Chapter XI: Part 11

“Now, Frank, I know you're goin' to scould me, and what is more, I know I disarve all you could say to me; but there's one thing you don't know, an' that is what I suffer for lettin' myself be made a fool of last night. Afther the advices you have so often given me, and afther what my father so often tould us to think of ourselves, and afther the solemn promises I made to you--and that I broke, I feel as if I was nothin' more or less than a disgrace to the name.”

“Art,” said the other, “I'm glad to hear you speak as you do; for it's a proof that repentance is in your heart. I suppose I needn't say that it's your intention not to be caught be these fellows again.”

“By the sacred--”

“Whisht,” said Frank, clapping his hand upon his mouth; “there's no use at all in rash oaths, Art. If your mind is made up honestly and firmly in the sight of God--and dependin' upon his assistance, that is enough --and a great deal betther, too, than a rash oath made in a sudden fit of repentance--ay, before you're properly recovered from your liquor. Now say no more, only promise me you won't do the like, again.”

“Frank, listen to me--by all the--”

“Hould, Art,” replied Frank, stopping him again; “I tell you once more, this rash swearin' is a bad sign--I'll hear no rash oaths; but listen you to me; if your mind is made up against drinkin' this way again, jist look me calmly and steadily in the face, and answer me simply by yes or no. Now take your time, an' don't be in a hurry--be cool--be calm--reflect upon what you're about to say; and whether it's your solemn and serious intention to abide by it. My question 'll be very short and very simple; your answer, as I said, will be merely yes or no. Will you ever allow these fellows to make you drunk again? Yes or no, an' not another word.”

“No.”

“That will do,” said Frank; “now give me your hand, and a single word upon what has passed you will never hear from me.”

In large manufactories, and in workshops similar to that in which the two brothers were now serving their apprenticeship, almost every one knows that the drunken and profligate entertain an unaccountable antipathy against the moral and the sober. Art's last fit of intoxication was not only a triumph over himself, but, what was still more, a triumph over his brother, who had so often prevented him from falling into their snares and joining in their brutal excesses. It so happened, however, that about this precise period, Art had, unfortunately, contracted an intimacy with one of the class I speak of, an adroit fellow with an oily tongue, vast powers of flattery, and still greater powers of bearing liquor--for Frank could observe, that notwithstanding all their potations, he never on any occasion observed him affected by drink, a circumstance which raised him in his estimation, because he considered that he was rather an obliging, civil young fellow, who complied so far as to give these men his society, but yet had sufficient firmness to resist the temptations to drink beyond the bounds of moderation. The upshot of all this was, that Frank, not entertaining any suspicion particularly injurious to Harte, for such was his name, permitted his brother to associate with him much more frequently than he would have done, had he even guessed at his real character.

One day, about a month after the conversation which we have just detailed between the two brothers, the following conversation took place among that class of the mechanics whom we shall term the profligates:--

“So he made a solemn promise, Harte, to _Drywig_”--this was a nickname they had for Frank--“that he'd never smell liquor again.”

“A most solemnious promise,” said Harte ironically; “a most solemn and solemnious promise; an' only that I know he's not a Methodist, I could a'most mistake him for Paddy M'Mahon, the locality preacher, when he tould me--”

“Paddy M'Mahon!” exclaimed Skinadre, the first speaker, a little thin fellow, with white hair and red ferret eyes; “why, who the divil ever heard of a Methodist Praicher of the name of Paddy M'Mahon?”

“It's aisy known,” observed a fellow named, or rather nicknamed, Jack Slanty, in consequence of a deformity in his leg, that gave him the appearance of leaning or slanting to the one side; “it's aisy known, Skinadre, that you're not long in this part of the country, or you'd not ax who Paddy M'Mahon is.”

“Come, Slanty, never mind Paddy M'Mahon,” said another of them; “he received the gift of grace in the shape of a purty Methodist wife and a good fortune; ay, an' a sweet love-faist he had of it; he dropped the Padereens over Solomon's Bridge, and tuck to the evenin' meetins--that's enough for you to know; and now, Harte, about Maguire?”

“Why,” said Harte, “if I'm not allowed to edge in a word, I had betther cut.”

“A most solemn promise, you say?”

“A most solemn and solemnious promise, that was what I said; never again by night or day, wet or dry, high or low, in or out, up or down, here or there, to--to--get himself snimicated wid any liquorary fluid whatsomever, be the same more or less, good, bad, or indifferent, hot or could, thick or thin, black or white--”

“Have done, Harte; quit your cursed sniftherin', an' spake like a Christian; do you think you can manage to circumsniffle him agin?”

“Ay,” said Harte, “or any man that ever trod on neat's leather--barrin' one.”

“And who is that one?”

“That one, sir--that one--do you ax me who that one is?”

“Have you no ears? To be sure I do.”

“Then, Skinadre, I'll tell you--I'll tell you, sarra,”--we ought to add here, that Harte was a first-rate mimic, and was now doing a drunken man,--“I'll tell you, sarra--that person was Nelson on the top of the monument in Sackville street--no--no--I'm wrong; I could make poor ould Horace drunk any time, an' often did--an' many a turn-tumble he got off the monument at night, and the divil's own throuble I had in gettin' him up on it before mornin', bekaise you all know he'd be cashiered, or, any way, brought to coort martial for leavin' his po-po-post.”

“Well, if Nelson's not the man, who is?”

“_Drywig's_ his name,” replied Harte; “you all know one _Drywig_, don't you?”

“Quit your cursed stuff, Harte,” said a new speaker, named Garvey; “if you think you can dose him, say so, and if not, let us have no more talk about it.”

“Faith, an' it'll be a nice card to play,” replied Harte, resuming his natural voice; “but at all events, if you will all drop into Garvey's lodgins and mine, to-morrow evenin', you may find him there; but don't blame me if I fail.”

“No one's goin' to blame you,” said Slanty, “an' the devil's own pity it is that that blasted _Drywig_ of a brother of his keeps him in leadin' strings the way he does.”

“The way I'll do is this: I'll ask him up to look at the pattern of my new waistcoat, an' wanst I get him in, all I have to do is to lay it on thick.”

“I doubt that,” said another, who had joined them; “when he came here first, and for a long time afther, soapin' him might do; but I tell you his eye's open--it's no go--he's wide awake now.”

“Shut your orifice,” said Harte; “lave the thing to me; 'twas I did it before, although he doesn't think so, an' it's I that will do it again, although he doesn't think so. Haven't I been for the last mortal month guardin' him aginst yez, you villains?”

“To-morrow evenin'?”

“Ay, to-morrow evenin'; an' if we don't give him a gauliogue that'll make him dance the circumbendibus widout music--never believe that my name's any thing else than Tom Thin, that got thick upon spring wather. Hello! there's the bell, boys, so mind what I tould yez; we'll give him a farewell benefit, if it was only for the sake of poor _Drywig_. Ah, poor _Drywig!_ how will he live widout him? Ochone, ochone! ha, ha, ha!”

Without at all suspecting the trap that had been set for him, Art attended his business as usual, till towards evening, when Harte took an opportunity, when he got him for a few minutes by himself, of speaking to him apparently in a careless and indifferent way.

“Art, that's a nate patthern in your waistcoat; but any how, I dunna how it is that you contrive to have every thing about you dacenter an' jinteeler than another.” This, by the way, was true, both of him and his brother.

“Tut, it's but middlin',” said Art; “it's now but a has-been:--when it was at itself it wasn't so bad.”

“Begad, it was lovely wanst; now; how do you account, Art, for bein' supairior to us in all in--in every thing, I may say; ay, begad, in every thing, and in all things, for that's a point every one allows.”

“Nonsense, Syl” (his name was Sylvester), “don't be comin' it soft over me; how am I betther than any other?”

“Why, you're betther made, in the first place, than e'er a man among us; in the next place, you're a betther workman;”--both these were true--“an', in the third place, you're the best lookin' of the whole pack; an' now deny these if you can:--eh, ha, ha, ha--my lad, I have you!”

An involuntary smile might be observed on Art's face at the last observation, which also was true.

“Syl,” he replied, “behave yourself; what are you at now? I know you.”

“Know me!” exclaimed Syl; “why what do you know of me? Nothing that's bad I hope, any way.”

“None of your palaver, at all events,” replied Art; “have you got any tobaccy about you?”

“Sorra taste,” replied Harte, “nor had since mornin'.”

“Well, I have then,” said Art, pulling out a piece, and throwing it to him with the air of a superior; “warm your gums wid that, for altho' I seldom take a blast myself, I don't forget them that do.”

“Ah, begorra,” said Harte, in an undertone that was designed to be heard, “there's something in the ould blood still; thank you, Art, faix it's yourself that hasn't your heart in a trifle, nor ever had. I bought a waistcoat on Saturday last from Paddy M'Gartland, but I only tuck it on the condition of your likin' it.”

“Me! ha, ha, ha, well, sure enough, Syl, you're the quarest fellow alive; why, man, isn't it yourself you have to plaise, not me.”

“No matther for that, I'm not goin' to put my judgment in comparishment wid yours, at any rate; an' Paddy M'Gartland himself said, 'Syl, my boy, you know what you're about; if this patthern plaises Art Maguire, it'll plaise anybody; see what it is,' says he, 'to have the fine high ould blood in one's veins.' Begad he did; will you come up this evenin' about seven o'clock, now, like a good fellow, an' pass your opinion for me? Divil a dacent stitch I have, an' I want either it, or another, made up before the ball night.” *

* Country dances, or balls, in which the young men pay
from ten to fifteen pence for whiskey “to trate the
ladies.” We hope they will be abolished.

“Well, upon my soundhers, Syl, I did not think you were such a fool; of coorse I'll pass my opinion on it--about seven o'clock, you say.”

“About seven--thank you, Art; an' now listen;--sure the boys intind to play off some prank upon you afore you lave us.”

“On me,” replied the other, reddening; “very well, Syl, let them do so; I can bear a joke, or give a blow, as well as another; so divil may care, such as they give, such as they'll get--only this, let there be no attempt to make me drink whiskey, or else there may be harder hittin' than some o' them 'ud like, an' I think they ought to know that by this time.”

“By jing, they surely ought; well, but can you spell mum?”

“M-u-m.”

“Ha, ha, ha, take care of yourself, an' don't forget seven.”

“Never fear.”

“Frank,” said Art, “I'm goin' up to Syl Harte's lodgin's to pass my opinion on the patthern of a waistcoat for him.”

“Very well,” said Frank, “of coorse.”

“I'll not stop long.”

“As long or short as you like, Art, my boy.”

“I hope, Frank, you don't imagine that there's any danger of drink?”

“Who, me--why should I, afther what passed? Didn't you give me your word, and isn't your name Maguire? Not I.”

Art had seen, and approved of the pattern, and was chatting with Syl, when a knock came to the room door in which they sat; Syl rose, and opening the door, immediately closed it after him, and began in a low voice to remonstrate with some persons outside. At length Art could hear the subject of debate pretty well--

“Sorra foot yez will put inside the room this evenin', above all evenin's in the year.”

“Why, sure we know he won't drink. I wish to goodness we knew he had been here; we wouldn't ax him to drink, bekase we know he wouldn't.

“No matther for that, sorrow foot yez'll put acrass the thrashel this evenin'; now, I'll toll you what, Skinadre, I wouldn't this blessed minute, for all I've earned these six months, that ye came this evenin';--I have my raisons for it; Art Maguire is a boy that we have no right to compare ourselves wid--you all know that.”

“We all know it, and there's nobody denyin' it; we haven't the blood in our veins that he has, an' blood will show itself anywhere.”

“Well then, boys, for his sake--an' I know you'd do any day for his sake what you wouldn't, nor what you oughtn't, for mine--for his sake, I say, go off wid yez, and bring your liquor somewhere else, or sure wait till to-morrow evenin'.”

“Out of respect for Art Maguire we'll go; an' divil another boy in the province we'd pay that respect to; good-evenin', Syl!”

“Aisy, boys,” said Art, coming to the door, “don't let me frighten you--come in--I'd be very sorry to be the means of spoilin' sport, although I can't drink myself; that wouldn't be generous--come in.”

“Augh,” said Skinadre, “by the livin' it's in him, an' I always knew it was--the rale drop.”

“Boys,” said Harte, “go off wid yez out o' this, I say; divil a foot you'll come in.”

“Arra go to--Jimmaiky; who cares about you, Syl, when we have Art's liberty? Sure we didn't know the thing ourselves half an hour ago.”

“Come, Syl, man alive,” said Art, “let the poor fellows enjoy their liquor, an', as I can't join yez, I'll take my hat an' be off.”

“I knew it, an' bad luck to yez, how yez 'ud drive him away,” said Syl, quite angry.

“Faix, if we disturb you, Art, we're off--that 'ud be too bad; yes, Syl, you were right, it was very thoughtless of us: Art, we ax your pardon, sorra one of us meant you any offence in life--come, boys.”

Art's generosity was thus fairly challenged, and he was not to be outdone--

“Aisy, boys,” said he; “sit down; I'll not go, if that'll plaise yez; sure you'll neither eat me nor dhrink me.”

“Well, there's jist one word you said, Slanty, that makes me submit to it,” observed Harte, “an' that is, that it was accident your comin' at all;” he here looked significantly at Art, as if to remind him of their previous conversation on that day, and as he did it, his face gradually assumed a complacent expression, as much as to say, it's now clear that this cannot be the trap they designed for you, otherwise it wouldn't be accidental. Art understood him, and returned a look which satisfied the other that he did so.

As they warmed in their liquor, or pretended to get warm, many sly attempts to entrap him were made, every one of which was openly and indignantly opposed by Harte, who would not suffer them to offer him a drop.

It is not our intention to dwell upon these matters: at present it is sufficient to say, that after a considerable part of the evening had been spent, Harte rose up, and called upon them all to fill their glasses--

“And,” he added, “as this is a toast that ought always to bring a full glass to the mouth, and an empty one from it, I must take the liberty of axin Art himself to fill a bumper.”

The latter looked at him with a good deal of real surprise, as the others did with that which was of a very different description.

“Skinadre,” proceeded Harte, “will you hand over the cowld wather, for a bumper it must be, if it was vitriol.” He then filled Art's glass with water, and proceeded--“Stand up, boys, and be proud, as you have a right to be; here's the health of Frank Maguire, and the ould blood of Ireland!--hip, hip, hurra!”

“Aisy, boys,” said Art, whose heart was fired by this unexpected compliment, paid to a brother whom he loved so well, and who, indeed, so well, deserved his love; “aisy, boys,” he proceeded, “hand me the whiskey; if it was to be my last, I'll never drink my brother's health in cowld wather.”

“Throth an' you will this time,” said Harte, “undher this roof spirits won't crass; your lips, an' you know for why.”

“I know but one thing,” replied Art, “that as you said yourself, if it was vitriol, I'd dhrink it for the best brother that ever lived; I only promised him that I wouldn't get dhrunk, an' sure, drinkin' a glass o' whiskey, or three either, wouldn't make me dhrunk--so hand it here.”

“Well, Art,” said Harte, “there's one man you can't blame for this, and that is Syl Harte.”

“No, Syl, never--but now, boys, I am ready.”

“Frank Maguire's health! hip, hip, hurra!”

Thus was a fine, generous-minded, and affectionate young man--who possessed all the candor and absence of suspicion which characterize truth--tempted and triumphed over, partly through the very warmth of his own affections, by a set of low, cunning profligates, who felt only anxious to drag him down from the moral superiority which they felt he possessed. That he was vain, and fond of praise, they knew, and our readers may also perceive that it was that unfortunate vanity which gave them the first advantage over him, by bringing him, through its influence, among them. Late that night he was carried home on a door, in a state of unconscious intoxication.

It is utterly beyond our power to describe the harrowing state of his sensations on awakening the next morning. Abasement, repentance, remorse, all combined as they were within him, fall far short of what he felt; he was degraded in his own eyes, deprived of self-respect, and stripped of every claim to the confidence of his brother, as he was to the well-known character for integrity which had been until then inseparable from the name. That, however, which pressed upon him with the most intense bitterness was the appalling reflection that he could no longer depend upon himself, nor put any trust in his own resolutions. Of what use was he in the world without a will of his own, and the power of abiding by its decisions? None; yet what was to be done? He could not live out of the world, and wherever he went, its temptations would beset him. Then there was his beloved Margaret Murray! was he to make her the wife of a common drunkard? or did she suspect, when she pledged herself to him, that she was giving away her heart and affections to a poor unmanly sot, who had not sense or firmness to keep himself sober? He felt in a state between distraction and despair, and putting his hands over his face, he wept bitterly. To complete the picture, his veins still throbbed with the dry fever that follows intoxication, his stomach was in a state of deadly sickness and loathing, and his head felt exactly as if it would burst or fly asunder.

Alas! had his natural character been properly understood and judiciously managed; had he been early taught to understand and to control his own obvious errors; had the necessity of self-reliance, firmness, and independence been taught him; had his principles not been enfeebled by the foolish praise of his family, nor his vanity inflated by their senseless appeals to it--it is possible, nay, almost certain, that he would, even at this stage of his life, have been completely free from the failings which are beginning even now to undermine the whole strength of his moral constitution.

Frank's interview with him on this occasion was short but significant--

“Art,” said he, “you know I never was a man of many words; and I'm not goin' to turn over a new lafe now. To scould you is not my intention--nor to listen to your promises. All I have to say is, that you have broken your word, and disgraced your name. As for me, I can put neither confidence nor trust in you any longer; neither will I.”

A single tear was visible on his cheek as he passed out of the room; and when he did, Art's violent sobs were quite audible. Indeed, if truth must be told, Frank's distress was nearly equal to his brother's. What, however, was to be done? He was too ill to attend his business, a circumstance which only heightened his distress; for he knew that difficult as was the task of encountering his master, and those who would only enjoy his remorse, still even that was less difficult to be borne than the scourge of his own reflections. At length a thought occurred, which appeared to give him some relief; that thought he felt was all that now remained to him, for as it was clear that he could no longer depend on himself, it was necessary that he should find something else on which to depend. He accordingly sent an intimation to his master that he wished to have a few minutes' conversation with him, if he could spare time; M'Carroll accordingly came, and found him in a state which excited the worthy man's compassion.

“Well, Art,” said he, “what is it you wish to speak to me about? I hear you were drunk last night. Now I thought you had more sense than to let these fellows put you into such a pickle. I have a fine, well-conducted set of men in general; but there is among them a hardened, hackneyed crew, who, because they are good workmen, don't care a curse about either you or me, or anybody else. They're always sure of employment, if not here, at least elsewhere, or, indeed, anywhere.”

“But it wasn't their fault,” replied Art, “it was altogether my own; they were opposed to my drinkin' at all, especially as they knew that I promised Frank never to get drunk agin. It was when Syl Harte proposed Frank's health, that I drank the whiskey in spite o' them.”

“Syl Harte,” said his master with a smile, “ay, I was thinkin' so; well, no matter, Art, have strength and resolution not to do the like again.”

“But that's the curse, sir,” replied the young man, “I have neither the one nor the other, and it's on that account I sent for you.”

“How is that, Art?”

“Why,” said the other, “I am goin' to bind myself--I am goin' to swear against it, and so to make short work of it, and for fraid any one might prevent me”--he blessed himself, and proceeded--“I now, in the presence of God, swear upon this blessed manwil (* Manual) that a drop of spirituous drink, or liquor of any kind, won't cross my lips for the next seven years, barrin' it may be necessary as medicine;” he then kissed the book three times, blessed himself again, and sat down considerably relieved.

“Now,” he added, “you may tell them what I've done; that's seven years' freedom, thank God; for I wouldn't be the slave of whiskey--the greatest of tyrants--for the wealth of Europe.”

“No, but the worst of it is, Art,” replied his m ister, who was an exceedingly shrewd man, “that whiskey makes a man his own tyrant and his own slave, both at the same time, and that's more than the greatest tyrant that ever lived did yet. As for yourself, you're not fit to work any this day, so I think you ought to take a stretch across the country, and walk off the consequence of your debauch with these fellows last night.”

Art now felt confidence and relief; he had obtained the very precise aid of which he stood in need. The danger was now over, and a prop placed under his own feeble resolution, on which he could depend with safety; here there could be no tampering with temptation; the matter was clear, explicit, and decisive: so far all was right, and, as we have said, his conscience felt relieved of a weighty burden.

His brother, on hearing it from his own lips, said little, yet that little was not to discourage him; he rather approved than otherwise, but avoided expressing any very decided opinion on it, one way or the other.

“It's a pity,” said he, “that want of common resolution should drive a man to take an oath; if you had tried your own strength, a little farther, Art, who knows but you might a' gained a victory without it, and that would be more creditable and manly than swearin'; still, the temptation to drink is great to some people, and this prevents all possibility of fallin' into it.”

Art, who, never having dealt in any thing disingenuous himself, was slow to credit duplicity in others, did not once suspect that the profligates had played him off this trick, rather to annoy the brother than himself. It was, after all, nothing but the discreditable triumph of cunning and debased minds, over the inexperience, or vanity, if you will, of one, who, whatever his foibles might be, would himself scorn to take an ungenerous advantage of confidence reposed in him in consequence of his good opinion and friendly feeling.

The period of their apprenticeship, however, elapsed, and the day at length arrived for their departure from the Corner House. Their master, and, we may add, their friend, solicited them to stop with him still as journeymen; but, as each had a different object in view, they declined it. Art proposed to set up for himself, for it was indeed but natural that one whose affections had been now so long engaged, should wish, with as little delay as possible, to see himself possessed of a home to which he might bring his betrothed wife. Frank had not trusted to chance, or relied merely upon vague projects, like his brother; for, some time previous to the close of his apprenticeship, he had been quietly negotiating the formation of a partnership with a carpenter who wanted a steady man at the helm. The man had capital himself, and was clever enough in his way, but then he was illiterate, and utterly without method in conducting his affairs; Frank was therefore the identical description of person he stood in need of, and, as the integrity of his family was well known--that integrity which they felt so anxious to preserve without speck--there was of course little obstruction in the way of their coming to terms.

On the morning of the day on which they left his establishment, M'Carroll came into the workshop while they were about bidding farewell to their companions, with whom they had lived--abating the three or four pranks that were played off upon Art--on good and friendly terms, and seeing that they were about to take their departure, he addressed them as follows:--

“I need not say,” he proceeded, “that I regret you are leaving me; which I do, for, without meaning any disrespect to those present, I am bound to acknowledge that two better workmen, or two honester young men, were never in my employment. Art, indeed is unsurpassed, considering his time, and that he is only closing his apprenticeship: 'tis true, he has had good opportunities--opportunities which, I am happy to say, he has never neglected. I am in the habit, as you both know, of addressing a few words of advice to my young men at the close of their apprenticeships, and when they are entering upon the world as you are now. I will therefore lay down a few simple rules for your guidance, and, perhaps, by following them, you will find yourselves neither the worse nor the poorer men.

“Let the first principle then of your life, both as mechanics, and men, be truth--truth in all you think, in all you say, and in all you do; if this should fail to procure you the approbation of the world, it will not fail to procure you your own, and, what is better, that of God. Let your next principle be industry--honest, fair, legitimate industry, to which you ought to annex punctuality--for industry without punctuality is but half a virtue. Let your third great principle be sobriety--strict and undeviating sobriety; a mechanic without sobriety, so far from being a benefit or an ornament to society, as he ought to be, is a curse and a disgrace to it; within the limits of sobriety all the rational enjoyments of life are comprised, and without them are to be found all those which desolate society with crime, indigence, sickness, and death. In maintaining sobriety in the world, and especially among persons of your own class, you will certainly have much to contend with; remember that firmness of character, when acting upon right feeling and good sense, will enable you to maintain and work out every virtuous and laudable purpose which you propose to effect. Do not, therefore, suffer yourselves to be shamed from sobriety, or, indeed, from any other moral duty, by the force of ridicule; neither, on the other hand, must you be seduced into it by flattery, or the transient gratification of social enjoyment. I have, in fact, little further to add; you are now about to become members of society, and to assume more distinctly the duties which it imposes on you. Discharge them all faithfully--do not break your words, but keep your promises, and respect yourselves, remember that self-respect is a very different thing from pride, or an empty overweening vanity--self-respect is, in fact, altogether incompatible with them, as they are with it; like opposite qualities, they cannot abide in the same individual. Let me impress it on you, that these are the principles by which you must honorably succeed in life, if you do succeed; while by neglecting them, you must assuredly fail. 'Tis true, knavery and dishonesty are often successful, but it is by the exercise of fraudulent practices, which I am certain you will never think of carrying into the business of life--I consequently dismiss this point altogether, as unsuitable to either of you. I have only to add, now, that I hope most sincerely you will observe the few simple truths I have laid down to you; and I trust, that ere many years pass, I may live to see you both respectable, useful, and independent members of society. Farewell, and may you be all we wish you!”

Whether this little code of useful doctrine was equally observed by both, will appear in the course of our narrative.

About a month or so before the departure of Frank and Art from the Corner House, Jemmy Murray and another man were one day in the beginning of May strolling through one of his pasture-fields. His companion was a thin, hard-visaged little fellow, with a triangular face, and dry bristly hair, very much the color of, and nearly as prickly as, a withered furze bush; both, indeed, were congenial spirits, for it is only necessary to say, that he of the furze bush was another of those charital and generous individuals whose great delight consisted, like his friend Murray, in watching the seasons, and speculating upon the failure of the crops. He had the reputation of being wealthy, and in fact was so; indeed, of the two, those who had reason to know, considered that he held the weightier purse; his name was Cooney Finigan, and the object of his visit to Murray--their conversation, however, will sufficiently develop that. Both, we should observe, appeared to be exceedingly blank and solemn; Cooney's hard face, as he cast his eye about him, would have made one imagine that he had just buried the last of his family, and Murray looked as if he had a son about to be hanged. The whole cause of this was simply that a finer season, nor one giving ampler promise of abundance, had not come within the memory of man.

“Ah!” said Murray, with a sigh, “look, Cooney, at the distressin' growth of grass that's there--a foot high if it's an inch! If God hasn't sed it, there will be the largest and heaviest crops that ever was seen in the country; heigho!”

“Well, but one can't have good luck always,” replied Cooney; “only it's the wondherful forwardness of the whate that's distressin' me.”

“An' do you think that I'm sufferin' nothin' on that account?” asked his companion; “only you haven't three big stacks of hay waitin' for a failure, as I have.”

“That's bekase I have no meadow on my farm,” replied Cooney; “otherwise I would be in the hay trade as well as yourself.”

“Well, God help us, Cooney! every one has their misfortunes as well as you and I; sure enough, it's a bitther business to see how every thing's thrivin'--hay, oats, and whate! why they'll be for a song: may I never get a bad shillin', but the poor 'ill be paid for takin' them! that's the bitther pass things will come to; maurone ok! but it's a black lookout!”

“An' this rain, too,” said Cooney, “so soft, and even, and small, and warm, that it's playin' the very devil. Nothin' could stand it. Why it ud make a rotten twig grow if it was put into the ground.”

“Divil a one o' me would like to make the third,” said Murray, “for 'fraid I might have the misfortune to succeed. Death alive! Only think of my four arks, of meal, an' my three stacks of hay, an' divil a pile to come out of them for another twelve months!”

“It's bad, too bad, I allow,” said the other; “still let us not despair, man alive; who knows but the saison may change for the worse yet. Whish!” he exclaimed, slapping the side of his thigh, “hould up your head, Jemmy, I have thought of it; I have thought of it.”

“You have thought of what, Cooney?”

“Why, death alive, man, sure there's plenty of time, God be praised for it, for the--murdher, why didn't we think of it before? ha, ha, ha!”

“For the what, man? don't keep us longin' for it.”

“Why for the pratie crops to fail still; sure it's only the beginning o' May now, and who knows but we might have the happiness to see a right good general failure of the praties still? Eh? ha, ha, ha!”

“Upon my sounds, Cooney, you have taken a good deal of weight off of me. Faith we have the lookout of a bad potato crop yet, sure enough. How is the wind? Don't you think you feel a little dry bitin' in it, as if it came from the aist?”

“Why, then, in regard of the dead calm that's in it, I can't exactly say--but, let me see--you're right, divil a doubt of it; faith it is, sure enough; bravo, Jemmy, who knows but all may go wrong wid the crops yet.”

“At all events, let us have a glass on the head of it, and we'll drink to the failure of the potato craps, and God prosper the aist wind, for it's the best for you an' me, Cooney, that's goin'. Come up to the house above, and we'll have a glass on the head of it.”

The fastidious reader may doubt whether any two men, no matter how griping or rapacious, could prevail upon themselves to express to each other sentiments so openly inimical to all human sympathy. In holding this dialogue, however, the men were only thinking aloud, and giving utterance to the wishes which every inhuman knave of their kind feels. In compliance, however, with the objections which maybe brought against the probability of the above dialogue, we will now give the one which did actually occur, and then appeal to our readers whether the first is not much more in keeping with the character of the speakers--which ought always to be a writer's great object--than the second. Now, the reader already knows that each of these men had three or four large arks of meal laid past until the arrival of a failure in the crops and a season of famine, and that Murray had three large stacks of hay in the hope of a similar failure in the meadow crop.

“Good-morrow, Jemmy.”

“Good-morrow kindly, Cooney; isn't this a fine saison, the Lord be praised!”

“A glorious saison, blessed be His name! I don't think ever I remimber a finer promise of the craps.”

“Throth, nor I, the meadows is a miracle to look at.”

“Divil a thing else--but the white, an' oats, an' early potatoes, beat anything ever was seen.”

“Throth, the poor will have them for a song, Jemmy.”

“Ay, or for less, Cooney; they'll be paid for takin' them.”

“It's enough to raise one's heart, Jemmy, just to think of it.”

“Why then it is that, an', for the same raison, come up to the house above, and we'll have a sup on the head of it; sure, it's no harm to drink success to the craps, and may God prevent a failure, any how.”

“Divil a bit.”

Now, we simply ask the reader which dialogue is in the more appropriate keeping with the characters of honest, candid Jemmy and Cooney?

“And now,” proceeded Cooney, “regard-in' this match between your youngest daughter Margaret, and my son Toal.”

“Why, as for myself,” replied Murray, “sorra much of objection I have aginst it, barrin' his figure; if he was about a foot and a half higher, and a little betther made--God pardon me, an' blessed be the maker--there would, at all events, be less difficulty in the business, especially with Peggy herself.”

“But couldn't you bring her about?”

“I did my endayvors, Cooney; you may take my word I did.”

“Well, an' is she not softenin' at all?”

“Upon my sounds, Cooney, I cannot say she is. If I could only get her to spake one sairious word on the subject, I might have some chance; but I cannot, Cooney; I think both you an' little Toal had betther give it up. I doubt there's no chance.”

“Faith an' the more will be her loss. I tell you, Jemmy, that he'd outdo either you or me as a meal man. What more would you want?”

“He's cute enough, I know that.”

“I tell you you don't know the half of it. It's the man that can make the money for her that you want.”

“But aginst that, you know, it's Peggy an' not me that's to marry him. Now, you know that women often--though not always, I grant--wish to have something in the appearance of their husband that they needn't be ashamed to look at.”

“That's the only objection that can bo brought against him. He's the boy can make the money; I'm a fool to him. I'll tell you what, Jemmy Murray, may I never go home, but he'd skin a flint. Did you hear anything? Now!”

Murray, who appeared to be getting somewhat tired of this topic, replied rather hastily--

“Why, Cooney Finnigan, if he could skin the devil himself and ait him afterwards, she wouldn't have him. She has refused some of the best looking young men in the parish, widout either rhyme or raison, an' I'm sure she's not goin' to take your leprechaun of a son, that you might run a five-gallon keg between his knees. Sure, bad luck to the thing his legs resemble but a pair of raipin' hooks, wid their backs outwards. Let us pass this subject, and come in till we drink a glass together.”

“And so you call my son a leprechaun, and he has legs like raipin' hooks!”

“Ha, ha, ha! Come in, man alive; never mind little Toal.”

“Like raipin' hooks! I'll tell you what, Jemmy, I say now in sincerity, that there is every prospect of a plentiful sayson; and that there may, I pray God this day; meadows an' all--O above all, the meadows, for I'm not in the hay business myself.”

“So,” said Murray, laughing, “you would cut off your nose to vex your face.”

“I would any day, even if should suffer myself by it; and now good-bye, Jemmy Murray, to the dioual I pitch the whole thing! Rapin' hooks!” And as he spoke, off went the furious little extortioner, irretrievably offended.

The subject of Margaret's marriage, however, was on that precise period one on which her father and friends had felt and expressed much concern. Many proposals had been made for her hand during Art's apprenticeship; but each and all not only without success, but without either hope or encouragement. Her family were surprised and grieved at this, and the more so, because they could not divine the cause of it. Upon the subject of her attachment to Maguire, she not only preserved an inviolable silence herself, but exacted a solemn promise from her lover that he should not disclose it to any human being. Her motive, she said, for keeping their affection and engagement to each other secret, was to avoid being harassed at home by her friends and family, who, being once aware of the relation in which she stood towards Art, would naturally give her little peace. She knew very well that her relations would not consent to such a union, and, in point of mere prudence and forethought, her conduct was right, for she certainly avoided much intemperate remonstrance, as afterwards proved to be the case when she mentioned it. Her father on this occasion having amused them at home by relating the tift which had taken place between Cooney Finnigan and himself, which was received with abundant mirth by them all, especially by Margaret, seriously introduced the subject of her marriage, and of a recent proposal which had been made to her.

“You are the only unmarried girl we have left now,” he said, “and surely you ought neither to be too proud nor too saucy to refuse such a match as Mark Hanratty--a young man in as thrivin' a business as there is in all Ballykeerin; hasn't he a good shop, good business, and a good back of friends in the country that will stand to him, an' only see how he has thruv these last couple o' years. What's come over you at all? or do you ever intend to marry? you have refused every one for so far widout either rhyme or raison. Why, Peggy, what father's timper could stand this work?”

“Ha, ha, ha! like raipin' hooks, father--an' so the little red rogue couldn't bear that? well, at all events, the comparison's a good one--sorra better; ha, ha, ha--reapin' hooks!”

“Is that the answer you have for me?”

“Answer!” said Margaret, feigning surprise, “what about?”

“About Mark Hanmity.”

“Well, but sure if he's fond of me, hell have no objection to wait.”

“Ay, but if he does wait, will you have him?”

“I didn't promise that, and, at any rate, I'd not like to be a shopkeeper's wife.”

“Why not?”

“Why, he'd be puttin' me behind the counter, and you know I'd be too handsome for that; sure, there's Thogue Nugent that got the handsome wife from Dublin, and of a fair, or market-day, for one that goes in to buy anything, there goes ten in to look at her. Throth, I think he ought to put her in the windy at once, just to save trouble, and give the people room.”

“Ha, ha, ha! well, you're the dickens of a girl, sure enough; but come, avourneen, don't be makin' me laugh now, but tell me what answer I'm to give Mark.”

“Tell him to go to Dublin, like Thogue; he lives in the upper part of the town, and Thogue in the lower, and then there will be a beauty in each end of it.”

“Suppose I take it into my head to lose my temper, Peggy, maybe I'd make you spake then?”

“Well, will you give me a peck o' mail for widow Dolan?”

“No, divil a dust.”

“Sure I'll pay you--ha, ha, ha!”

“Sure you'll pay me! mavrone, but it's often you've said that afore, and divil a cross o' Your coin ever we seen yet; faith, it's you that's heavily in my debt, when I think of all ever you promised to pay me.”

“Very well, then; no meal, no answer.”

“And will you give me an answer if I give you the meal?”

“Honor bright, didn't I say it.”

“Go an' get it yourself then, an' see now, don't do as you always do, take double what you're allowed.”

Margiret, in direct violation of this paternal injunction, did most unquestionably take near twice the stipulated quantity for the widow, and, in order that there might be no countermand on the part of her father, as sometimes happened, she sent it off with one of the servants by a back way, so that he had no opportunity of seeing how far her charity had carried her beyond the spirit and letter of her instructions.

“Well,” said he, when she returned, “now for the answer; and before you give it, think of the comfort you'll have with him--how fine and nicely furnished his house is--he has carpets upon the rooms, ay, an' upon my sounds, on the very stairs itself! faix it's you that will be in state. Now, acushla, let us hear your answer.”

“It's very short, father; I won't have him.”

“Won't have him! and in the name of all that's unbiddable and undutiful, who will you have, if one may ax that, or do you intend, to have any one at all, or not?”

“Let me see,” she said, putting the side of her forefinger to her lips, “what day is this? Thursday. Well, then, on this day month, father, I'll tell my mother who I'll have, or, at any rate, who I'd wish to have; but, in the mean time, nobody need ask me anything further about it till then, for I won't give any other information on the subject.”

The father looked very seriously into the fire for a considerable time, and was silent; he then drew his breath lengthily, tapped the table a little with his fingers, and exclaimed--“A month! well, the time will pass, and, as we must wait, why we must, that's all.”

Matters lay in this state until the third day before the expiration of the appointed time, when Margaret, having received from Art secret intelligence of his return, hastened to a spot agreed upon between them, that they might consult each other upon what ought to be done under circumstances so critical.

After the usual preface to such tender discussions, Art listened with a good deal of anxiety, but without the slightest doubt of her firmness and attachment, to an account of the promise she had given her father.

“Well, but, Margaret darlin',” said he, “what will happen if they refuse?”

“Surely, you know it is too late for them to refuse now; arn't we as good as married--didn't we pass the Hand Promise--isn't our troth plighted?”

“I know that, but suppose they should still refuse, then what's to be done? what are you and I to do?”

“I must lave that to you, Art,” she replied archly.

“And it couldn't be in better hands, Margaret; if they refuse their consent, there's nothing for it but a regular runaway, and that will settle it.”

“You must think I'm very fond of you,” she added playfully, “and I suppose you do, too.”

“Margaret,” said Art, and his face became instantly overshadowed with seriousness and care, “the day may come when I'll feel how necessary you will be to guide and support me.”

She looked quickly into his eyes, and saw that his mind appeared disturbed and gloomy.

“My dear Art,” she asked, “what is the meaning of your words, and why is there such sadness in your face?”

“There ought not to be sadness in it,” he said, “when I'm sure of you--you will be my guardian angel may be yet.”

“Art, have you any particular meanin' in what you say?”

“I'll tell you all,” said he, “when we are married.”

Margaret was generous-minded, and, as the reader may yet acknowledge, heroic; there was all the boldness and bravery of innocence about her, and she could scarcely help attributing Art's last words to some fact connected with his feelings, or, perhaps, to circumstances which his generosity prevented him from disclosing. A thought struck her--

“Art,” said she, “the sooner this is settled the better; as it is, if you'll be guided by me, we won't let the sun set upon it; walk up with me to my father's house, come in, and in the name of God, we'll leave nothing unknown to him. He is a hard man, but he has a heart, and he is better a thousand times than he is reported. I know it.”

“Come,” said Art, “let us go; he may be richer, but there's the blood, and the honesty, and good name of the Maguires against his wealth--”

A gentle pressure on his arm, when he mentioned the word wealth, and he was silent.

“My darlin' Margaret,” said he, “oh how unworthy I am of you!”

“Now,” said she, “lave me to manage this business my own way. Your good sense will tell you when to spake; but whatever my father says, trate him with respect--lave the rest to me.”

On entering, they found Murray and his wife in the little parlor--the former smoking his pipe, and the latter darning a pair of stockings.

“Father,” said Margaret, “Art Maguire convoyed me home; but, indeed, I must say, I was forced to ask him.”

“Art Maguire. Why, then, upon my sounds, Art, I'm glad to see you. An' how are you, man alive? an' how is Frank, eh? As grave as a jidge, as he always was--ha, ha, ha! Take a chair, Art, and be sittin'. Peggy, gluntha me, remimber, you must have Art at your weddin'. It's now widin three days of the time I'm to know who he is; and upon my sounds, I'm like a hen on a hot griddle till I hear it.”

“You're not within three days, father.”

“But I say I am, accordin' to your own countin'.”

“You're not within three hours, father;”--her face 'glowed, and her whole system became vivified with singular and startling energy as she spoke;--“no, you are not within three hours, father; not within three minutes, my dear father; for there stands the man,” she said, pointing to Art. She gave three or four loud hysterical sobs, and then stood calm, looking not upon her father, but upon her lover; as much as to say, Is this love, or is it not?

Her mother, who was a quiet, inoffensive creature, without any principle or opinion whatsoever at variance with those of her husband, rose upon hearing this announcement; but so ambiguous were her motions, that we question whether the most sagacious prophet of all antiquity could anticipate from them the slightest possible clue to her opinion. The husband, in fact, had not yet spoken, and until he had, the poor woman did not know her own mind. Under any circumstances, it was difficult exactly to comprehend her meaning. In fact, she could not speak three words of common English, having probably never made the experiment a dozen times in her life. Murray was struck for some time mute.

“And is this the young man,” said he, at length, “that has been the mains of preventin' you from being so well married often and often before now?”

“No, indeed, father,” she replied, “he was not the occasion of that; but I was. I am betrothed to him, as he is to me, for five years.”

“And,” said her father, “my consent to that marriage you will never have; if you marry him, marry him, but you will marry him without my blessin'.”

“Jemmy Murray,” said Art, whose pride of family was fast rising, “who am I, and who are you?”

Margaret put her hand to his mouth, and said in a low voice--

“Art, if you love me, leave it to my management.”