Part 12

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----"