[In the Common Pleas Division of the High Court of Justice, during the League agitation, the court heard an application on behalf of the Earl of Bantry to substitute service on twenty-one tenants on the Island of Dersey, about a quarter of a mile from the main land, in the barony of Bore, county of Cork. Counsel said that the island was so inaccessible that rents had not been collected there for over two years. Mr. Justice Harrison asked how were the Land Commissioners to get over when they went down to fix fair rents? Counsel said that they would find it difficult enough to get off. The place was so wild that it was only on fine days it was possible to cross Dersey Sound. They went over, however, and these verses record the exploit:]
[In the Common Pleas Division of the High Court of Justice, during the League agitation, the court heard an application on behalf of the Earl of Bantry to substitute service on twenty-one tenants on the Island of Dersey, about a quarter of a mile from the main land, in the barony of Bore, county of Cork. Counsel said that the island was so inaccessible that rents had not been collected there for over two years. Mr. Justice Harrison asked how were the Land Commissioners to get over when they went down to fix fair rents? Counsel said that they would find it difficult enough to get off. The place was so wild that it was only on fine days it was possible to cross Dersey Sound. They went over, however, and these verses record the exploit:]
THERE were three Sub-Commissioners went sailing sou-sou-west,With due responsibility on each official breast,To the lonely isle of Dersey they travelled with intentTo investigate and regulate each pining tenant’s rent.Oh, Moses! how the tempest blew adown the channel wild,It made the oldest lawyer feel as helpless as a child,Whilst the chairman had to exercise the greatest legal tact,For fear his conscience might disgorge a portion of the Act.They felt, did those commissioners, such physical defaultsAs the toper who indulges by mistake in Epsom salts,And not upon the future were their aspirations cast,They wanted first to scatter round some relics of the past.The fish that followed in their wake, cod, mackerel, and fluke,Had never witnessed so much bait before without a hook,They were ignorant entirely of the all-important factThat their unexpecteddejeunerwas owing to the Act.They were very sick commissioners upon those troubled seas,There was something quite seditious in the waves and in the breeze,And when their tottering footsteps pressed on solid earth once more,They used up all their handkerchiefs on Dersey’s barren shore,And they couldn’t relish joyfully the wild delirious sportThat awaited but their presence in the Land Commission Court;They wanted all to go to bed, and miserably lackedThe enthusiastic courage to administer the Act.They seemed, those Sub-Commissioners, more circumspect than gayWhile hearing Irish evidence interpreted all day,Although alternate intervals were taken to allowOpportunities to each of them to wipe his clammy brow.That evening, at supper, they sought vainly to concealA variety of feelings unbecoming to that meal;And when they sought their couches, with their constitutions racked,They had tortures worse than striving to elucidate the Act.
THERE were three Sub-Commissioners went sailing sou-sou-west,With due responsibility on each official breast,To the lonely isle of Dersey they travelled with intentTo investigate and regulate each pining tenant’s rent.Oh, Moses! how the tempest blew adown the channel wild,It made the oldest lawyer feel as helpless as a child,Whilst the chairman had to exercise the greatest legal tact,For fear his conscience might disgorge a portion of the Act.They felt, did those commissioners, such physical defaultsAs the toper who indulges by mistake in Epsom salts,And not upon the future were their aspirations cast,They wanted first to scatter round some relics of the past.The fish that followed in their wake, cod, mackerel, and fluke,Had never witnessed so much bait before without a hook,They were ignorant entirely of the all-important factThat their unexpecteddejeunerwas owing to the Act.They were very sick commissioners upon those troubled seas,There was something quite seditious in the waves and in the breeze,And when their tottering footsteps pressed on solid earth once more,They used up all their handkerchiefs on Dersey’s barren shore,And they couldn’t relish joyfully the wild delirious sportThat awaited but their presence in the Land Commission Court;They wanted all to go to bed, and miserably lackedThe enthusiastic courage to administer the Act.They seemed, those Sub-Commissioners, more circumspect than gayWhile hearing Irish evidence interpreted all day,Although alternate intervals were taken to allowOpportunities to each of them to wipe his clammy brow.That evening, at supper, they sought vainly to concealA variety of feelings unbecoming to that meal;And when they sought their couches, with their constitutions racked,They had tortures worse than striving to elucidate the Act.
THERE were three Sub-Commissioners went sailing sou-sou-west,With due responsibility on each official breast,To the lonely isle of Dersey they travelled with intentTo investigate and regulate each pining tenant’s rent.Oh, Moses! how the tempest blew adown the channel wild,It made the oldest lawyer feel as helpless as a child,Whilst the chairman had to exercise the greatest legal tact,For fear his conscience might disgorge a portion of the Act.
They felt, did those commissioners, such physical defaultsAs the toper who indulges by mistake in Epsom salts,And not upon the future were their aspirations cast,They wanted first to scatter round some relics of the past.The fish that followed in their wake, cod, mackerel, and fluke,Had never witnessed so much bait before without a hook,They were ignorant entirely of the all-important factThat their unexpecteddejeunerwas owing to the Act.
They were very sick commissioners upon those troubled seas,There was something quite seditious in the waves and in the breeze,And when their tottering footsteps pressed on solid earth once more,They used up all their handkerchiefs on Dersey’s barren shore,And they couldn’t relish joyfully the wild delirious sportThat awaited but their presence in the Land Commission Court;They wanted all to go to bed, and miserably lackedThe enthusiastic courage to administer the Act.
They seemed, those Sub-Commissioners, more circumspect than gayWhile hearing Irish evidence interpreted all day,Although alternate intervals were taken to allowOpportunities to each of them to wipe his clammy brow.That evening, at supper, they sought vainly to concealA variety of feelings unbecoming to that meal;And when they sought their couches, with their constitutions racked,They had tortures worse than striving to elucidate the Act.
SO, you’re goin’ out to Aigypt, wirrasthrue!An’ we’ll niver see your faytures any more,Millia murther! what in thunder shall we doWhin you turn your crookid back upon our shore?All innocint divarsion with yourself will be departin’An’ existence will become a dreary void;Ochone an’ ullagone! we must vainly sigh an’ groan;Philalu! a long adieu to Clifford Lloyd!No more at midnight’s melancholy strokeShall we revel in our customary funOf scaring all the humble women folkIn sarchin’ for the shadow of a gun.There’s an ind to legal riot, they may sleep in peace an’ quiet,An’ their slumbers niver more will be annoyed;We’re dejected an’ neglected, an’ we cannot be expectedTo be happy after banished Clifford Lloyd!No more cartridges of buckshot we desire,’Tis a burden whin we’re not allowed to use it,An’ our batons may be thrown into the fire—We may see a peasant’s head an’ dar not bruise it,The girls may take to coortin’ an’ the boys resume their spoortin’,An’ life by common people be enjoyed,In contint, without lamint, since to Africa they’ve sintThat inimy of laughter, Clifford Lloyd!Misther Healy, you have always been unkind.But we didn’t think you positively cruelTill we noticed how you changed ould Gladstone’s mind,And made him sind away our darlin’ jewel.Our feelins are diminted an’ our souls are discontinted,Troth! we’re altogether ruined an’ destroyed,We’re wailin’ an’ we’re quailin’ and we’re failin’ since the sailin’Of that father of coercion, Clifford Lloyd!
SO, you’re goin’ out to Aigypt, wirrasthrue!An’ we’ll niver see your faytures any more,Millia murther! what in thunder shall we doWhin you turn your crookid back upon our shore?All innocint divarsion with yourself will be departin’An’ existence will become a dreary void;Ochone an’ ullagone! we must vainly sigh an’ groan;Philalu! a long adieu to Clifford Lloyd!No more at midnight’s melancholy strokeShall we revel in our customary funOf scaring all the humble women folkIn sarchin’ for the shadow of a gun.There’s an ind to legal riot, they may sleep in peace an’ quiet,An’ their slumbers niver more will be annoyed;We’re dejected an’ neglected, an’ we cannot be expectedTo be happy after banished Clifford Lloyd!No more cartridges of buckshot we desire,’Tis a burden whin we’re not allowed to use it,An’ our batons may be thrown into the fire—We may see a peasant’s head an’ dar not bruise it,The girls may take to coortin’ an’ the boys resume their spoortin’,An’ life by common people be enjoyed,In contint, without lamint, since to Africa they’ve sintThat inimy of laughter, Clifford Lloyd!Misther Healy, you have always been unkind.But we didn’t think you positively cruelTill we noticed how you changed ould Gladstone’s mind,And made him sind away our darlin’ jewel.Our feelins are diminted an’ our souls are discontinted,Troth! we’re altogether ruined an’ destroyed,We’re wailin’ an’ we’re quailin’ and we’re failin’ since the sailin’Of that father of coercion, Clifford Lloyd!
SO, you’re goin’ out to Aigypt, wirrasthrue!An’ we’ll niver see your faytures any more,Millia murther! what in thunder shall we doWhin you turn your crookid back upon our shore?All innocint divarsion with yourself will be departin’An’ existence will become a dreary void;Ochone an’ ullagone! we must vainly sigh an’ groan;Philalu! a long adieu to Clifford Lloyd!
No more at midnight’s melancholy strokeShall we revel in our customary funOf scaring all the humble women folkIn sarchin’ for the shadow of a gun.There’s an ind to legal riot, they may sleep in peace an’ quiet,An’ their slumbers niver more will be annoyed;We’re dejected an’ neglected, an’ we cannot be expectedTo be happy after banished Clifford Lloyd!
No more cartridges of buckshot we desire,’Tis a burden whin we’re not allowed to use it,An’ our batons may be thrown into the fire—We may see a peasant’s head an’ dar not bruise it,The girls may take to coortin’ an’ the boys resume their spoortin’,An’ life by common people be enjoyed,In contint, without lamint, since to Africa they’ve sintThat inimy of laughter, Clifford Lloyd!
Misther Healy, you have always been unkind.But we didn’t think you positively cruelTill we noticed how you changed ould Gladstone’s mind,And made him sind away our darlin’ jewel.Our feelins are diminted an’ our souls are discontinted,Troth! we’re altogether ruined an’ destroyed,We’re wailin’ an’ we’re quailin’ and we’re failin’ since the sailin’Of that father of coercion, Clifford Lloyd!
I’ve been towld there’s a chance in the distance,For struggling poor sowls like myself,To brighten our dreary existence,An’ even to gather some pelf,In a land where the soil is but waitin’The wooin’ of shovels an’ picksThat we’ll take whin we’re all emigratin’To fortune by Clause Twenty-six.It’s hard and it’s sad to be hurriedAway from the strings of my life—From the spot where my mother lies buried,The place where I coorted my wife.Sweet home of my birth, to forsake you,My conscience remorsefully pricks—I can’t tell if to lave or to take you,Bewilderin’ Clause Twenty-six.For it’s rather too bitther my fate is,When my luck like a stranger goes by,When blight settles down on the praties,An’ the cow that I trusted turns dry;Whin the turf is too damp to be fuel,An’, crouched o’er a handful of sticks,I curse you, misfortune so cruel,An’ pray for you, Clause Twenty-six.Whin the rain through the thatch finds a way in,Till we sleep in a cheerless cowld bath;Whin the hens are teetotal at layin’,An’ the pig is as thin as a lath,Whin the childer are pinin’ an’ ailin’,An’ losin’ their mirth an’ their tricks—Oh, I long for the ship to be sailin’That’s chartered by Clause Twenty-six.And often at night I’ve a notion,Whilst hungry they’re lyin’ in bed,In that plintiful land o’er the oceanThey wouldn’t be cryin’ for bread;They might even an odd pat of buttherAlong with their stirabout mix;Oh, my heart is too full for to utterIts thoughts of you, Clause Twenty-six.To see the health-roses assimbleOn the cheeks of my boys, an’ the curlsOnce again in the bright mornin’ trimbleWith the innocent laugh of my girls;An’ to feel that herself would be aisy,Nor frettin’ at trouble or fix.Mavrone! but I’m mighty nigh crazyConsiderin’ Clause Twenty-six.
I’ve been towld there’s a chance in the distance,For struggling poor sowls like myself,To brighten our dreary existence,An’ even to gather some pelf,In a land where the soil is but waitin’The wooin’ of shovels an’ picksThat we’ll take whin we’re all emigratin’To fortune by Clause Twenty-six.It’s hard and it’s sad to be hurriedAway from the strings of my life—From the spot where my mother lies buried,The place where I coorted my wife.Sweet home of my birth, to forsake you,My conscience remorsefully pricks—I can’t tell if to lave or to take you,Bewilderin’ Clause Twenty-six.For it’s rather too bitther my fate is,When my luck like a stranger goes by,When blight settles down on the praties,An’ the cow that I trusted turns dry;Whin the turf is too damp to be fuel,An’, crouched o’er a handful of sticks,I curse you, misfortune so cruel,An’ pray for you, Clause Twenty-six.Whin the rain through the thatch finds a way in,Till we sleep in a cheerless cowld bath;Whin the hens are teetotal at layin’,An’ the pig is as thin as a lath,Whin the childer are pinin’ an’ ailin’,An’ losin’ their mirth an’ their tricks—Oh, I long for the ship to be sailin’That’s chartered by Clause Twenty-six.And often at night I’ve a notion,Whilst hungry they’re lyin’ in bed,In that plintiful land o’er the oceanThey wouldn’t be cryin’ for bread;They might even an odd pat of buttherAlong with their stirabout mix;Oh, my heart is too full for to utterIts thoughts of you, Clause Twenty-six.To see the health-roses assimbleOn the cheeks of my boys, an’ the curlsOnce again in the bright mornin’ trimbleWith the innocent laugh of my girls;An’ to feel that herself would be aisy,Nor frettin’ at trouble or fix.Mavrone! but I’m mighty nigh crazyConsiderin’ Clause Twenty-six.
I’ve been towld there’s a chance in the distance,For struggling poor sowls like myself,To brighten our dreary existence,An’ even to gather some pelf,In a land where the soil is but waitin’The wooin’ of shovels an’ picksThat we’ll take whin we’re all emigratin’To fortune by Clause Twenty-six.
It’s hard and it’s sad to be hurriedAway from the strings of my life—From the spot where my mother lies buried,The place where I coorted my wife.Sweet home of my birth, to forsake you,My conscience remorsefully pricks—I can’t tell if to lave or to take you,Bewilderin’ Clause Twenty-six.
For it’s rather too bitther my fate is,When my luck like a stranger goes by,When blight settles down on the praties,An’ the cow that I trusted turns dry;Whin the turf is too damp to be fuel,An’, crouched o’er a handful of sticks,I curse you, misfortune so cruel,An’ pray for you, Clause Twenty-six.
Whin the rain through the thatch finds a way in,Till we sleep in a cheerless cowld bath;Whin the hens are teetotal at layin’,An’ the pig is as thin as a lath,Whin the childer are pinin’ an’ ailin’,An’ losin’ their mirth an’ their tricks—Oh, I long for the ship to be sailin’That’s chartered by Clause Twenty-six.
And often at night I’ve a notion,Whilst hungry they’re lyin’ in bed,In that plintiful land o’er the oceanThey wouldn’t be cryin’ for bread;They might even an odd pat of buttherAlong with their stirabout mix;Oh, my heart is too full for to utterIts thoughts of you, Clause Twenty-six.
To see the health-roses assimbleOn the cheeks of my boys, an’ the curlsOnce again in the bright mornin’ trimbleWith the innocent laugh of my girls;An’ to feel that herself would be aisy,Nor frettin’ at trouble or fix.Mavrone! but I’m mighty nigh crazyConsiderin’ Clause Twenty-six.
Mr. Jenkins, M. P., from St. Stephen’s came o’erTo address the electors he’d soothered before,But he found in their feelings toward him a change,Manifested in ways both alarming and strange;He had scarcely extolled their warm hearts in the southWhen a wet sod of turf hit him square in the mouth,And the force of its logic ’twas plain he could see,For “your argument’s striking,” said Jenkins, M. P.Then a cat long deceased was propelled at his pate;Says Jenkins, “Your animal spirits are great.”A two-year-old egg on his cheek went to batter;“I’d rather,” he murmured, “not speak of that matter.”They set fire to the platform, he gasped in affright,“The subject’s appearing in quite a new light.”He appealed to his friends to protect him, nor flee,“For unity’s strength,” argued Jenkins, M. P.But in vain was their aid from that circle so fond;He was torn and well soused in a neighboring pond,And as it was freezing it needn’t be toldThat his ardor was damped by a greeting so cold.And the peelers came up in a charge like the wind—Not knowing the member, they stormed him behind,And when he felt bayonets where they shouldn’t be,“I won’t dwell on these points,” muttered Jenkins, M. P.He fled to his inn, but avoided the bar,Where some patriots waited with feathers and tar.“Sweet creatures,” quoth he, with a satisfied grin,“Their charity sha’n’t cover much of my sin.”All bruises and scratches he sought the first train;“I leave you, electors,” he whispered, “with pain.’Tis plain that our sentiments do not agree;I’ll express them elsewhere,” shouted Jenkins, M. P.
Mr. Jenkins, M. P., from St. Stephen’s came o’erTo address the electors he’d soothered before,But he found in their feelings toward him a change,Manifested in ways both alarming and strange;He had scarcely extolled their warm hearts in the southWhen a wet sod of turf hit him square in the mouth,And the force of its logic ’twas plain he could see,For “your argument’s striking,” said Jenkins, M. P.Then a cat long deceased was propelled at his pate;Says Jenkins, “Your animal spirits are great.”A two-year-old egg on his cheek went to batter;“I’d rather,” he murmured, “not speak of that matter.”They set fire to the platform, he gasped in affright,“The subject’s appearing in quite a new light.”He appealed to his friends to protect him, nor flee,“For unity’s strength,” argued Jenkins, M. P.But in vain was their aid from that circle so fond;He was torn and well soused in a neighboring pond,And as it was freezing it needn’t be toldThat his ardor was damped by a greeting so cold.And the peelers came up in a charge like the wind—Not knowing the member, they stormed him behind,And when he felt bayonets where they shouldn’t be,“I won’t dwell on these points,” muttered Jenkins, M. P.He fled to his inn, but avoided the bar,Where some patriots waited with feathers and tar.“Sweet creatures,” quoth he, with a satisfied grin,“Their charity sha’n’t cover much of my sin.”All bruises and scratches he sought the first train;“I leave you, electors,” he whispered, “with pain.’Tis plain that our sentiments do not agree;I’ll express them elsewhere,” shouted Jenkins, M. P.
Mr. Jenkins, M. P., from St. Stephen’s came o’erTo address the electors he’d soothered before,But he found in their feelings toward him a change,Manifested in ways both alarming and strange;He had scarcely extolled their warm hearts in the southWhen a wet sod of turf hit him square in the mouth,And the force of its logic ’twas plain he could see,For “your argument’s striking,” said Jenkins, M. P.
Then a cat long deceased was propelled at his pate;Says Jenkins, “Your animal spirits are great.”A two-year-old egg on his cheek went to batter;“I’d rather,” he murmured, “not speak of that matter.”They set fire to the platform, he gasped in affright,“The subject’s appearing in quite a new light.”He appealed to his friends to protect him, nor flee,“For unity’s strength,” argued Jenkins, M. P.
But in vain was their aid from that circle so fond;He was torn and well soused in a neighboring pond,And as it was freezing it needn’t be toldThat his ardor was damped by a greeting so cold.And the peelers came up in a charge like the wind—Not knowing the member, they stormed him behind,And when he felt bayonets where they shouldn’t be,“I won’t dwell on these points,” muttered Jenkins, M. P.
He fled to his inn, but avoided the bar,Where some patriots waited with feathers and tar.“Sweet creatures,” quoth he, with a satisfied grin,“Their charity sha’n’t cover much of my sin.”All bruises and scratches he sought the first train;“I leave you, electors,” he whispered, “with pain.’Tis plain that our sentiments do not agree;I’ll express them elsewhere,” shouted Jenkins, M. P.
HURRAH for our tight little, bright little nation,The earth’s brightest jewel, the gem of the say;The garden of Europe, the flower of creation,Where no sarpints with legs or without them can stay.Were once we unitedOur wrongs should be rightedAnd ours be the brightest of emerald isles,But still some intraygur,Or bastely renayger,Sells the pass on the cause just as victory smiles.Yet, no matter, we’ve plannedA divarsion so grandThat we’ll soon have the land altogether our own;And the rogue who’ll consentTo contribute rack rintWill meet with the fate of old Thady Malone!The tailor refused to patch up his torn breeches,The cobbler declined to take charge of his soles,An’ though he was rowlin’ in ill-gotten riches,The heels of his stockin’s were nothin’ but holes,For his wife wint awayOn the very next dayWith his mother-in-law (though he didn’t mind that),An’ sisters and cousinsDeparted in dozens,Till there wasn’t a sowl in the place but the cat.Why, sorra a doubt,Sure, the fire it wint outAn’ left him in cowld and in darkness to moan,Till he felt that the rintHad been badly ill-spintThat wint to the landlord of Thady Malone!The praties grew mowldy and bad in the ridges,The mangolds an’ turnips got frosted an’ sour,In summer the cows were desthroyed with the midges,An’ the ass wint an’ drowned himself out in a shower.The sparrows, diminted,Grew quite discontinted,An’ wouldn’t remain in the cabin’s ould thatch;The pigs tuk to fittin’,An’ hins that were sittin’Wint off upon thramp an’ deserted the hatch.A polis inspector,A taxes collector,Came out to protect him from kippeen or stone,An’ there now he’s stuck,Without hope, grace, or luck,Misfortunate, boycotted Thady Malone!
HURRAH for our tight little, bright little nation,The earth’s brightest jewel, the gem of the say;The garden of Europe, the flower of creation,Where no sarpints with legs or without them can stay.Were once we unitedOur wrongs should be rightedAnd ours be the brightest of emerald isles,But still some intraygur,Or bastely renayger,Sells the pass on the cause just as victory smiles.Yet, no matter, we’ve plannedA divarsion so grandThat we’ll soon have the land altogether our own;And the rogue who’ll consentTo contribute rack rintWill meet with the fate of old Thady Malone!The tailor refused to patch up his torn breeches,The cobbler declined to take charge of his soles,An’ though he was rowlin’ in ill-gotten riches,The heels of his stockin’s were nothin’ but holes,For his wife wint awayOn the very next dayWith his mother-in-law (though he didn’t mind that),An’ sisters and cousinsDeparted in dozens,Till there wasn’t a sowl in the place but the cat.Why, sorra a doubt,Sure, the fire it wint outAn’ left him in cowld and in darkness to moan,Till he felt that the rintHad been badly ill-spintThat wint to the landlord of Thady Malone!The praties grew mowldy and bad in the ridges,The mangolds an’ turnips got frosted an’ sour,In summer the cows were desthroyed with the midges,An’ the ass wint an’ drowned himself out in a shower.The sparrows, diminted,Grew quite discontinted,An’ wouldn’t remain in the cabin’s ould thatch;The pigs tuk to fittin’,An’ hins that were sittin’Wint off upon thramp an’ deserted the hatch.A polis inspector,A taxes collector,Came out to protect him from kippeen or stone,An’ there now he’s stuck,Without hope, grace, or luck,Misfortunate, boycotted Thady Malone!
HURRAH for our tight little, bright little nation,The earth’s brightest jewel, the gem of the say;The garden of Europe, the flower of creation,Where no sarpints with legs or without them can stay.Were once we unitedOur wrongs should be rightedAnd ours be the brightest of emerald isles,But still some intraygur,Or bastely renayger,Sells the pass on the cause just as victory smiles.Yet, no matter, we’ve plannedA divarsion so grandThat we’ll soon have the land altogether our own;And the rogue who’ll consentTo contribute rack rintWill meet with the fate of old Thady Malone!
The tailor refused to patch up his torn breeches,The cobbler declined to take charge of his soles,An’ though he was rowlin’ in ill-gotten riches,The heels of his stockin’s were nothin’ but holes,For his wife wint awayOn the very next dayWith his mother-in-law (though he didn’t mind that),An’ sisters and cousinsDeparted in dozens,Till there wasn’t a sowl in the place but the cat.Why, sorra a doubt,Sure, the fire it wint outAn’ left him in cowld and in darkness to moan,Till he felt that the rintHad been badly ill-spintThat wint to the landlord of Thady Malone!
The praties grew mowldy and bad in the ridges,The mangolds an’ turnips got frosted an’ sour,In summer the cows were desthroyed with the midges,An’ the ass wint an’ drowned himself out in a shower.The sparrows, diminted,Grew quite discontinted,An’ wouldn’t remain in the cabin’s ould thatch;The pigs tuk to fittin’,An’ hins that were sittin’Wint off upon thramp an’ deserted the hatch.A polis inspector,A taxes collector,Came out to protect him from kippeen or stone,An’ there now he’s stuck,Without hope, grace, or luck,Misfortunate, boycotted Thady Malone!
Death o’ my soul! the lot is cast, and mine will be the handTo free from curse than plague spot worse this corner of the land,To quench the light of eyes that never glared except in hate,To stifle evermore the tongue that mocked the poor man’s fate.’Tis I am proud that from the crowd ’twas I, and I alone,Was chosen out to pay the debts that half the parish own;My faith! the country side will ring before the mornin’ light,Though little knows rack-rentin’ Phil that Rory walks to-night!How Thade M’Gurk and Redmond Burke across the spreadin’ say,Driven from home for years to roam ’mid strangers far away,Will shout with glee the day they see their black and cruel lot,Their woes, their tears, paid off in years by my avenging shot!An’ they must know—the tale will go ’twas I, their boyhood’s friend,That brought at last the tyrant to his well-earned bitter end.Why, when I meet them next they’ll shake my arms off with delight—I’m longin’ for the hour of gloom when Rory walks to-night!Mary’s asleep. Now heaven keep her slumbers safe and sound,—(“Heaven,” said I? Well, that’s wrong; ’tis Hell is surging hotly round),—And, nestled closely by her side, my little Kathleen’s faceSeems smiling like an angel’s through the darkness of the place.She kissed me ere she sank to rest—I’d think it sin just nowTo press my burnin’ lips again upon her childish brow;Perhaps she’d dream about my scheme, and after shun my sight—I mustn’t think of this—No! no! for Rory walks to-night!Where’s that ould gun? But softly, so; I’d better make no noise,I wouldn’t like the wife to know I’d dealings in such toys.The barrel’s rather rusty: it’s been in the thatch too long—Musha! the pull is heavy. Well, my trigger-finger’s strong.And just to think! with this ould thing you lie behind a ditch,When there’s silence all around you, an’ the night is dark as pitch,An’ your landlord comes up whistlin’, an’ you spot his shirt-front white,An’ his tune is changed immediately to “Rory walks to-night!”And that black Phil has never done kind deed to me or mine;If he were dead a thousand times none of my blood would pine;My wife might even bless the hand by which his end was wrought;My child—but, no, Great God forbid her wronged by such a thought!She prayed for me at bedtime; sure I stood beside her whenShe asked God’s blessing on me, and I dar’ not say Amen:Amen to such a prayer as that! ’Twould be a curse, a blight,To pray at all to God or saint, when Rory walks to-night!What ails me? Am I coward turned? I, who had ever sneerFor every one that showed at all of priest or preacher fear;I, who have sworn, were once I asked to play a man’s stern part,No quiver of a nerve should swerve the bullet from his heart!I’m shakin’ like an aspen—Faugh! I can’t afford to spendMy time in trembling, when I’m due down at the boreen’s end—What? but a dream? Now God be praised for this sweet mornin’s light,I’m better plased that, after all, no Rory walked last night.
Death o’ my soul! the lot is cast, and mine will be the handTo free from curse than plague spot worse this corner of the land,To quench the light of eyes that never glared except in hate,To stifle evermore the tongue that mocked the poor man’s fate.’Tis I am proud that from the crowd ’twas I, and I alone,Was chosen out to pay the debts that half the parish own;My faith! the country side will ring before the mornin’ light,Though little knows rack-rentin’ Phil that Rory walks to-night!How Thade M’Gurk and Redmond Burke across the spreadin’ say,Driven from home for years to roam ’mid strangers far away,Will shout with glee the day they see their black and cruel lot,Their woes, their tears, paid off in years by my avenging shot!An’ they must know—the tale will go ’twas I, their boyhood’s friend,That brought at last the tyrant to his well-earned bitter end.Why, when I meet them next they’ll shake my arms off with delight—I’m longin’ for the hour of gloom when Rory walks to-night!Mary’s asleep. Now heaven keep her slumbers safe and sound,—(“Heaven,” said I? Well, that’s wrong; ’tis Hell is surging hotly round),—And, nestled closely by her side, my little Kathleen’s faceSeems smiling like an angel’s through the darkness of the place.She kissed me ere she sank to rest—I’d think it sin just nowTo press my burnin’ lips again upon her childish brow;Perhaps she’d dream about my scheme, and after shun my sight—I mustn’t think of this—No! no! for Rory walks to-night!Where’s that ould gun? But softly, so; I’d better make no noise,I wouldn’t like the wife to know I’d dealings in such toys.The barrel’s rather rusty: it’s been in the thatch too long—Musha! the pull is heavy. Well, my trigger-finger’s strong.And just to think! with this ould thing you lie behind a ditch,When there’s silence all around you, an’ the night is dark as pitch,An’ your landlord comes up whistlin’, an’ you spot his shirt-front white,An’ his tune is changed immediately to “Rory walks to-night!”And that black Phil has never done kind deed to me or mine;If he were dead a thousand times none of my blood would pine;My wife might even bless the hand by which his end was wrought;My child—but, no, Great God forbid her wronged by such a thought!She prayed for me at bedtime; sure I stood beside her whenShe asked God’s blessing on me, and I dar’ not say Amen:Amen to such a prayer as that! ’Twould be a curse, a blight,To pray at all to God or saint, when Rory walks to-night!What ails me? Am I coward turned? I, who had ever sneerFor every one that showed at all of priest or preacher fear;I, who have sworn, were once I asked to play a man’s stern part,No quiver of a nerve should swerve the bullet from his heart!I’m shakin’ like an aspen—Faugh! I can’t afford to spendMy time in trembling, when I’m due down at the boreen’s end—What? but a dream? Now God be praised for this sweet mornin’s light,I’m better plased that, after all, no Rory walked last night.
Death o’ my soul! the lot is cast, and mine will be the handTo free from curse than plague spot worse this corner of the land,To quench the light of eyes that never glared except in hate,To stifle evermore the tongue that mocked the poor man’s fate.’Tis I am proud that from the crowd ’twas I, and I alone,Was chosen out to pay the debts that half the parish own;My faith! the country side will ring before the mornin’ light,Though little knows rack-rentin’ Phil that Rory walks to-night!
How Thade M’Gurk and Redmond Burke across the spreadin’ say,Driven from home for years to roam ’mid strangers far away,Will shout with glee the day they see their black and cruel lot,Their woes, their tears, paid off in years by my avenging shot!An’ they must know—the tale will go ’twas I, their boyhood’s friend,That brought at last the tyrant to his well-earned bitter end.Why, when I meet them next they’ll shake my arms off with delight—I’m longin’ for the hour of gloom when Rory walks to-night!
Mary’s asleep. Now heaven keep her slumbers safe and sound,—(“Heaven,” said I? Well, that’s wrong; ’tis Hell is surging hotly round),—And, nestled closely by her side, my little Kathleen’s faceSeems smiling like an angel’s through the darkness of the place.She kissed me ere she sank to rest—I’d think it sin just nowTo press my burnin’ lips again upon her childish brow;Perhaps she’d dream about my scheme, and after shun my sight—I mustn’t think of this—No! no! for Rory walks to-night!
Where’s that ould gun? But softly, so; I’d better make no noise,I wouldn’t like the wife to know I’d dealings in such toys.The barrel’s rather rusty: it’s been in the thatch too long—Musha! the pull is heavy. Well, my trigger-finger’s strong.And just to think! with this ould thing you lie behind a ditch,When there’s silence all around you, an’ the night is dark as pitch,An’ your landlord comes up whistlin’, an’ you spot his shirt-front white,An’ his tune is changed immediately to “Rory walks to-night!”
And that black Phil has never done kind deed to me or mine;If he were dead a thousand times none of my blood would pine;My wife might even bless the hand by which his end was wrought;My child—but, no, Great God forbid her wronged by such a thought!She prayed for me at bedtime; sure I stood beside her whenShe asked God’s blessing on me, and I dar’ not say Amen:Amen to such a prayer as that! ’Twould be a curse, a blight,To pray at all to God or saint, when Rory walks to-night!
What ails me? Am I coward turned? I, who had ever sneerFor every one that showed at all of priest or preacher fear;I, who have sworn, were once I asked to play a man’s stern part,No quiver of a nerve should swerve the bullet from his heart!I’m shakin’ like an aspen—Faugh! I can’t afford to spendMy time in trembling, when I’m due down at the boreen’s end—What? but a dream? Now God be praised for this sweet mornin’s light,I’m better plased that, after all, no Rory walked last night.
CONSTABLE Tom Gallagher, in December, 1880, was in charge of the Ballyblank Royal Irish Constabulary Barracks. A topographist might fail to discover Ballyblank on any Ordnance map of Ireland, but Constable Gallagher’s prototypes abound in every county of the island. He was tall, straight, stiff, red-complexioned, sandy-bearded, self-important, and imbued with that solemn sense of duty to Queen and Constitution which has deprived the Irish constabularyof all the ordinary feelings of weak humanity. He would bayonet with equally grim satisfaction a riotous peasant, a green-ribbon-bedecked maid or matron, or a recalcitrant pig which proved contrary at a rent seizure. Where he was born, who were his parents, what had been his history before he was evolved from the depot in Phœnix Park, Dublin, a full-blown sub in dark-green tunic, with prominent chest and prying eyes, that rested suspiciously and lingered long on every unaccustomed object not familiar to his code of instructions and mode of training—these were mysteries known only to himself, and possibly to the Director-General. The physiognomists of the quiet village of Ballyblank, a few of his own limited command, and a graceless scamp of a medical student, one Harry McCarthy, home for the holidays from the dissecting rooms of the metropolis, professed to trace a striking resemblance between the somewhat rugged contour of his countenance and that of the one man in the parish who disputed unpopularity with him—George Macgrabb, J. P., the agent of Lord Clonboy, the scourge of the district, the terror of its toilers, and the bugaboo of all the little children for miles around.
Certain it was, that, whether any physical affinities marked the two despots of the country side or not, their mental and moral—or immoral—characteristics had drawn them closely together. It was on the recommendation of Macgrabb, J. P., that Gallagher had been appointed to the command of that station. It was on the report of Macgrabb, J. P., that thechief secretary replied in the English Commons to a question about an excessive outburst of loyalty on the part of the constable, which had led that ardent enthusiast in the cause of law and order to direct a fusillade upon a crowd of little boy musicians, who were supposed to be opposing both by singing the chorus of “God Save Ireland.” The sapient secretary declared that the lives of the police were threatened, and the English members cheered the heroism of the constabulary whose lacerating buckshot had scattered the toddling crowd. Above and beyond all, this December, Macgrabb had shown, not only his magisterial approval of the constable as an official, but his interest in him as a man, by a kindly present. In the beginning of the month he had sent to Gallagher a goose.
“You are among strangers, Constable,” he said; “and the unfortunate feeling of disloyalty which pervades this county might reduce you to rougher fare than would be agreeable at the festive Christmas time. Accept this goose as a token of my good-will. Fatten it, and invite your comrades to partake of the hospitable cheer it may afford.”
Now, whether the early associations of that goose with the stingy and miserly household of the agent had accustomed it to a peculiar dietary, or that its depraved appetite was inherent, I cannot say, but the gastronomical horrors recorded of it during Gallagher’s custodianship are preserved among the most glowing traditions of the force. He tried to fatten it, as per invoice, so to speak. He expended all the fervor of a constable’s first love on it. He wrote to the editors ofhalf-a-dozen agricultural papers for information as to the best kind of food to make his goose a sufficiently adipose victim for the sacrificial altar. But the perversity of that web-footed cackler was almost miraculous. The compiler of farm-yard items in the DublinFarmer’s Gazetterecommended boiled Indian meal. The intelligent constable boiled the grain with his own loyal hands, and laid down a saucerful before his white-winged Christmas donation. It spurned the Indian meal, and devoured the saucer. The constable had to retire and read the Riot Act to himself before he could recover from this outrage to his judgment.
The assistant editor who lets himself loose on poultry in theBarndoor Chroniclegave an elaborate recipe, which he warranted to convert Gallagher’s shadowy anatomy of legs and feathers into a pudgy monster of edible delicacy inside a week or so. The belted constabulary knight spent half a day mixing the recipe and stirring it in a canteen kettle. He laid it tenderly before the agent’s goose. The bird sailed into the kettle, and actually gorged the spout before peace was restored in Warsaw. But why continue? Every man in the barracks tried medicinal and culinary experiments upon Gallagher’s goose, but it refused to be fattened. It spent its leisure time in masticating broken bottles, half-bricks, nails, old shoes, copies of the officialGazette, tunic buttons, bayonet sheaths—anything, everything, except flesh-forming food. It exhibited a remarkable appetite for official documents. Private circulars from Col. Hillier, secret instructions from George Bolton, search-warrants, copies of information, it swallowed with an avidity that rendered its general abstinence all the more conspicuous.
I have devoted so much introduction to Gallagher’s goose because a knowledge of the physical and psychological eccentricities of that wonderful fowl, and a due appreciation of its literary tastes, will be necessary to the proper understanding of the memorable events that transpired during the Christmas week of 1880 at Ballyblank.
The hates, the fears, and the respects of Agent Macgrabb and Constable Gallagher extended to precisely the same two individuals in Ballyblank. They both hated the medical student, Harry McCarthy, before alluded to, and they both feared and consequently respected Pat McCarthy, tenant farmer, and father of that unutterable scapegrace. Both, too, hated Harry for the same reason. He was irreclaimably, obtusely, blindly, madly irreverent of the mighty forces that prevail in Ireland. He never doffed his hat to the agent, majestic representative of property and propriety; he smiled at the constable, personification of British justice and empire, and had actually laughed at the constabulary joint-stock enterprise in goose fattening. Then, he was popular, and your little village tyrant hates no one more bitterly than the man who is loved by the oppressed. Finally, his popularity was due in a great measure to his powers of mimicry, andthe fact that Macgrabb and Gallagher were ever the twin objects of his talent in that direction. At weddings and patterns, wakes and fairs, he had made people roar again and again with his reproductions of the peeler’s parade stride and the magistrate’s judicial frown. It would be hard to say which had the greatest abhorrence to free-and-easy Harry. The agent would have gloried in burying him under a pyramid of ejectment writs; the constable would have sacrificed a stripe for the privilege of emptying a company’s charge of buckshot into his obnoxious figure. The disappointment at finding no opportunity to either annoy or hurt him turned Macgrabb blue and Gallagher yellow whenever they encountered Harry’s joyous countenance.
As mentioned, the worthy couple both respected and feared Harry’s father. The policeman respected him because he was the one man in the parish (outside his reckless son) who did not give a traneen for either the agent Macgrabb or the agent’s master, Lord Clonboy. He feared the sturdy farmer, too, from some indefinable sensation that he could not account for. The reasons of the agent’s fear and respect were of a two-fold character. In the first place, Pat McCarthy held a lease; and in the second, he had a daughter. When at the close of a gale Macgrabb could put a ten per cent. screw on the tenants for Lord Clonboy’s Parisian dissipation, and a five per cent. twist for his own less expensive frolics in Dublin, McCarthy could not only pay him a rent, guarded by his lease, one-half what all the surrounding tenants had to contribute, but hecould and did express his opinion of the rack-renting proclivities of the rural Nero in language whose emphasis was more marked than its elegance. It had been the life-long dream of the agent to break that lease, and twice had he approached within measurable distance of doing so. Once, when the expenses of Harry’s collegiate education had left the old man short of money, and he had begged for a few weeks’ grace. Again, just a year before, when the universal failure of the crops should in all human probability have left McCarthy nearly bankrupt. But, somehow, the farmer weathered his difficulties, and escaped the penal clause of the lease, which rendered the whole document void if one gale fell in arrears.
I have mentioned a second reason why Macgrabb respected McCarthy. This reason, Miss Ellen McCarthy, was a fair and remarkably excusable one. Why a shrivelled atomy like the agent should feel drawn to a buxom, frolicsome, blue-eyed Irish girl, whose generous sympathies were the opposite of his sordid nature, whose merry laugh was the antithesis of his diabolical grin, who cordially loathed and despised every bone in his body and every constituent element of his soul, I know not; but the fact remained that Macgrabb doated upon McCarthy’s daughter with a devotion so utterly antagonistic to his ordinary selfishness that he couldn’t quite understand it himself.
It led him to a proposal of marriage, whose consequences were singularly disagreeable both to his magisterial dignity and his physical susceptibilities. Miss McCarthy laughed at and ran away from him, andHarry McCarthy, to whom she related the joke, came into the parlor, and with a vehemence that reflected credit upon his sincerity, and a knowledge of sore spots that spoke well for his diligence at surgical studies, kicked the J. P. out of the door, down the steps, across a grass plot, and out into the high road.
It was the day after this occurrence that Macgrabb presented the goose of destiny to Gallagher. A week subsequently the magistrate and the peeler were closeted in the former’s private office.
“Here is the search-warrant, Tom,” observed Macgrabb, laying his hand familiarly on the constable’s arm. “I trust to you to see that no paper escapes you. If I get that last rent receipt into my hands I’ll squelch McCarthy as if a mountain had fallen on him.”
“It’s a risk,” said the policeman, hesitatingly.
“What risk? Information has been sworn that McCarthy’s son has been engaged in treasonable conspiracy, and that arms and illegal documents are in the father’s house. On that information I issue a warrant, and you execute it. It’s your duty to seize all documents—you’re not supposed to have time to read every letter you come across. If you don’t nab that rent receipt—you’ll know it—it’s on blue, thick paper—what harm’s done? Thank God! there’s law in the country, and police authorities can search these blackguards’ dens for fun, if for nothing else, as often as they like. If you do nip the receipt, there’s £50 down for you, and the chance, Tom—think of that, myboy—the chance of having the pleasure of assisting in turning the whole McCarthy brood out, and paying them off for many an old score. Why, at the school party last night Harry gave what he called a character sketch. What do you think it was? A representation of an Irish constable, and voice, legs, gesture, were all in imitation of you. The parish priest laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks, and all the boys and girls yelled with delight. Have you any spirit, man alive, to put up with such insults?”
“Give me the warrant,” growled Gallagher. “I suppose the National papers and the priest, too, for that matter, would call it stealing to take a rent receipt when we’re only looking for Fenian proclamations or copies of theIrish World, but I’ll chance to get even with that jackeen, even if I lose my stripes.”
On the night of Dec. 6, just as the McCarthys were retiring to rest, a loud knocking outside disarranged their programme of repose. Before the summons could be responded to, the door was rudely burst open, and Constable Gallagher, followed by half a dozen armed men, rushed in.
“Blow the brains out of any one that budges a foot or stirs a hand!” he yelled. “Mr. McCarthy, in the name of the Queen and by varchue of my oath—I mane this sarch-warrant—I demand any arms, ammunition, traysonable papers, or documents of any kind delivered up to me.”
McCarthy was surprised, his wife somewhat frightened, but Harry, true to his character, tossed a bundle of medical works on the table and cried, “Arrah! Sergeant dear, just give us your candid opinion of some of these anatomical sketches. What a beautiful skeleton you would make, yourself! Really, I would feel a pleasure in dissecting you. You have such a lot of bones about you that seem out of place.”
The constable paid no heed to this badinage, but with a sign to his followers proceeded to ransack the house. Every paper, envelope, or scrap of writing was seized, despite the indignant protests of McCarthy, and the merciless jeering of the young student.
On leaving, Gallagher grunted, “We will examine these in the barracks. If there’s nothing traysonable in them, you’ll get them back. If there is, why, law’s law, and you had better look out.”
That night, in the privacy of his own particular room, the constable sat down to a perusal of the McCarthy documents. But the excitement of the search, and sundry non-official stimulants to duty that he had indulged in, had made him heavy and sleepy. Leaving the papers spread on the table, he stretched his angular limbs on a bench, and was soon snoring in cadenzas which sounded like intermittent file-firing. He was awakened by a noise at the window. It was daylight. The window was open, and perched upon the sill with a long slip of blue paper in its beak, was the constable’s attenuated goose. A glance at the table showed that the omnivorous cackler had been tasting the flavor of the various papers strewn thereon. Gallagher rushed forward to seize the predatory monster, but with a peculiar chuckle of derision it flew from the window and disappeared from view.
About noon the constable received the following note:—
Sir,—Among the papers you so unwarrantably seized in your grossly illegal search at my house last night was a receipt for £24, being the amount of a half-year’s rent paid Sept. 15 to George Macgrabb. If it be not immediately returned, I shall at once take legal proceedings for its recovery, and if possible for your punishment. Yours, etc.,Patrick McCarthy.
Sir,—Among the papers you so unwarrantably seized in your grossly illegal search at my house last night was a receipt for £24, being the amount of a half-year’s rent paid Sept. 15 to George Macgrabb. If it be not immediately returned, I shall at once take legal proceedings for its recovery, and if possible for your punishment. Yours, etc.,Patrick McCarthy.
The constable sat down and wrote two notes. The first ran:—
Mr. McCarthy:Sir,—I know nothing about any rent receipt. If you’ll come to the barracks you will get all your papers back, except a few suspicious documents I have felt it my duty to forward to Dublin Castle.Yours,Thomas Gallagher,Constable, R. I. C.
Mr. McCarthy:
Sir,—I know nothing about any rent receipt. If you’ll come to the barracks you will get all your papers back, except a few suspicious documents I have felt it my duty to forward to Dublin Castle.
Yours,Thomas Gallagher,Constable, R. I. C.
The second note was less short, but more mysterious:—
Mr. Macgrabb:Respected Sir,—That infernal goose has got it. I saw it flying out of my window with one end of it in its mouth this morning. Anything that goose takes a fancy to swallow is done for. It has one of my old boots and a copy of the Constabulary Manual in its stomach already, so you needn’t be afraid that it won’t digest a piece of blue paper. I enclose you Pat McCarthy’s note. I’ll kill the goose, if you like to make sure. Your obedient and respectfulThomas Gallagher.
Mr. Macgrabb:
Respected Sir,—That infernal goose has got it. I saw it flying out of my window with one end of it in its mouth this morning. Anything that goose takes a fancy to swallow is done for. It has one of my old boots and a copy of the Constabulary Manual in its stomach already, so you needn’t be afraid that it won’t digest a piece of blue paper. I enclose you Pat McCarthy’s note. I’ll kill the goose, if you like to make sure. Your obedient and respectful
Thomas Gallagher.
The letter-box at Ballyblank that night contained these two missives from Macgrabb:—
The Lodge, Dec. 7, 1880.My dear Mr. McCarthy,—I find on looking over the office books that you are behind with your last half-year’s rent, due Sept. 15. His lordship, as you are aware, is not at all pleased with his father’s action in granting you the lease under which you now hold, and will certainly submit to no infringement of its clauses. I would request, therefore, immediate payment of the amount due. Of course you know the consequences of delay.Faithfully yours,George Macgrabb.Dear Constable,—Let the goose live. By Jingo, I’ve a mind to drop over on Christmas day and test its stuffing.George.
The Lodge, Dec. 7, 1880.
My dear Mr. McCarthy,—I find on looking over the office books that you are behind with your last half-year’s rent, due Sept. 15. His lordship, as you are aware, is not at all pleased with his father’s action in granting you the lease under which you now hold, and will certainly submit to no infringement of its clauses. I would request, therefore, immediate payment of the amount due. Of course you know the consequences of delay.
Faithfully yours,
George Macgrabb.
Dear Constable,—Let the goose live. By Jingo, I’ve a mind to drop over on Christmas day and test its stuffing.
George.
To the surprise of the agent, Pat McCarthy returned no answer to his note, and to the surprise of the policeman the last addition to its literary feasts appeared to have temporarily disgusted the aquatic bird, for it vanished from the precincts of the barracks, and was seen no more for a fortnight. For a time this mysterious disappearance somewhat annoyed, even if it did notalarm, the dual conspirators, for there was a bare possibility that some hungry laborer on the estate might have killed the bird and tried to eat it, possibly discovering the lost receipt among the other curiosities absorbed into its digestive interior. But when a week passed, and nothing was heard of either the missing dinner which the Ballyblank constabulary had anticipated blunting their teeth on at Christmas, or of the cerulean document obtained by stratagem and lost by accident, the worthy pair began to breathe more freely. Some tramp or wayfarer, no doubt, had deprived the barracks of its treasure.
On Dec. 16, notice was served on Patrick McCarthy that at the fortnightly sessions to be held at Ballyblank on the first Tuesday after Christmas, it was the intention of George Macgrabb, Esq., J. P., agent to Lord Clonboy, D. L., J. P., etc., to apply for a decree of ejectment against the said Patrick McCarthy for arrears of rent and costs, and the said Patrick McCarthy was required to attend and show cause, if any, why such decree should not be granted. Still no response from the obnoxious tenant.
On Christmas morning the agent drove over to the barracks.
“Constable,” said he, “I expect I shall require your assistance in a day or two. I’ll get the ejectment to-morrow. I haven’t heard a word from McCarthy. I suppose he means to claim the rent, and say the receipt was stolen during your search. It will be useless. Those copies of theIrish Worldfound in his desk have turned every magistrate on the bench againsthim. They won’t believe him on a million oaths. We landlords stick to each other. I’ll get the decree, and by G—d, I’ll put it in execution in twenty-four hours unless Miss Nelly says she’ll be Mrs. MacG. and Master Harry clears out to America or Hong-Kong. Have every available man ready. McCarthy’s a popular man with the other rapscallions of tenants, and they might show fight. We’ll shoot them down, if they do, the dogs. I’ll telegraph to the county town for more men.”
“It won’t be necessary,” growled Gallagher, showing his teeth like a vicious cat. “They haven’t forgotten Malone’s eviction. By Jupiter, didn’t we scatter the women that day! Killed one. She had twenty grains of buckshot in her. Never fired a cleaner shot in my life. They made a fuss about it, of course. What good did it do the fools? Did it save young Dermody when he kicked so about us turning his old mother out? He’ll remember the taste of my bayonet, if he lives long enough. Then look how the crowds gathered when we executed the writ against O’Brien. Lord! how we peppered them. Do you mind—”
The brutal reminiscences over which both the crowbar heroes sat gloating and smacking their lips were interrupted by the entrance of a sub with a hamper and a note. The constable gazed at both with surprise. To the hamper was attached a card:—
“A Christmas Box—From Harry McCarthy.”
“Don’t touch it! Take it away! It’s dynamite!” screamed the magistrate, with blue lips and pallid features. But at that moment there came from the box a“Quack! Quack!” so loud, so unmistakable, that both Gallagher and Macgrabb exclaimed in one whisper, “The goose! Great Heavens, the goose!”
They opened the basket with trembling fingers, and there, sure enough, as scraggy, as bony, as void of everything but skin and feathers as ever, was Macgrabb’s Christmas peace-offering to the other limb of the law.
The constable turned to the note with dilating eyes. It was some time before he could read its contents:—
My poor Gallagher,—I do not wish to deprive you of your Christmas repast. The thought of your misery, if doomed to a cold collation of bread and cheese, has overcome my resentment at your last visit. But I would appeal to you not to sacrifice the bird. It has been a most interesting visitor to me. It is not so much its exploring turn of mind that I admire—though certainly it is the most inquisitive goose I ever saw. During its stay with me I confined its tours of investigation indoors. It would have been well for you to have done the same. If you had kept its intellect employed in the kitchen or the guard-room, and limited its digestive experiments to crockery ware, old hats, paper collars, and ink-bottles, as I have done, you would possibly be happier to-day. Its thirst for knowledge is positively alarming. I discovered that when I found it making a meal off one of my most valued surgical books. After that I kept it in my bedroom, and it has at this moment stowed away in its ravenous recesses a pair of blankets, three sheets, a choice assortment of carpet and hearth-rug, and a wash-hand basin. I think it would have been better for you to have sacrificed a linen-draper’s shop, and kept your goose at home. When it came round our farm on a voyage of discoverywith a blue rent receipt in its bill, I recognized the mistake you committed in not treating it as a suspect or a treason-felony prisoner. I succeeded in rescuing the document, which it proposed studying, I have no doubt, when it could spare time from its topographical surveys. I shall have the pleasure of exhibiting the autograph in which the animal took such an absorbing interest at the Petty Sessions Court to-morrow to its original author. My respects to Macgrabb. If you feel no further curiosity in the goose, perhaps he might be inclined to preserve it in his ancestral halls. If he wrote a history of its connection with a strategic stroke of policy he recently indulged in, the perusal would be both edifying and instructive to his descendants and dependants, as representative of one of which classes, perhaps both, I tender you my profound sympathy, and remain,Yours, as ever,Harry McCarthy.P. S.—I am writing a little farce called “The Peeler’s Goose,” which will be produced at our society rooms shortly. Shall I send you tickets?
My poor Gallagher,—I do not wish to deprive you of your Christmas repast. The thought of your misery, if doomed to a cold collation of bread and cheese, has overcome my resentment at your last visit. But I would appeal to you not to sacrifice the bird. It has been a most interesting visitor to me. It is not so much its exploring turn of mind that I admire—though certainly it is the most inquisitive goose I ever saw. During its stay with me I confined its tours of investigation indoors. It would have been well for you to have done the same. If you had kept its intellect employed in the kitchen or the guard-room, and limited its digestive experiments to crockery ware, old hats, paper collars, and ink-bottles, as I have done, you would possibly be happier to-day. Its thirst for knowledge is positively alarming. I discovered that when I found it making a meal off one of my most valued surgical books. After that I kept it in my bedroom, and it has at this moment stowed away in its ravenous recesses a pair of blankets, three sheets, a choice assortment of carpet and hearth-rug, and a wash-hand basin. I think it would have been better for you to have sacrificed a linen-draper’s shop, and kept your goose at home. When it came round our farm on a voyage of discoverywith a blue rent receipt in its bill, I recognized the mistake you committed in not treating it as a suspect or a treason-felony prisoner. I succeeded in rescuing the document, which it proposed studying, I have no doubt, when it could spare time from its topographical surveys. I shall have the pleasure of exhibiting the autograph in which the animal took such an absorbing interest at the Petty Sessions Court to-morrow to its original author. My respects to Macgrabb. If you feel no further curiosity in the goose, perhaps he might be inclined to preserve it in his ancestral halls. If he wrote a history of its connection with a strategic stroke of policy he recently indulged in, the perusal would be both edifying and instructive to his descendants and dependants, as representative of one of which classes, perhaps both, I tender you my profound sympathy, and remain,
Yours, as ever,Harry McCarthy.
P. S.—I am writing a little farce called “The Peeler’s Goose,” which will be produced at our society rooms shortly. Shall I send you tickets?
They were two very sickly men who bade each other good day soon after they had mastered the contents of this epistle. Macgrabb did not apply for the decree of ejectment, but Harry McCarthy was there, and told the whole story in his rollicking fashion. He always calls the incident the greatest double surprise in his experience, but admits that he cannot say which was the greater surprise—that which he felt when he encountered Gallagher’s goose, or that which thrilled the peeler when he got it back again.