have the whole inside for himself, and when he heard that one place had been taken--yours, I believe, sir,--he seemed like a scalded bear."

"You don't know his name, then?"

"No, sir, he never gave a name at the office, and his only luggage is two brown paper parcels, without any ticket, and he has them inside: indeed, he never lets them from him, even for a second."

Here the guard's horn sounded.

As I passed from the inn-door to the coach, I congratulated myself that I was about to be housed from the terrific storm of wind and rain that raged without.

"Here's the step, sir," said the guard; "get in, sir, two minutes late already."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said I, as I half fell over the legs of my unseen companion. "May I request leave to pass you?" While he made way for me for this purpose, I perceived that he stooped down and said something to the guard, who, from his answer, had evidently been questioned as to who I was.

"And how did he get here if he took his place in Dublin?" asked the unknown.

"Came half an hour since, sir, in a chaise-and-four," said the guard, as he banged the door behind him, and closed the interview.

"A severe night, sir," said I.

"Mighty severe," briefly and half-crustily replied the unknown, in a strong Cork accent.

"And a bad road, too, sir," said I.

"That's the reason I always go armed," said the unknown, clinking at the same moment something like the barrel of a pistol.

Wondering somewhat at his readiness to mistake my meaning, I felt disposed to drop any further effort to draw him out, and was about to address myself to sleep as comfortably as I could.

"I'll just trouble ye to lean off that little parcel there, sir," said he, as he displaced from its position beneath my elbow one of the paper packages the guard had already alluded to.

In complying with this rather gruff demand one of my pocket pistols, which I carried in my breast-pocket, fell out upon his knee, upon which he immediately started, and asked, hurriedly: "And are you armed, too?"

"Why yes," said I laughingly; "men of my trade seldom go without something of this kind."

"I was just thinking that same," said the traveller with a half sigh to himself.

I was just settling myself in my corner when I was startled by a very melancholy groan.

"Are you ill, sir?" said I, in a voice of some anxiety.

"You may say that," replied he, "if you knew who you were talking to; although, maybe, you've heard enough of me, though you never saw me till now."

"Without having that pleasure even yet," said I, "it would grieve me to think you should be ill in the coach."

"Maybe it might. Did ye ever hear tell of Barney Doyle?" said he.

"Not to my recollection."

"Then I'm Barney," said he, "that's in all the newspapers in the metropolis. I'm seventeen weeks in Jervis Street Hospital, and four in the Lunatic, and the sorra bit better, after all. You must be a stranger, I'm thinking, or you'd know me now."

"Why, I do confess I've only been a few hours in Ireland for the last six months."

"Aye, that's the reason; I knew you would not be fond of travelling with me if you knew who it was."

"Why, really, I did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting you."

"It's pleasure ye call it; then there's no accountin' for tastes, as Dr. Colles said, when he saw me bite Cusack Rooney's thumb off."

"Bite a man's thumb off!"

"Aye," said he, with a kind of fiendish animation, "in one chop, I wish you'd see how I scattered the consultation;--they didn't wait to ax for a fee."

"A very pleasant vicinity," thought I. "And may I ask, sir," said I, in a very mild and soothing tone of voice--"may I ask the reason for this singular propensity of yours?"

"There it is now, my dear," said he, laying his hand upon my knee familiarly, "that's just the very thing they can't make out. Colles says it's all the cerebellum, ye see, that's inflamed and combusted, and some of the others think it's the spine; and more the muscles; but my real impression is, not a bit they know about it at all."

"And have they no name for the malady?" said I.

"Oh, sure enough they have a name for it."

"And may I ask----"

"Why, I think you'd better not, because, ye see, maybe I might be troublesome to ye in the night, though I'll not, if I can help it; and it might be uncomfortable to you to be here if I was to get one of the fits."

"One of the fits! Why, it's not possible, sir," said I, "you would travel in a public conveyance in the state you mention; your friends surely would not permit it?"

"Why, if they knew, perhaps," slily responded the interesting invalid--"if they knew, they might not exactly like it; but ye see, I escaped only last night, and there'll be a fine hubbub in the morning when they find I'm off; though I'm thinking Rooney's barking away by this time."

"Rooney barking!--why, what does that mean?"

"They always bark for a day or two after they're bit, if the infection comes first from the dog."

"You are surely not speaking of _hydrophobia_?" said I, my hair actually bristling with horror and consternation.

"Ain't I?" replied he; "maybe you've guessed it, though."

"And you have the malady on you at present?" said I trembling for the answer.

"This is the ninth day since I took to biting," said he, gravely.

"And with such a propensity, sir, do you think yourself warranted in travelling in a public coach, exposing others----"

"You'd better not raise your voice that way. If I'm roused it'll be worse for ye, that's all."

"Well, but, is it exactly prudent, in your present delicate state, to undertake a journey?"

"Ah," said he, with a sigh, "I've been longing to see the fox-hounds throw off near Kilkenny; these three weeks I've been thinking of nothing else; but I'm not sure how my nerves will stand the cry; I might be troublesome."

"Well," thought I, "I shall not select that morning for my debut in the field."

"I hope, sir, there's no river or watercourse in this road; anything else I can, I hope, control myself against; but water--running water particularly--makes me troublesome."

Well knowing what he meant by the latter phrase, I felt the cold perspiration settling on my forehead as I remembered that we must be within about ten or twelve miles of a bridge, where we should have to pass a very wide river. I strictly concealed this fact from him, however. He now sank into a kind of moody silence, broken occasionally by a low, muttering noise, as if speaking to himself.

How comfortable my present condition was I need scarcely remark, sitting vis-a-vis to a lunatic, with a pair of pistols in his possession, who had already avowed his consciousness of his tendency to do mischief, and his inability to master it--all this in the dark, and in the narrow limits of a mail-coach, where there was scarcely room for defence, and no possibility of escape. If I could only reach the outside of the coach I would be happy. What were rain and storm, thunder and lightning compared with the chance that awaited me here?--wet through I should inevitably be: but, then, I had not yet contracted the horror of moisture my friend opposite laboured under. Ha! what is that?--is it possible he can be asleep;--is it really a snore? Ah, there it is again;--he must be asleep, surely;--now, then, is my time, or never. I slowly let down the window of the coach, and, stretching forth my hand, turned the handle cautiously and slowly; I next disengaged my legs, and by a long, continuous effort of creeping, I withdrew myself from the seat, reached the step, when I muttered something very like thanksgiving to Providence for my rescue. With little difficulty I now climbed up beside the guard, whose astonishment at my appearance was indeed considerable.

Well, on we rolled, and very soon, more dead than alive, I sat a mass of wet clothes, like a morsel of black and spongy wet cotton at the bottom of a schoolboy's ink-bottle, saturated with rain and the black dye of my coat. My hat, too, had contributed its share of colouring matter, and several long, black streaks coursed down my "wrinkled front," giving me very much the air of an Indian warrior who had got the first priming of his war paint. I certainly must have been a rueful object, were I only to judge from the faces of the waiters as they gazed on me when the coach drew up at Rice and Walsh's Hotel.

Cold, wet, and weary as I was, my curiosity to learn more of my late agreeable companion was strong as ever within me. I could catch a glimpse of his back, and hurried after the great unknown into the coffee room. By the time I entered, he was spreading himself comfortably, _a l'Anglais_, before the fire, and displayed to my wandering and stupefied gaze the pleasant features of Dr. Finucane.

"Why, Doctor--Doctor Finucane," cried I, "is it possible? Were you, then, really the inside in the mail last night?"

"Not a doubt of it, Mr. Lorrequer; and may I make bould to ask were you the outside?"

"Then what, may I beg to know, did you mean by your story about Barney Doyle, and the hydrophobia, and Cusack Rooney's thumb--eh?"

"Oh!" said Finucane, "this will be the death of me. And it was you that I drove outside in all the rain last night? Oh, it will kill Father Malachi outright with laughing when I tell him." And he burst out into a fit of merriment that nearly induced me to break his head with a poker.

"Am I to understand, then, Mr. Finucane, that this practical joke of yours was contrived for my benefit and for the purpose of holding me up to the ridicule of your acquaintances?"

"Nothing of the kind," said Fin., drying his eyes, and endeavouring to look sorry and sentimental. "If I had only the least suspicion in life that it was you, I'd not have had the hydrophobia at all--and, to tell you the truth, you were not the only one frightened--you alarmed me, too."

"I alarmed you! Why, how can that be?"

"Why, the real affair is this: I was bringing these two packages of notes down to my cousin Callaghan's bank in Cork--fifteen thousand pounds, and when you came into the coach at Naas, I thought it was all up with me. The guard just whispered in my ear that he saw you look at the priming of your pistols before getting in. Well, when you got seated, the thought came into my mind that maybe, highwayman as you were, you would not like dying an unnatural death, more particularly if you were an Irishman; and so I trumped up that long story about the hydrophobia, and the gentleman's thumb, and dear knows what besides; and, while I was telling it, the cold perspiration was running down my head and face, for every time you stirred I said to myself--Now he'll do it. Two or three times, do you know, I was going to offer you ten shillings in the pound, to spare my life; and once, God forgive me, I thought it would not be a bad plan to shoot you by 'mistake,' do you perceive?"

"Why, I'm very much obliged to you for your excessively kind intentions; but, really, I feel you have done quite enough for me on the present occasion. But, come now, doctor, I must get to bed, and, before I go, promise me two things--to dine with us to-day at the mess, and not to mention a syllable of what occurred last night: it tells, believe me, very badly for both. So keep the secret; for if these fellows of ours ever get hold of it I may sell out, and quit the army;--I'll never hear the end of it!"

"Never fear, my boy; trust me. I'll dine with you, and you're as safe as a church mouse for anything I'll tell them; so now, you'd better change your clothes, for I'm thinking it rained last night."

The Battle of Aughrim.

_From "Anna Cosgrave," an unpublished Novel._

BY WILLIAM CARLETON.

Many of our readers will be surprised at what we are about to relate. Nay, what is more, we fear they will not yield us credence, but impute it probably to our own invention; whereas we beg to assure them that it is strictly and literally true. The period of the scene we are about to describe may be placed in the year 1806. At the time neither party feeling nor religious animosity had yet subsided after the ferment of the '98 insurrection and the division between the Catholic and Protestant population was very strong and bitter. The rebellion, which commenced in its first principles among the northern Presbyterians and other Protestant classes in a spirit of independence and a love of liberty, soon, in consequence of the influence of some bigots, assumed the character of a civil war between the two religions,--the most internecine description of war that ever devastated a country or drenched it in blood.

A usual amusement at the time was to reproduce the "Battle of Aughrim," in some spacious barn, with a winnowing-cloth for the curtain. This play, bound up with "The Siege of Londonderry," was one of the reading-books in the hedge schools of that day, and circulated largely among the people of all religions: it had, indeed, a most extraordinary influence among the lower classes. "The Battle of Aughrim," however, because it was written in heroic verse, became so popular that it was rehearsed at almost every Irish hearth, both Catholic and Protestant, in the north. The spirit it evoked was irresistible. The whole country became dramatic. To repeat it at the fireside in winter nights was nothing: the Orangemen should act it, and show to the whole world how the field of Aughrim was so gloriously won. The consequence was that frequent rehearsals took place. The largest and most spacious barns and kilns were fitted up, the night of representation was given out, and crowds, even to suffocation, as they say, assembled to witness the celebrated "Battle of Aughrim."

At first, it was true, the Orangemen had it all to themselves. This, however, could not last. The Catholics felt that they were as capable of patronising the drama as the victors of Aughrim. A strong historic spirit awoke among them. They requested of the Orangemen to be allowed the favour of representing the Catholic warriors of the disastrous field, and, somewhat to their surprise, the request was immediately granted. The Orangemen felt that there was something awkward and not unlike political apostasy in acting the part of Catholics in the play, under any circumstances, no matter how dramatic. It was consequently agreed that the Orangemen should represent the officers of the great man on whose name and title their system had been founded, and the Catholics should represent their own generals and officers under the name of St. Ruth, Sarsfield, and Colonel O'Neill. The first representation of this well-known play took place in the town of Au----. During the few weeks before the great night nothing was heard but incessant repetitions and rehearsals of the play.

The fact of this enactment of the play by individuals so strongly opposed to each other both in religion and politics excited not only an unusual degree of curiosity, but some apprehension as to the result, especially when such language as this was heard:--

"We licked them before," said the Orangemen, "an' by japers, we'll lick them again. Jack Tait acts General Jingle, an' he's the boy will show them what chance a Papist has against a Prodestan!"

"Well, they bate us at Aughrim," said the Catholics, "but with Tam Whiskey at our head, we'll turn the tebles and lick them now."

Both parties on that night were armed with swords for the battle scene, which represented the result of the engagement. Unfortunately, when the scene came on, instead of the bloodless fiction of the drama they began to slash each other in reality, and had it not been for the interference of the audience there is no doubt that lives would have been lost. After this, swords were interdicted and staves substituted. The consequence, as might have been expected, was that heads were broken on both sides, and a general fight between Protestant and Catholic portions of the actors and the audience ensued.

In the meanwhile the dramatic mania had become an epidemic. Its fascination carried overt opposition before it. A new system was adopted. The Orange party was to be represented by staunch Catholics, all probably Ribbonmen, and the Catholics by the rankest and most violent Orangemen in the parish. This course was resorted to in order to prevent the serious quarrels with which the play generally closed. Such was the state which the dramatic affairs of the parish had reached when the occasion, a summer evening, arrived that had been appointed by the herculean manager, John Tait, for the exhibition of "The Battle of Aughrim," in a large and roomy barn of a wealthy farmer named Jack Stuart, in the townland of Rark.

His house stood on a little swelling eminence beside which an old road ran, and into which the little green before the door sloped. The road, being somewhat lower, passed close to his outhouses, which faced the road, but in consequence of their positions a loft was necessary to constitute the barn, so that it might be level with the haggard on the elevation. The entrance to the barn was by a door in one of the gables, whilst the stable and cow-house, or byre as it was called, were beneath the loft, and had their door open to the road. This accurate description will be found necessary in order to understand what followed.

In preparing the barn for the entertainment, the principal embarrassment consisted in want of seats.

Necessity, however, is well-known to be the mother of invention; and in this case that fact was established at the expense of honest Jack Stuart. Five or six sacks of barley were stretched length-wise on that side of the wall which faced the road. Now, barley, although the juice of it makes many a head light, is admitted to be the heaviest of all grain. On the opposite side, next the haggard, the seats consisted of chairs and forms, some of them borrowed from the neighbours. The curtain (i.e., the winnowing-cloth) was hung up at the south end, and everything, so far as preparation went, was very well managed. Of course, it was unnecessary to say that the entertainment was free to such as could find room, for which there was many an angry struggle.

We have said that from an apprehension that the heroes on both sides might forget the fiction and resort to reality by actual fighting, it had generally been arranged that the Catholic party should be represented by the Orangemen, and _vice versa_; and so it was in this instance. The caste of the piece was as follows:--

Baron de Ginckel (General of the English forces) Tom Whiskey.
(A perfect devil at the cudgels when sober, especially against an
Orangeman.)

Marquis de Ruvigny Denis Shevlin.
(Ditto with Tom Whiskey as to fighting.)

General Talmash Barney Broghan.
(A fighting Blacksmith.)

General Mackay Dandy Delaney.
(At present on his keeping--but place of birth unknown.)

Colonels Herbert and Earles Tom M'Roarkin, of Springstown, and
Paddy Rafferty, of Dernascrobe.
(Both awfully bellicose, and never properly at peace unless when in
a fight.)

The cast of the Catholic leaders was this:--

Monsieur St. Ruth (General of the Irish Forces) Jacky Vengeance.
(An Orangeman who had lost a brother at the battle of Vinegar Hill,
hence the nickname of Vengeance.)

Sarsfield Big Jack Tait.
(Master of an Orange Lodge.)

(We know not how far the belief in Sarsfield's immense size is true
to fact; but be this as it may, we have it from the tradition that
he was a man of prodigious stature, and Jack was six feet four in
height, and strong in proportion.)

General Dorrington George Twin.
(Of Mallybarry, another man of prowess in party fights, and an
Orangeman.)

Colonel Talbot Lick-Papish Nelson.

Colonel Gordon O'Neill Fighting Grimes.

Sir Charles Godfrey (a young English gentleman of fortune, in love with
Colonel Talbot's Daughter, and volunteer in the Irish army)
Jemmy Lynch, the fighting tailor.
(He fought for his customers, whether Orange or Green, according as
they came in his way.)

Jemima (Colonel Talbot's daughter) Grasey (Grace) Stuart.
(A bouncing virago, at least twelve stone weight.)

Lucinda (wife of Colonel Herbert) Dolly Stuart.
(Her sister, much of the same proportions.)

Ghost Cooney Mullowney.
(Of the Bohlies, a townland adjoining.)

On the chairs and forms, being the seats of honour, were placed the Protestant portion of the audience, because they were the most wealthy and consequently the most respectable, at least in the eyes of the world--by which we mean the parish. On the barley-sacks were deposited the "Papishes," because they were then the poor and the downtrodden people, so that they and "the Prodestants" sat on opposite sides of the barn. There were no political watch-words, no "three cheers" for either this man or that, owing to the simple reason that no individual present had ever seen a theatre in his life. The only exception was that of an unfortunate flunkey, who had seen a play in Dublin, and shouted "up with the rag," for which, as it was supposed that he meant to turn the whole thing into ridicule, he was kicked out by the Ghost, who, by the way, was one of the stoutest fellows among them, and would have been allotted to a higher part were it not for the vileness of his memory.

At length the play commenced, and went on with remarkable success. The two batches of heroes were in high feather--King William's party (to wit, Tom Whiskey and his friends) standing accidentally on that side of the barn which was occupied by the barley-sacks and the Papishes, and the Catholic generals ranged with the Orange audience on the opposite side. It was now the Ghost's cue to enter from behind the winnowing-cloth, but before the apparition had time to appear, the prompter's attention was struck by a sudden sinking of the party on the sacks, which seemed rather unaccountable. Yet, as it did not appear to have been felt by the parties themselves, who were too much wrapped up in the play, it excited neither notice nor alarm. At length the Ghost came out, dressed in a white sheet his face rendered quite spectral by flour. Sir Charles Godfrey, alias Jemmy Lynch, the tailor, had just concluded the following words, addressed to the Ghost himself, who in life it appeared had been his father:--

"Oh, I'll sacrifice
A thousand Romish sowls who, shocked with woe,
Shall, bound in shackles, fill the shades below."
Ghost.--"Be not so rash, wild youth----"

He had scarcely uttered the words when a noise like the "crack of doom" was heard: one-half of the barn-floor had disappeared! The Ghost made a step to approach Sir Charles, his son, when the last object we saw was his heels--his legs dressed in blue woollen stockings and his sturdy hinder parts cased in strong corduroys, in the act of disappearing in the abyss beneath. Down he and the others went, and were lodged in the cow-house below amid the warm manure.

The consternation, the alarm, the fright and terror among the safe and Protestant side of the audience, could not be described. But the disaster proved to be one of the most harmless for its nature that ever occurred, for it was only destructive to property. Not a single injury was sustained with the exception of that which befell the Ghost, who had his arm dislocated at the elbow. The accident now resumed a religious hue. The Catholics charged the others with the concoction of a Protestant plot, by putting them together on what they called the rotten side of the house. The wrangle became high and abusive, and was fast hastening into polemical theology, when the _dramatis personae_ offered to settle it in a peaceable way, by fighting out the battle on the green. It was the scene of terrible and strong confusion, so much so that all we can glean from our recollection is the image of a desperate personal conflict between the actors whose orange and green ribbons were soon flung off as false emblems of the principles which they had adopted only for the sake of ending the play in a peaceable manner.

The Quare Gander.

_From "The Purcell Papers."_

BY JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU

Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do--an' he rinted the biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an' bein' mighty cute an' a sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest; but, unluckily, he was blessed with an ilegant large family iv daughters, an' iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin' to make up fortunes for the whole of them--an' there wasn't a conthrivance iv any sort of description for makin' money out iv the farm but he was up to. Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin' up in the world, he always kep' a power iv turkies, and all soarts iv poultry; an' he was out iv all raison partial to geese--an' small blame to him for that same--for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand--an' get a fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizeable eggs--an' when they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an' sell them to the gintlemen for goslings, d'ye see,--let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse iv time, that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin' to Terence, an' sorra a place he could go serenadin' about the farm, or lookin' afther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an' rubbin' himself agin his legs, and lookin' up in his face just like any other Christian id do; and the likes iv it was never seen, Terence Mooney an' the gandher wor so great. An' at last the bird was so engagin' that Terence would not allow it to be plucked any more; an' kept it from that time out for love an' affection; just all as one like one iv his children. But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an' the neighbours begin'd to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher; an' some iv them said it was the divil, and more iv them that it was a fairy. Well Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin', and you may be sure he was not altogether aisy in his mind about it, an' from one day to another he was gettin' more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an' it's he was the ilegant hand at the business, and sorra a sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest; an' moreover, he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, this man's father that was. So without more about it, he was sent for; an' sure enough, not long he was about it, for he kem back that very evening along wid the boy that was sint for him; an' as soon as he was there, an' tuk his supper, an' was done talkin' for a while, he bigined, of coorse, to look into the gandher. Well, he turned it this way an' that way, to the right and to the left, an' straight-ways, an' upside down, an' when he was tired handlin' it, says he to Terence Mooney:

"Terence," says he, "you must remove the bird into the next room," says he, "an' put a petticoat," says he, "or any other convaynience round his head," says he.

"An' why so?" says Terence.

"Becase," says Jer, says he.

"Becase what?" says Terence.

"Becase," says Jer, "if it isn't done--you'll never be aisy agin," says he, "or pusilanimous in your mind," says he; "so ax no more questions, but do my biddin," says he.

"Well," says Terence, "have your own way," says he.

An' wid that he tuk the ould gandher, and giv' it to one iv the gossoons.

"An' take care," says he, "don't smother the crathur," says he.

Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, "Do you know what that ould gandher is, Terence Mooney?"

"Sorra a taste," says Terence.

"Well, then," says Jer, "the gandher is your own father," says he.

"It's jokin' you are," says Terence, turnin' mighty pale; "how can an ould gandher be my father?" says he.

"I'm not funnin' you at all," says Jer, "it's thrue what I tell you--it's your father's wandherin' sowl," says he, "that's naturally tuk pissession iv the ould gandher's body," says he; "I know him many ways, and I wondher," says he, "you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself," says he.

"Oh!" says Terence, "what will I ever do, at all, at all," says he; "it's all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste," says he.

"That can't be helped now," says Jer, "it was a sevare act, surely," says he, "but it's too late to lamint for it now," says he; "the only way to prevint what's past," says he, "is to put a stop to it before it happens," says he.

"Thrue for you," says Terence, "but how did you come to the knowledge iv my father's sowl," says he, "bein' in the ould gandher?" says he.

"If I tould you," says Jer, "you would not understand me," says he, "without book-larnin' an' gasthronomy," says he; "so ax me no questions," says he, "an I'll tell you no lies; but b'lieve me in this much," says he, "it's your father that's in it," says he, "an' if I don't make him spake to-morrow mornin'," says he, "I'll give you lave to call me a fool," says he.

"Say no more," says Terence, "that settles the business," says he; "an' oh! is it not a quare thing," says he, "for a dacent, respictable man," says he, "to be walkin' about the counthry in the shape iv an ould gandher," says he; "and, oh, murdher, murdher! is it not often I plucked him," says he, "an' tundher and turf, might not I have ate him," says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin' your prisince, an' was on the pint iv faintin' wid the bare notions iv it.

Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry, to him, quite an aisy--"Terence," says he, "don't be aggravatin' yourself," says he, "for I have a plan composed that'll make him spake out," says he, "an' tell what it is in the world he's wantin'," says he; "an' mind an' don't be comin' in wid your gosther an' to say agin anything I tell you," says he, "but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back," says he, "how that we're goin' to sind him to-morrow mornin' to market," says he; "an' if he don't spake to-night," says he, "or gother himself out iv the place," says he, "put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart," says he, "straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aitin'," says he, "along wid the two gossoons," says he; "an' my name isn't Jer Garvan," says he, "if he doesn't spake out before he's half way," says he; "an' mind," says he, "as soon as ever he says the first word," says he, "that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty," says he, "an' if his Raverance doesn't make him ratire," says he, "into the flames of Purgathory," says he, "there's no vartue in my charms," says he.

Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an' they all begined to talk iv sindin' him the nixt mornin' to be sould for roastin' in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled; but not a notice the gandher tuk, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord Liftenant; an' Terence desired the boy to get ready the _kish_ for the poulthry "an' to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug," says he, "for it's the last jauntin' the poor ould gandher 'ill get in this world," says he.

Well, as the night was getting late, Terence was growin' mighty sorrowful an' down-hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was going to happen. An' as soon as the wife an' the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some illigant potteen, an' himself and Jer Garvan sot down to it, an' the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them: it wasn't an imparial though, an' more's the pity, for them wasn't anvinted antil short since; but sorra a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew begin'd to give the pledge, an' wid the blessin' iv timperance to deginerate Ireland. An' sure I have the medle myself; an' it's proud I am iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it's mighty dhry.

Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop, "for enough is as good as a faste," says he, "an' I pity the vagabone," says he, "that is not able to conthroul his liquor," says he, "an' to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure," says he, an' wid that he wished Jer Garvan a good night, an' walked out iv the room. But he wint out the wrong door, being a trifle hearty in himself, an' not rightly knowin' whether he was standin' on his head or his heels, or both iv them at the same time, an' in place iv gettin' into bed, where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin'; an', sure enough, he sunk down snug an' complate through the hay to the bottom; an' wid the turnin' an' roulin' about in the night, not a bit iv him but was covered up as snug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin'.

So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that war to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an' they cotched the ould gandher, an' put him in the hamper and clapped a good whisp iv hay on the top iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, an med the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an' put the hamper up on the car, wontherin' all the while what in the world was makin' the ould burd so surprisin' heavy.

Well, they wint along on the road towards Tipperary, wishin' every minute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn't half like the notions iv havin' no company but the bewitched gandher, an' small blame to them for that same. But, although they wor shakin' in their skins in dhread iv the ould bird beginin' to convarse them every minute, they did not let on to one another, bud kep' singin' and whistlin', like mad to keep the dhread out iv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half an hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty's, an' there was one rut three feet deep at the laste; an' the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin' through it, that wakened Terence within the basket.

"Oh!" says he, "my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what are ye doin' wid me?"

"Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?" says the boy that was next to the car, turnin' as white as the top iv a musharoon; "did ye hear anything quare soundin' out iv the hamper?" says he.

"No, nor you," says Thady, turnin' as pale as himself, "it's the ould gandher that's gruntin' wid the shakin' he's gettin'," says he.

"Where have ye put me into," says Terence, inside; "let me out," says he, "or I'll be smothered this minute," says he.

"There's no use in purtending," says the boy; "the gandher's spakin', glory be to God!" says he.