Book: Handy Andy, Vol. 2

S >> Samuel Lover >> Handy Andy, Vol. 2




"Then take my advice, darling widow machree,
Och hone! widow machree,
And with my advice, 'faith I wish you'd take me,
Och hone! widow machree.
You'd have me to desire
Then to sit by the fire;
And sure hope is no liar
In whispering to me
That the ghosts would depart,
When you'd me near your heart,
Och hone! widow machree."

The singer was honoured with a round of applause, and his challenge for
another lay was readily answered, and mirth and music filled the night and
ushered in the dawn of the day which was to witness the melancholy sight
of the master of an ample mansion being made the tenant of the "narrow
house."

In the evening of that day, however, the wail rose loud and long; the
mirth which "the waking" permits had passed away, and the _ulican_,
or funeral cry, told that the lifeless chief was being borne from his
hall. That wild cry was heard even by the party who were waiting to make
their horrid seizure, and for _that_ party the stone-laden coffin was
sent with a retinue of mourners through the old iron gate of the principal
entrance, while the mortal remains were borne by a smaller party to the
river inlet and placed on the raft. Half an hour had witnessed a sham
fight on the part of O'Grady's people with the bailiffs and their
followers, who made the seizure they intended, and locked up their prize
in an old barn to which it had been conveyed, until some engagement on the
part of the heir should liberate it; while the aforesaid heir, as soon as
the shadows of evening had shrouded the river in obscurity, conveyed the
remains, which the myrmidons of the law fancied they possessed, to its
quiet and lonely resting-place. The raft was taken in tow by a boat
carrying two of the boys, and pulled by four lusty retainers of the
departed chief, while Gustavus himself stood on the raft, astride over the
coffin, and with an eel-spear, which had afforded him many a day's sport,
performed the melancholy task of guiding it. It was a strangely painful
yet beautiful sight to behold the graceful figure of the fine boy engaged
in this last sad duty; with dexterous energy he plied his spear, now on
this side and now on that, directing the course of the raft, or clearing
it from the flaggers which interrupted its passage through the narrow
inlet. This duty he had to attend to for some time, even after leaving
the little inlet; for the river was much overgrown with flaggers
at this point, and the increasing darkness made the task more difficult.

In the midst of all this action not one word was spoken, even the sturdy
boatmen were mute, and the fall of the oar in the rowlock, the plash of
the water, and the crushing sound of the yielding rushes as the "watery
bier" made its way through them were the only sounds which broke the
silence. Still Gustavus betrayed no emotion; but by the time they reached
the open stream, and that his personal exertion was no longer required, a
change came over him. It was night,--the measured beat of the oars sounded
like a knell to him--there was darkness above him and death below, and he
sank down upon the coffin, and plunging his face passionately between his
hands, he wept bitterly. Sad were the thoughts that oppressed the brain
and wrung the heart of the high-spirited boy. He felt that his dead father
was _escaping_, as it were, to the grave,--that even death did not
terminate the consequences of an ill-spent life. He felt like a thief in
the night, even in the execution of his own stratagem, and the bitter
thoughts of that sad and solemn time wrought a potent spell over after-
years; that one hour of misery and disgrace influenced the entire of a
future life.

On a small hill overhanging the river was the ruin of an ancient early
temple of Christianity, and to its surrounding burial-ground a few of the
retainers had been despatched to prepare a grave. They were engaged in
this task by the light of a torch made of bog-pine, when the flicker of
the flame attracted the eye of a horseman who was riding slowly along the
neighbouring road. Wondering what could be the cause of light in such a
place, he leaped the adjoining fence and rode up to the grave-yard.

"What are you doing here?" he said to the labourers. They paused and
looked up, and the flash of the torch fell upon the features of Edward
O'Connor. "We're finishing your work," said one of the men with malicious
earnestness.

"My work?" repeated Edward.

"Yes," returned the man, more sternly than before--"this is the grave of
O'Grady."

The words went like an ice-bolt through Edward's heart, and even by the
torchlight the tormentor could see his victim grew livid.

The fellow who wounded so deeply one so generally beloved as Edward
O'Connor was a thorough ruffian. His answer to Edward's query sprang not
from love of O'Grady, nor abhorrence of taking human life, but from the
opportunity of retort which the occasion offered upon one who had once
checked him in an act of brutality.

Yet Edward O'Connor could not reply--it was a home thrust. The death of
O'Grady had weighed heavily upon him; for though O'Grady's wound had been
given in honourable combat, provoked by his own fury, and not producing
immediate death; though that death had supervened upon the subsequent
intractability of the patient; yet the fact that O'Grady had never been
"up and doing" since the duel tended to give the impression that his wound
was the remote if not the immediate cause of his death, and this
circumstance weighed heavily on Edward's spirits. His friends told him he
felt over keenly upon the subject, and that no one but himself could
entertain a question of _his_ total innocence of O'Grady's death; but
when from the lips of a common peasant he got the answer he did, and
_that_ beside the grave of his adversary, it will not be wondered at
that he reeled in his saddle. A cold shivering sickness came over him, and
to avoid falling he alighted and leaned for support against his horse,
which stooped, when freed from the restraint of the rein, to browse on the
rank verdure; and for a moment Edward envied the unconsciousness of the
animal against which he leaned. He pressed his forehead against the
saddle, and from the depth of a bleeding heart came up an agonised
exclamation.

A gentle hand was laid on his shoulder as he spoke, and, turning round, he
beheld Mr. Bermingham.

"What brings you here?" said the clergyman.

"Accident," answered Edward. "But why should I say accident?--it is by a
higher authority and a better--it is the will of Heaven. It is meant as a
bitter lesson to human pride: we make for ourselves laws of _honour_,
and forget the laws of God!"

"Be calm, my young friend," said the worthy pastor; "I cannot wonder you
feel deeply--but command yourself." He pressed Edward's hand as he spoke
and left him, for he knew that an agony so keen is not benefited by
companionship.

Mr. Bermingham was there by appointment to perform the burial service, and
he had not left Edward's side many minutes when a long wild whistle from
the waters announced the arrival of the boat and raft, and the retainers
ran down to the river, leaving the pine-torch stuck in the upturned earth,
waving its warm blaze over the cold grave. During the interval which
ensued between the departure of the men and their reappearance, bearing
the body to its last resting-place, Mr. Bermingham spoke with Edward
O'Connor, and soothed him into a more tranquil bearing. When the coffin
came within view he advanced to meet it, and began the sublime burial-
service, which he repeated most impressively. When it was over, the men
commenced filling up the grave. As the clods fell upon the coffin, they
smote the hearts of the dead man's children; yet the boys stood upon the
verge of the grave as long as a vestige of the tenement of their lost
father could be seen; but as soon as the coffin was hidden, they withdrew
from the brink, and the younger boys, each taking hold of the hand of the
eldest, seemed to imply the need of mutual dependence:--as if death
had drawn closer the bond of brotherhood.

There was no sincerer mourner at that place than Edward O'Connor, who
stood aloof, in respect for the feelings of the children of the departed
man, till the grave was quite filled up, and all were about to leave the
spot; but then his feelings overmastered him, and, impelled by a torrent
of contending emotions, he rushed forward, and throwing himself on his
knees before Gustavus, he held up his hands imploringly, and sobbed forth,
"Forgive me!"

The astonished boy drew back.

"Oh, forgive me!" repeated Edward--"I could not help it--it was forced on
me--it was--"

As he struggled for utterance, even the rough retainers were touched, and
one of them exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. O'Connor, it was a fair fight!"

"There!" exclaimed Edward--"you hear it! Oh, give me your hand in
forgiveness!"

"I forgive you," said the boy, "but do not ask me to give you my hand
to-night."

"You are right" said Edward, springing to his feet--"you are right--you
are a noble fellow; and now, remember my parting words, Gustavus:--Here,
by the side of your father's grave, I pledge you my soul that through life
and till death, in all extremity, Edward O'Connor is your sworn and trusty
friend."




CHAPTER XXXVI


While the foregoing scene of sadness took place in the lone churchyard,
unholy watch was kept over the second coffin by the myrmidons of the law.
The usurer who made the seizure had brought down from Dublin three of the
most determined bailiffs from amongst the tribe, and to their care was
committed the keeping of the supposed body in the old barn. Associated
with these worthies were a couple of ill-conditioned country blackguards,
who, for the sake of a bottle of whisky, would keep company with Old Nick
himself, and who expected, moreover, to hear "a power o' news" from the
"gentlemen" from Dublin, who, in their turn did not object to have their
guard strengthened, as their notions of a rescue in the country parts of
Ireland were anything but agreeable. The night was cold, so, clearing away
from one end of the barn the sheaves of corn with which it was stored,
they made a turf fire, stretched themselves on a good shake-down of straw
before the cheering blaze, and circulated among them the whisky, of which
they had a good store. A tap at the door announced a new-comer; but the
Dublin bailiffs, fearing a surprise, hesitated to open to the knock until
their country allies assured them it was a friend whose voice they
recognised. The door was opened, and in walked Larry Hogan, to pick up his
share of what was going, whatever it might be, saying--

"I thought you wor for keeping me out altogether."

"The gintlemin from Dublin was afeard of what they call a riskya"
(rescue), said the peasant, "till I told them 't was a friend."

"Divil a riskya will come near you to-night," said Larry, "you may make
your minds aisy about that, for the people doesn't care enough about
_his_ bones to get their own broke in savin' him, and no wondher.
It's a lantherumswash bully he always was, quiet as he is now. And there
you are, my bold squire," said he, apostrophising the coffin which had
been thrown on a heap of sheaves. "Faix, it's a good kitchen you kep',
anyhow, whenever you had it to spind; and indeed when you _hadn't_
you spint it all the same, for the divil a much you cared how you got it;
but death has made you pay the reckoning at last--that thing that filly-
officers call the debt o' nature must be paid, whatever else you may owe."

"Why, it's as good as a sarmon to hear you," said one of the bailiffs. "O
Larry, sir, discourses iligant," said a peasant.

"Tut, tut, tut," said Larry, with affected modesty: "it's not what
_I_ say, but I can tell you a thing that Docthor Growlin' put out on
him more nor a year ago, which was mighty 'cute. Scholars calls it an
'epithet of dissipation,' which means getting a man's tombstone ready for
him before he dies; and divil a more cutting thing was ever cut on a
tombstone than the doctor's rhyme; this is it--

'Here lies O'Grady, that cantankerous creature,
Who paid, as all must pay, the debt of nature;
But, keeping to his general maxim still,
Paid it--like other debts--against his will.'"

[Footnote: These bitter lines on a "bad pay" were written by a Dublin
medical wit of high repute, of whom Dr. Growling is a prototype.]

"What do _you_ think o' that, Goggins?" inquired one bailiff from the
other; "you're a judge o' po'thry."

"It's _sevare,"_ answered Goggins, authoritatively, "but _coorse,_
I wish you'd brile the rashers; I begin to feel the calls o' nature,
as the poet says."

This Mister Goggins was a character in his way. He had the greatest
longing to be thought a poet, put execrable couplets together sometimes,
and always talked as fine as he could; and his mixture of sentimentality,
with a large stock of blackguardism, produced a strange jumble.

"The people here thought it nate, sir," said Larry.

"Oh, very well for the country!" said Goggins; "but 't wouldn't do for
town."

"Misther Coggings knows best," said the bailiff who first spoke, "for he's
a pote himself, and writes in the newspapers."

"Oh, indeed!" said Larry.

"Yes," said Goggins, "sometimes I throw off little things for the
newspapers. There's a friend of mine you see, a gentleman connected with
the press, who is often in defficulties, and I give him a hint to keep out
o' the way when he's in trouble, and he swears I've a genus for the muses,
and encourages me--"

"Humph!" says Larry.

"And puts my things in the paper, when he gets the editor's back turned,
for the editor is a consaited chap that likes no one's po'thry but his
own; but never mind--if I ever get a writ against that chap, _won't_
I sarve it!"

"And I dar say some day you will have it agen him, sir," said Larry.

"Sure of it, a'most," said Goggins; "them litherary men is always in
defficulties."

"I wondher you'd be like them, then, and write at all," said Larry.

"Oh, as for me, it's only by way of amusement; attached as I am to the
legal profession, my time wouldn't permit; but I have been infected by the
company I kept. The living images that creeps over a man sometimes is
irresistible, and you have no pace till you get them out o' your head."

"Oh, indeed, they are very throublesome," says Larry, "and are the
litherary gintlemen, sir, as you call them, mostly that way?"

"To be sure; it is _that_ which makes a litherary man: his head is
full--teems with creation, sir."

"Dear, dear!" said Larry.

"And when once the itch of litherature comes over a man, nothing can cure
it but the scratching of a pen."

"But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any other way you
can."

"To be sure," said Goggins, "I have seen a litherary gentleman in a
sponging-house do crack things on the wall with a bit of burnt stick,
rather than be idle--they must execute."

"Ha!" says Larry.

"Sometimes, in all their poverty and difficulty, I envy the 'fatal
fatality,' as the poet says, of such men in catching ideas."

"That's the genteel name for it," says Larry.

"Oh!" exclaimed Goggins, enthusiastically, "I know the satisfaction of
catching a man, but it's nothing at all compared to catching an idea. For
the man, you see, can give hail and get off, but the idea is your own for
ever. And then a rhyme--when it has puzzled you all day, the pleasure you
have in _nabbing_ it at last!"

"Oh, it's po'thry you're spakin' about," said Larry.

"To be sure," said Goggins; "do you think I'd throw away my time on prose?
You're burning that bacon, Tim," said he to his _sub_.

"Poethry, agen the world!" continued he to Larry, "the Castilian sthraime
for me!--Hand us that whisky"--he put the bottle to his mouth and took a
swig--"That's good--you do a bit of private here, I suspect," said he,
with a wink, pointing to the bottle.

Larry returned a significant grin, but said nothing. Oh, don't be afraid
o' me--I would n't'peach--"

"Sure it's agen the law, and you're a gintleman o' the law," said Larry.

"That's no rule," said Goggins: "the Lord Chief Justice always goes to
bed, they say, with six tumblers o' potteen under his belt; and dhrink it
myself."

"Arrah, how do you get it?" said Larry.

"From a gentleman, a friend o' mine, in the Custom-house."

"A-dad, that's quare," said Larry, laughing.

"Oh, we see queer things, I tell you," said Goggins, "we gentlemen of the
law."

"To be sure you must," returned Larry; "and mighty improvin' it must be.
Did you ever catch a thief, sir?"

"My good man, you mistake my profession," said Goggins, proudly; "we never
have anything to do in the _criminal_ line, that's much beneath
_us_."

"I ax your pardon, sir."

"No offence--no offence."

"But it must be mighty improvin', I think, ketching of thieves, and
finding out their thricks and hidin'-places, and the like?"

"Yes, yes," said Goggins, "good fun; though I don't do it, I know all
about it, and could tell queer things too."

"Arrah, maybe you would, sir?" said Larry.

"Maybe I will, after we nibble some rashers--will you take share?"

"Musha, long life to you," said Larry, always willing to get whatever he
could. A repast was now made, more resembling a feast of savages round
their war-fire than any civilised meal; slices of bacon broiled in the
fire, and eggs roasted in the turf-ashes. The viands were not
objectionable; but the cooking! Oh!--there was neither gridiron nor
frying-pan, fork nor spoon; a couple of clasp-knives served the whole
party. Nevertheless, they satisfied their hunger and then sent the
bottle on its exhilarating round. Soon after that, many a story of
burglary, robbery, swindling, petty larceny, and every conceivable crime,
was related for the amusement of the circle; and the plots and
counterplots of thieves and thief-takers raised the wonder of the
peasants. Larry Hogan was especially delighted; more particularly when
some trick of either villany or cunning came out.

"Now women are troublesome cattle to deal with mostly," said Goggins.
"They are remarkably 'cute first, and then they are spiteful after; and
for circumventin' _either_ way are sharp hands. You see they do it
quieter than men; a man will make a noise about it, but a woman does it
all on the sly. There was Bill Morgan--and a sharp fellow he was, too--and
he had set his heart on some silver spoons he used to see down in a
kitchen windy, but the servant-maid, somehow or other, suspected there was
designs about the place, and was on the watch. Well, one night, when she
was all alone, she heard a noise outside the windy, so she kept as quiet
as a mouse. By-and-by the sash was attempted to be riz from the outside,
so she laid hold of a kittle of boiling wather and stood hid behind the
shutter. The windy was now riz a little, and a hand and arm thrust in to
throw up the sash altogether, when the girl poured the boiling wather down
the sleeve of Bill's coat. Bill roared with the pain, when the girl said
to him, laughing, through the windy, 'I _thought_ you came for
something.'"

"That was a 'cute girl," said Larry, chuckling.

"Well, now, that's an instance of a woman's cleverness in preventing. I'll
teach you one of her determination to discover and prosecute to
conviction; and in this case, what makes it curious is, that Jack Tate had
done the bowldest thing, and run the greatest risks, 'the eminent deadly,'
as the poet says, when he was done up at last by a feather-bed."

"A feather-bed," repeated Larry, wondering how a feather-bed could
influence the fate of a bold burglar, while Goggins mistook his
exclamation of surprise to signify the paltriness of the prize, and
therefore chimed in with him.

"Quite true--no wonder you wonder--quite below a man of his pluck; but the
fact was, a sweetheart of his was longing for a feather-bed, and Jack
determined to get it. Well, he marched into a house, the door of which he
found open, and went up-stairs, and took the best feather-bed in the
house, tied it up in the best quilt, crammed some caps and ribbons he saw
lying about into the bundle, and marched down-stairs again; but you see,
in carrying off even the small thing of a feather-bed, Jack showed the
skill of a high practitioner, for he descendhered the stairs backwards."

"Backwards!" said Larry, "what was that for?"

"You'll see by-and-by," said Goggins; "he descendhered backwards when
suddenly he heard a door opening, and a faymale voice exclaim, 'Where are
you going with that bed?'

"'I am going up-stairs with it, ma'am,' says Jack, whose backward position
favoured his lie, and he began to walk up again.

"'Come down here,' said the lady, 'we want no beds here, man.'

"'Mr. Sullivan, ma'am, sent me home with it himself,' said Jack, still
mounting the stairs.

"'Come down, I tell you,' said the lady, in a great rage. 'There's no Mr.
Sullivan lives here--go out of this with your bed, you stupid fellow.'

"'I beg your pardon, ma'am,' says Jack, turning round, and marching off
with the bed fair and aisy. Well, there was a regular shilloo in the house
when the thing was found out, and cart-ropes wouldn't howld the lady for
the rage she was in at being diddled; so she offered rewards, and the
dickens knows all; and what do you think at last discovered our poor
Jack?"

"The sweetheart, maybe," said Larry, grinning in ecstasy at the thought
of human perfidy.

"No," said Goggins, "honour even among sweethearts, though they do the
trick sometimes, I confess; but no woman of any honour would betray a
great man like Jack. No--'t was one of the paltry ribbons that brought
conviction home to him; the woman never lost sight of hunting up evidence
about her feather-bed, and, in the end, a ribbon out of one of her caps
settled the hash of Jack Tate."

From robbings they went on to tell of murders, and at last that
uncomfortable sensation which people experience after a feast of horrors
began to pervade the party; and whenever they looked round, _there_
was the coffin in the background.

"Throw some turf on the fire," said Goggins, "'t is burning low; and
change the subject; the tragic muse has reigned sufficiently long--enough
of the dagger and the bowl--sink the socks and put on the buckskins.
Leather away, Jim--sing us a song."

"What is it to be?" asked Jim.

"Oh--that last song of the Solicitor-General's," said Goggins, with an air
as if the Solicitor-General were his particular friend.

"About the robbery?" inquired Jim.

"To be sure," returned Goggins.

"Dear me," said Larry, "and would so grate a man as the Solicithor-General
demane himself by writin' about robbers?"

"Oh!" said Goggins, "those in the heavy profession of the law must have
their little private moments of rollickzation; and then high men, you see,
like to do a bit of low by way of variety. 'The Night before Larry was
stretched' was done by a bishop, they say; and 'Lord Altamont's Bull' by
the Lord Chief Justice; and the Solicitor-General is as up to fun as any
bishop of them all. Come, Jim, tip us the stave!"

Jim cleared his throat and obeyed his chief.

THE QUAKER'S MEETING

I

"A traveller wended the wilds among,
With a purse of gold and a silver tongue;
His hat it was broad, and all drab were his clothes,
For he hated high colours--except on his nose,
And he met with a lady, the story goes.
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

II

"The damsel she cast him a merry blink,
And the traveller nothing was loth, I think;
Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath,
And the quaker, he grinned, for he'd very good teeth,
And he asked, 'Art thee [1] going to ride on the heath?'
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

[1][Footnote: The inferior class of quakers make THEE serve not only its
own grammatical use, but also do the duty of THY and THINE.]

III

"'I hope you'll protect me, kind sir,' said the maid,
'As to ride this heath over I'm sadly afraid;
For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound,
And I wouldn't "for anything" I should be found,
For, between you and me, I have five hundred pound.'
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

IV

"'If that is thee own, dear,' the quaker he said,
'I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed;
And I have another five hundred just now,
In the padding that's under my saddle-bow,
And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow!'
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

V

"The maiden she smiled, and her rein she drew,
'Your offer I'll take, though I'll not take you;'
A pistol she held at the quaker's head--
'Now give me your gold, or I'll give you my lead,
'Tis under the saddle I think you said.'
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

VI

"The damsel she ripp'd up the saddle-bow,
And the quaker was never a quaker till now;
And he saw by the fair one he wish'd for a bride
His purse borne away with a swaggering stride,
And the eye that looked tender now only defied.
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

VII

"'The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim,' quoth she,
'To take all this filthy temptation from thee;
For Mammon deceiveth, and beauty is fleeting:
Accept from thy _maai-d'n_ a right loving greeting,
For much doth she profit by this quaker's meeting.
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

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