Chapter 8

Charles James Lever (1806--1872) remains the most popular novelist that Ireland has ever produced. He was born in Dublin and studied medicine both there and in Germany. After practising his profession for several years, he began to write his novels of Irish life, the first of which, "Harry Lorrequer," appeared serially in the _Dublin University Magazine_ in 1837. This story caught the fancy of the public at once, by its unrestrained spirit of rollicking fun, verging often upon farce. The flow of animal spirits which Lever displayed was even more conspicuous in the most popular of all his books, "Charles O'Malley," and in the succeeding novels, "Jack Hinton," "Tom Burke of Ours," and "The Confessions of Con Cregan," from the last of which the accompanying selection is taken.

Wit and humor are blended in everything that Lever wrote, and he had a keen eye for the grotesque. His later years were largely spent upon the Continent, and he died at Trieste, where he had been British consul for many years. He and Samuel Lover afford the best examples of Celtic wit that are to be found in literature.

When, my worthy reader, we shall have become better acquainted, there will be little necessity for my insisting upon a fact which, at this early stage of our intimacy, I deem it requisite to mention; namely, that my native modesty and bashfulness are only second to my veracity, and that while the latter quality in a manner compels me to lay an occasional stress upon my own goodness of heart, generosity, candor, and so forth, I have, notwithstanding, never introduced the subject without a pang--such a pang as only a sensitive and diffident nature can suffer or comprehend; there now, not another word of preface or apology!

I was born in a little cabin on the borders of Meath and King's County; it stood on a small triangular bit of ground, beside a cross-road; and although the place was surveyed every ten years or so, they were never able to say to which county we belonged, there being just the same number of arguments for one side as for the other--a circumstance, many believed, that decided my father in his original choice of the residence; for while, under the "disputed boundary question," he paid no rates or county cess, he always made a point of voting at both county elections!

This may seem to indicate that my parent was of a naturally acute habit; and indeed the way he became possessed of the bit of ground will confirm that impression.

There was nobody of the rank of gentry in the parish, nor even "squireen"; the richest being a farmer, a snug old fellow, one Henry McCabe, that had two sons, who were always fighting between themselves which was to have the old man's money. Peter, the elder, doing everything to injure Mat, and Mat never backward in paying off the obligation. At last Mat, tired out in the struggle, resolved he would bear no more. He took leave of his father one night, and next day set off for Dublin, and 'listed in the "Buffs."

Three weeks after, he sailed for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by grief, took to his bed, and never arose from it.

Not that his death was anyway sudden, for he lingered on for months longer; Peter always teasing him to make his will, and be revenged on "the dirty spalpeen" that disgraced the family; but old Harry as stoutly resisting, and declaring that whatever he owned should be fairly divided between them.

These disputes between them were well known in the neighborhood. Few of the country people passing the house at night but had overheard the old man's weak, reedy voice and Peter's deep, hoarse one, in altercation. When at last--it was on a Sunday night--all was still and quiet in the house; not a word, not a footstep, could be heard, no more than if it were uninhabited, the neighbors looked knowingly at each other, and wondered if the old man were worse--if he were dead!

It was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our cabin. I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket near the fire; but I didn't speak, for I was frightened.

It was repeated still louder, and then came a cry--"Con Cregan; Con, I say, open the door! I want you."

I knew the voice well; it was Peter McCabe's; but I pretended to be fast asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door, and I heard him say, "Oh, Mr. Peter, what's the matter? Is the ould man worse?"

"Faix that's what he is! for he's dead!"

"Glory be his bed! When did it happen?"

"About an hour ago," said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner could perceive was greatly agitated. "He died like an ould haythen, Con, and never made a will!"

"That's bad," says my father, for he was always a polite man, and said whatever was pleasing to the company.

"It is bad," said Peter; "but it would be worse if we couldn't help it. Listen to me now, Corny, I want ye to help me in this business; and here's five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye were always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye were mistaken for each other every day of the week."

"Anan!" said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion, without well knowing why.

"Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house, and get into the bed."

"Not beside the corpse?" said my father, trembling.

"By no means, but by yourself; and you're to pretend to be my father, and that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I'll send for the neighbors, and Billy Scanlan, the schoolmaster, and ye'll tell him what to write, laving all the farm and everything to me--ye understand. And as the neighbors will see ye, and hear yer voice, it will never be believed but that it was himself that did it."

"The room must be very dark," said my father.

"To be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh the bed; and ye'll only have to make a cross with yer pen under the name."

"And the priest?" said my father.

"My father quarreled with him last week about the Easter dues: and Father Tom said he'd not give him the 'rites': and that's lucky now! Come along now, quick, for we've no time to lose: it must be all finished before the day breaks."

My father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped his big coat 'round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house. I sat up in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes; and then, in a costume as light as my parent's, set out after them, to watch the course of the adventure. I thought to take a short cut, and be before them; but by bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only escaped being drowned by a chance. As it was, when I reached the house the performance had already begun.

I think I see the whole scene this instant before my eyes, as I sat on a little window with one pane, and that a broken one, and surveyed the proceeding. It was a large room, at one end of which was a bed, and beside it a table, with physic bottles, and spoons, and teacups; a little farther off was another table, at which sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner of writing materials before him.

The country people sat two, sometimes three, deep round the walls, all intently eager and anxious for the coming event. Peter himself went from place to place, trying to smother his grief, and occasionally helping the company to whisky--which was supplied with more than accustomed liberality.

All my consciousness of the deceit and trickery could not deprive the scene of a certain solemnity. The misty distance of the half-lighted room; the highly wrought expression of the country people's faces, never more intensely excited than at some moment of this kind; the low, deep-drawn breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a sob--the tribute of affectionate sorrow to some lost friend, whose memory was thus forcibly brought back: these, I repeat it, were all so real, that, as I looked, a thrilling sense of awe stole over me, and I actually shook with fear.

A low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to cause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing of a fly would have been heard, my father said, "Where's Billy Scanlan? I want to make my will!"

"He's here, father!" said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading him to the bedside.

"Write what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick; for I haven't a long time afore me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O'Rafferty won't give me the 'rites'!"

A general chorus of muttered "Oh! musha, musha," was now heard through the room; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the unflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.

"I die in peace with all my neighbors and all mankind!"

Another chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable expressions.

"I bequeath unto my son, Peter--and never was there a better son, or a decenter boy!--have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter, the whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboora, with the fallow meadows, behind Lynch's house, the forge, and the right of turf on the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him, Lantry Cassarn's acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln; and that reminds me that my mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in the jug."

Here the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably refreshed by it.

"Where was I, Billy Scanlan?" says he; "oh, I remember, at the limekiln; I leave him--that's Peter, I mean, the two potato gardens at Noonan's Well; and it is the elegant fine crops grows there."

"Ain't you gettin' wake, father darlin'?" says Peter, who began to be afraid of my father's loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch got into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.

"I am, Peter, my son," says he; "I am getting wake; just touch my lips agin with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!"

"No, indeed, father; but it's the taste is lavin' you," says Peter; and again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.

"Well, I'm nearly done now," says my father: "there's only one little plot of ground remaining; and I put it on you, Peter--as ye wish to live a good man, and die with the same easy heart I do now--that ye mind my last words to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbors listening? Is Billy Scanlan listening?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, father. We're all minding," chorused the audience.

"Well, then, it's my last will and testament, and may--give me over the jug"--here he took a long drink--"and may that blessed liquor be poison to me if I'm not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I say, then, I bequeath the little plot at the crossroads to poor Con Cregan; for he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hardworking a man as ever I knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him want while ye have it yourself; think of me on my deathbed whenever he asks ye for any trifle. Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at the cross to Con Cregan, and his heirs _in secla seclorum_. Ah, blessed be the saints! but I feel my heart lighter after that," says he; "a good work makes an easy conscience; and now I'll drink the company's good health, and many happy returns----"

What he was going to add, there's no saying; but Peter, who was now terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming, hurried all the people away into another room, to let his father die in peace.

When they were all gone, Peter slipped back to my father, who was putting on his brogues in a corner: "Con," says he, "ye did it all well; but sure that was a joke about the two acres at the cross."

"Of course it was, Peter," says he; "sure it was all a joke for the matter of that: won't I make the neighbors laugh to-morrow when I tell them all about it!"

"You wouldn't be mean enough to betray me?" says Peter, trembling with fright.

"Sure ye wouldn't be mean enough to go against yer father's dying words?" says my father; "the last sentence ever he spoke;" and here he gave a low, wicked laugh, that made myself shake with fear.

"Very well, Con!" says Peter, holding out his hand; "a bargain's a bargain; yer a deep fellow, that's all!" and so it ended; and my father slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the legacy he left himself.

And thus we became the owners of the little spot known to this day as Con's Acre.

GEORGE III SOUGHT HEAVEN'S AID.

The British Sovereign Proclaimed a General Fast and Commanded His Subjects to Humble Themselves to Win the Divine Favor in Their War with the American Colonies.

When the American colonies rebelled against King George, England was not so easy in her view of the situation as is often assumed. The reader who may stumble upon a copy of the London _Gazette_ for October, 1776, will find therein this:

PROCLAMATION FOR A GENERAL FAST.

=George R=.

We, taking into our most serious Consideration the just and necessary Measures of Force which We are obliged to use against Our rebellious Subjects in Our Colonies and Provinces in North America and Putting Our Trust in Almighty God, that He will vouchsafe a special Blessing on Our Arms both by Sea and Land, have resolved, and do, by and with the Advice of Our Privy Council, hereby command, That a Publick Fast and Humiliation be observed throughout that Part of Our Kingdom of Great Britain called England, Our Dominion of Wales, and Town of Berwick upon Tweed, upon Friday the 13th Day of December next; and so both We and Our People may humble Ourselves before Almighty God, in order to obtain Pardon of Our Sins; and may, in the most devout and solemn Manner, send up our Prayers and Supplications to the Devine Majesty, for averting those heavy Judgments which Our manifold Sins and Provocations have most justly deserved, and for imploring his Intervention and Blessing speedily to deliver Our loyal Subjects within Our Colonies and Provinces in North America from the Violence, Injustice, and Tyranny, of those daring Rebels who have assumed to themselves the Exercise of Arbitrary Power; to open the Eyes of those who have been deluded by specious Falsehoods into Acts of Treason and Rebellion; to turn the Hearts of the Authors of these Calamities, and finally to restore Our People in those distracted Provinces and Colonies to the happy Condition of being free Subjects of a free State; under which heretofore they flourished so long and prospered so much.

And We do strictly charge and command, That the said Publick Fast be reverently and devoutly observed by all Our loving Subjects in England, Our Dominion of Wales, and Town of Berwick upon Tweed, as they tender the Favour of Almighty God, and would avoid His Wrath and Indignation; and upon Pain of such Punishment as We may justly inflict upon all such as contemn and neglect the Performance of so religious a Duty. And, for the better and more orderly solemnizing the same, We have given Directions to the Most Reverend the Archbishops, and the Right Reverend the Bishops of England, to compose a Form of Prayer, suitable to this Occasion, to be used in all Churches, Chapels, and Places of Publick Worship, and to take Care the same be timely dispersed throughout their respective Dioceses. Given at Our Court at St. James, the Thirtieth Day of October, One Thousand seven hundred and seventy-six, in the Seventeenth Year of Our Reign.

HOW PUNSTERS SMITE THE LYRE.

THE AHKOOND OF SWAT.

By George Thomas Lanigan.

(This famous poem appeared in the New York _Sun_ in January, 1876. Mr. Lanigan wrote it the previous evening, on the arrival of a brief cablegram announcing the death of the Ahkoond of Swat, in British India.)

What, what, what, What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Comes by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean's bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea, and the Med- iterranean--he's dead; The Ahkoond is dead!

For the Ahkoond I mourn; Who wouldn't? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Ahkoodn't. Dead, dead, dead; (Sorrow Swats!)

Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, Swats whom he hath often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be, Sorrow Swats! Tears shed, Shed tears like water, Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat! Your great Ahkoond is not, But lain 'mid worms to rot. His mortal part alone; his soul was caught (Because he was a good Ahkoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthly walls his fame surround (Forever hallowed be the ground!) And skeptics mock the lowly mound And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!" His soul is in the skies-- The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat. He sees with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries He knows what's Swat. Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation! Fallen is at length Its tower of strength, Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; Dead lies the great Ahkoond; The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not!

THE DYING SHOEMAKER.

"Dear wife, I'm waxing near my end," The dying cobbler said; "Soon to an upper world my soul Its lonely way must tread.

"I fear indeed I'm pegging out; But then what boots it, love? Here we've been a well-fitted pair, And so we'll be above.

"My ills I know no drugs may heel, So it's well to prepare; We can't run counter to our fate-- Just put a peg in there.

"The future need not give you care, I've left my awl to you; For deep within my inner sole I know that you've been true.

"I've always given you your rights, But now you must be left; However, do not grieve too much When of me you're bereft.

"A last farewell I now will take." He smiled and raised his head. "B-last the cruel malady That lays you low," she said.

"I'll slipper away in peace," he sighed; "The strife will soon be past." His head fell back, he sweetly smiled, And then he breathed his last.

I WANT TO GO TO MORROW.

I started on a journey just about a week ago, For the little town of Morrow, in the State of Ohio. I never was a traveler, and really didn't know That Morrow had been ridiculed a century or so. I went down to the depot for my ticket, and applied For the tips regarding Morrow, not expecting to be guyed. Said I, "My friend, I want to go to Morrow and return Not later than to-morrow, for I haven't time to burn."

Said he to me, "Now let me see if I have heard you right; You want to go to Morrow and come back to-morrow night. You should have gone to Morrow yesterday and back to-day, For if you started yesterday to Morrow, don't you see, You could have got to Morrow and returned to-day at three. The train that started yesterday--now understand me right-- To-day it gets to Morrow, and returns to-morrow night."

Said I, "My boy, it seems to me you're talking through your hat, Is there a town named Morrow on your line? Now tell me that." "There is," said he, "and take from me a quiet little tip-- To go from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour trip. The train that goes to Morrow leaves to-day eight-thirty-five; Half after ten to-morrow is the time it should arrive. Now if from here to Morrow is a fourteen-hour jump, Can you go to-day to Morrow and come back to-day, you chump?"

Said I, "I want to go to Morrow; can I go to-day And get to Morrow by to-night, if there is no delay?" "Well, well," said he, "explain to me and I've no more to say; Can you go anywhere to-morrow and come back to-day? For if to-day you'd get to Morrow, surely you'll agree You should have started not to-day, but yesterday, you see. So if you start to Morrow, leaving here to-day, you're flat, You won't get in to Morrow till the day that follows that.

"Now if you start to-day to Morrow, it's a cinch you'll land To-morrow into Morrow, not to-day, you understand. For the train to-day to Morrow, if the schedule is all right, Will get you into Morrow by about to-morrow night." Said I, "I guess you know it all, but kindly let me say, How can I go to Morrow if I leave the town to-day?" Said he, "You cannot go to Morrow any more to-day, For the train that goes to Morrow is a mile upon its way."

FINALE.

I was so disappointed I was mad enough to swear; The train had gone to Morrow and had left me standing there. The man was right in telling me I was a howling jay; I didn't go to Morrow, so I guess I'll go to-day.

THE WASHERWOMAN'S SONG.

Wring out the old, wring out the new, Wring out the black, wring out the gray, Wring out the white, wring out the blue-- And thus I wring my life away.

An occupation strange is mine; At least it seems to people droll That while I'm working at the line I'm going on from pole to pole.

Where'er I go I strive to please, From morn to night I rub and rub; I'm something like Diogenes-- I almost live within a tub.

To acrobats who vault and spring In circuses I take a shine; They make their living in the ring, And by the wringer I make mine.

My calling's humble, I'll agree, But I am no cheap calico, As some folks are who sneer at me; I'm something that will wash, you know.

I smile in calm, I strive in storm, With life's adversities I cope My duties bravely to perform; My motto--While there's life there's soap.

Wring out the old, wring out the new, Wring out the black, wring out the gray, Wring out the white, wring out the blue-- And thus I wring my life away.

Mr. Caudle Lends Five Pounds.

BY DOUGLAS JERROLD.

A Glimpse of English Domestic Life in Which the American Reader May Find Here and There Something That Sounds Quite Familiar.

Editor, humorist, playwright, humanitarian, Douglas William Jerrold--to give him his seldom heard full name--was a winning figure in his period. He was born in London in 1803, the son of an actor and theater lessee. He had little schooling, but he was fond of books, and educated himself precociously by reading a wide range of literature in English, French, Italian, and Latin. Occasionally his father cast him for children's parts on the stage. For a time he served as a midshipman in the British navy, and later became a printer's apprentice. He was only fifteen when he wrote a comedy, "More Frightened Than Hurt," which was well received. His best-remembered play, "Black-Eyed Susan," was produced in 1829. All in all, he wrote more than forty plays, many of which enjoyed an ephemeral success.

Meantime he was constantly engaging in literary ventures. When _Punch_ was founded, in 1841, he at once became a contributor, and he continued the connection until his death. "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures," "Punch's Letters to His Son," and "Cakes and Ale" are well-known compilations of his papers in _Punch_.

Jerrold was a lovable man, of an easy-going, generous nature. Sociable, impulsive, simple, fiery--his faults were those of carelessness or haste.