THE IRISH MATCH-MAKER.

A STORY OF CLARE.

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BY J. GERAGHTY M‘TEAGUE.

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Those of my readers, (and particularly of my fair readers,) who may expect to hear a love story, will, I am afraid, be grievously disappointed; for though my legend certainly treats of that which, in most countries, is theconsequenceof the contrivances of the cunning little god, yet we will hazard our affirmation that the course of true love, as it runs through the hearts of the lads and lasses of Columbia, is widely different in its manner among those of the west of Ireland, and of all places in Ireland, the county of Clare.

To those who are familiar with the truly glorious tales of William Carleton, all this is unnecessary; for these, with wonderful humor and pathos, faithfully portray the endless peculiarities of Irish character. Who that has alternately roared with merriment which he could not suppress, and sobbed with strong emotion at the history of the “Poor Scholar,” can ever forget it?

Among all Carleton’s delineations of Irish character, that of the Shanahus is the one which chiefly bears on our present subject. “And who is the Shanahus?” you ask. Well, I will tell you a few of his characteristics from my own personal knowledge and observations.

In most countries under the sun, the getting of a wife is no such railroad-speed kind of affair; and, (dating from thefirsteloquent glance of a bright eye, or slysqueezeof a lily hand, to the happy day when a certain little ceremony is performed,) occupies some little time, and, as many probably will be inclined to admit, no little anxiety, interlaced with a thousand little disappointments, &c.; all very well known, and very delightful in their way, no doubt,when all comes right at last. But in the land we are treating of, unlike all others, except in some particulars the Eastern nations, from whom many of our customs are derived, affairs are carried on in another kind of manner.

The week before Lent, or Shrove, is the great time in Clare. And, oh! what a study is here for the plenipotentiary, theattaché, or the financier. A young man, (suppose, for instance,) hears of the “great fortune” of some young lady in the neighborhood, or, what generally happens, he is waited on by one of his friends, (quite by accident) when a conversation to the following purport occurs:⁠—

“Well, Jimmy, who do you think I’ve in my eye for you?”

“Why, then, how do I know, Corny?”

“What do you think of Judy Tucker?”

“Oh, that would begreat, Corny! I hear she has a good stockin’ full?”

“Is it her? Two hundred pounds—no less; she’s no great beauty, but⁠—”

“Oh, never heed, Corny. Do you think you could manage it?”

“Oh, let me alone.”

Corny then mentions it to his wife, and she takes an early opportunity to go over to Judy’s residence, where she (quite casually) mentions Jimmy Melish.

“Oh, but that’s the nice boy, Judy, agrah!”

“Is it Jemmy Melish you mane, that lives beyond the old church of Kilbricken?”

“Yes, agrah!” (softly.) “Oh, but it’s he would make you the dashin’ husband!”

“Oh, yeh! what’s that you say?”

“A husband, dear! Andsicha beautifulfarm! Ten cows—no less, and every one of them white with a black star on their foreheads. Did you ever see him, Judy?”

“No, I never did.”

“Well, come wid me to mass on Sunday, an’ I’ll show him to you.”

And thus is the ice broken. But who is Corny, all this time? Why he is the veritableShanahus; and he it is who is the oracle for all the matches in the neighborhood.

Every district has its “Corny,” and it is he who has been the projector of half the matches that have been made for years in that part of the country; and seldom does it happen, so good is his judgment, that any bad selection takes place.

As soon as the iceisthus broken, sundry meetings take place at the houses of both the suitor and the sought. In former days, countless were the gallons of whiskey swallowed on these occasions, and bitter the disputes. I have known a match broken off altogether from a discussion as to which party was to provide the spirits for the wedding banquet; but they are frequently annulled, even now, by a dispute about a pig, which one side insists on being added to the “fortune,” and the other refuses.

And now you see, my fair readers, that love has but little to do withthesematches. I can positively state, and many will bear out my assertion, that the blooming bride, and the happy bridegroom, have frequently never before set eyes on each other until they stand up to the ceremony, and it is singular to see the lady nudge a neighbour on the arm, and say “which av ’em is it?” Yet these things are; though I’ve no doubt they will gradually wear out, become matters of history, and Clare grow “like the rest of the world.”

It is but justice to my country people to say, that in all my life, I have never heard of an unhappy match.Unfortunateit may be, and the dire cravings of hunger may be often felt; but though these strange people may show but a faint trace of what we call love in these matrimonialspeculations, of which I have given you a slight outline, that they possess the strongest affections for their partners, in their joys and sorrows, cannot for one instant be questioned. In sickness, health, joy, sorrow, fortunes, and reverses, we will, for constancy and affection, defend the “choice of the Shanahus” against the whole world.

Will it, then, be considered amiss, if we pass away one of these evenings, or wet days, as the case may be, by relating a few of the more remarkable doings of a pretty good specimen of thegenus, who existed, or (as we may truly say)flourished, in the county of Clare, some little time ago?

Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick, (or Michael Fitzpatrick) then, was eminently fond of his jokes, and was accounted, by all, the most knowing fellow in the parish of Ballinacally. He had, withal, a happy genius, and was peculiarly famed as a mediator in matrimonial arrangements. On this account, Mehicle’s advice and assistance were frequently solicited to transact these little matters of business, and truly surprising was the consummate tact he would display on such occasions. Were he engaged on the part of the “boy,” who, perhaps with scanty means and expectations of his own, wished to secure a rich heiress, hisforteconsisted in making him appear, in the eyes of the opposite party, as rich again as he really was. Was he, on the other hand, on the side ofherfriends—in that case, he had to exert all his abilities in putting the very same “boy” off with the least possible amount of fortune. Notwithstanding, Mehicle was a jolly fellow, and no one could enjoy more than he a good-humored frolic, especially when coupled with an affair of this kind, which was ever to his fancy.

Now, some particularly “cute” things, which Mehicle did at various times, bid fair long to live in the remembrances of the good folks of Ballinacally; and if a sample or so will be at all acceptable (that is, amusing) to my readers, they shall have one, and “lead mille failte” into the bargain.

Mehicle, then, had occasion one season, in conformity, alas! to a too general custom, (which would plunge me too much into an Irish agrarian political discussion were I to describe,) had occasion, I say, to sow his “handful of pratees” on a farm some miles from his own house, and might be seen, early and late, going to and returning from his work.

He had been for some time thus engaged in preparing his potato-field, when he observed that every day a young man of his acquaintance regularly passed through the end of the same field, on his way to and from the house of a rich old farmer, who lived on the other side of the hill.

Now, as Mehicle watched him night and morning, he could not help guessing (and he guessed rightly for once, for he was a shrewd observer in these matters) that this young man was hard at work making love to the said rich farmer’s daughter.

It happened, that between the field in which Mehicle was sowing his potatoes, and that which led to the richfarmer’s house, there was a wide water-course; not exactly a drain, but a hollow, wet, rushy place, that divided the lands. It was dry enough in summer, no doubt; but, in its flooded state it was, though very wide, quite such a place as a young, active fellow like Aidey Hartigan, who possessed a clean pair of stockings, and brightly polished shoes, would rather risk a flying jump across, than wet the one, or sully the lustre of the other, by splashing through.

Not a little surprising was it to Mehicle to observe his friend Aidey, every morning, after having come out of the farmer’s house, (where he had spent the night,) walk straight through this nasty,wet, boggy place, to the great detriment of the nice clothing of his nether man; but what still more astonished him was, that just when he was about to leave off work, he saw Aidey, as he was coming to the farmer’s hopping and jumping as he neared the trench, and clearing it at a bound.

Mehicle, who as I have hinted, was ever inquisitive, could at last no longer bear to see Aidey going on in this manner, and determined not only to inquire the reason of this strange behavior, but also to try to have his hand in the making of the match, if such was in view; and accordingly, when Aidey appeared next morning, after having as usual covered himself with bog-dirt and mud, in blundering through the trench, he went forward to meet him, and they addressed each other with the usual salutations. Let me detail their conversation, as Mehicle used to relate it, and fond was that very same boy to tell over all the adventures, schemes and diplomacies, in his life ofShanahusy.

“Good morrow, Mehicle! God bless your work.”[1]

“And you likewise, Aidey. How are you to-day?”

“Why, then, middlin’, only! but there’s no use in complainin’!”

“Indeed, faix, Aidey, you’re airly up! but an’ sure they say it’s the airly thrushes get the airly worms. Whisper! what are you about above here at big house?”

“What house? Is it Brian Mungavan’s you the mane?”

“Yes, to be sure!”

“Ah!myselfthat knows that! Maybe, though, I might tellyou, in the course of time, and maybe yourself might assist me for a bit.”

“Oho! is that the way? Wellthatit may thrive with you!That’sa business, at any rate, that serves all men, includin’ the priests!”

“And Shanahuses!” said Aidey, grinning, “and I ever knew you to be a capital one!”

“Well, I’m glad you’re going to make a trial of me, and I say again,thatit may thrive with you! But, aisy awhile, and answer me one question. I’ve been noticing you, and I’ve seen you passing backward and forward, these few days past, being, as you see, diggin’ the place of a half acre of pratees for myself, and every morning, when you used to be coming out of owld Brian Mungavan’s house, and over that wet place beyant, you used to walk straight through it, and not mind the wet one straw; but when you used to be going in to Brian’s when I was lavin’ off work for the day, and when I was wairy and tired enough myself, it’s then I used to see you give a hop and a jump, and clear the trench in flyin’ colors. And faith it’s not such a bad jump aither, not at all; and it’s no wonder (so it isn’t) that you’d like to carry a dry shoe in toherself; but why shouldn’t you do the same when you’re comin’ out?”

“Why, then,” answered Aidey, mournfully, “I’ll tell you. Every word of what you say is true; and I’m much afeard it’ll be the cause of my giving up Brian Mungavan’s house; and what’s worse, Eileen herself; and what’s worse again, herfortune—for the rale honest fact is, Imustdo it; I can’t stand it any longer—for, indeed, when I come out of Brian Mungavan’s house, Mehicle, I am not able to jump over the trench.”

“Why, man alive, why not? Wouldn’t one think now, that the good dinner you’d get, and good supper, and good sleep,and the sight of herself, would put you in the best of spirits, and that you’d clear the trench in a jiffey? But, God help you! Sure you’re in love, I suppose. As Larry Burk says in the song,⁠—

“Love, sheis akillin’ thing!”

“Ah, let me alone! Faith, then, that’s not what’s killin’me, I can tell you. Little you know what a place that house above is. Little you know what sort of a man is Mungavan. There! redden the pipe, and let’s sit down behind the rock, and I’ll tell you all about it, and let you know the hobble I’m in.”

“Very well, out with it,” said Mehicle, as he drew a puff of his pipe; “and if I can serve you, you knowme, and whatIam.”

“Oh, well I know who and what you are; and that the dickens a better Shanahus than your four bones ever stood in shoe leather to undertake a bargain of the kind; and so I’ll ask your opinion. And, first and foremost, you must know that there’s not such a kinnadt[2]in the province of Munster, than that same Brian Mungavan—and himself knows it well; and it’s an unhappy life he lades his poor wife, and his nice girl of a daughter, he’s such an owld crust himself; and, indeed, myself believes he begrudges even the crusts to the poor dogs. In fact, I’d have run off with Eileen long ago—for I could do it in a minute—only I know if I did, I’d never finger a penny of her fortune, which is pretty nice, too.”

“But,” said Mehicle, “what, in the name of goodness, has this to do with jumping over the trench?”

“Every thing,” said Aidey, groaning—“wait a minute. When I go in, you see, at night, I’m in tolerable good spirits; and then I think nothing of the trench—so much for that. Well—that’s all very well. I go in, and after a while, we all sit down to dinner; and, to be sure, to do the man justice, it’s not a very bad dinner at all that he gives us. Well, we begin; and all of us pelt, and cut, and tear, and ate away at the dinner, as hard as ever as we can; but all wont do, Mehicle. Brian ates twice faster nor any of us; and in less than five minutes he purtends to be done, and—‘Here, now,’ says he, ‘take away,’ says he. ‘Remove those dishes immediately,’ says he. ‘The Lord be praised, we’ve had enough! and thousands of the poor starvin’ all over the country,’ says the big rogue; and all the while,Mehicle, we haven’t half enough to ate, nor a quarter; and then it’s a poor night’s rest a man gets on an empty belly, Mehicle. So, then, for fear of bein’ starved intirely, I start off before breakfast. I don’t go home at night, (because she and I can get a great dale of talk before bed-time, and then it’s too late to be goin’ home so far.) I go, I say, before breakfast, for then I’m lost altogether with the hunger, and I’m not able hardly to move, and I come to the trench, and it bothers me entirely, and I’mobligatedtowade. And, Mehicle, Eileen tells me it’s the same way at breakfast, and he allows them but the two meals a-day;but, and listen to me, now. She says he gets up in the night, and gets things that’s left from the dinner, and ates them within in his bed, the dirty, unmannerly brute! Now, did you ever hear of such a rascal? Oho! Muvrone! if I ever get the fingerin’ of any of his cash, it’s I’ll show him how a good boy can spend good money. But how can we manage it, Mehicle? Can you give me any resate to cook the old scoundrel with?”

“Faix, I canso!” said Mehicle, handing him the pipe, “and a good way. It’s easily known that you’ve not the laste sperrit, though, indeed, you’re a fine, likely lad—but, to be sure, you’re in love?Youcan’t do a single ha’porth. No, if you really want tocookthat chap, you must get anowld trainerlike me, and then, maybe, if both of you help me right, we may get some good out of him; at any rate we’ll have diversion, and, Aidey, my boy, take courage, and if youdolose her,andher dirty fortune, I’ll be bound, by the pipe in your mouth, to secure as good a one for you in the space of one month.”

“O, Mehicle, I don’t doubt that in the least; but my heart is for Eileen, and you must try and get herfirst, any how.”

“Very well, Aidey, we’ll try. ‘Worse than lose we can’t,’ as Mike Gorman said, when the doctor pulled out his tooth; do you stop diggin’ here along with me to-day, it’s the least you can do. I have a famous dinner here in the basket—we’ll ate that soon, and then we’ll have a tremendious, grand, famous appetite by evening; and my hand and word to you, we shall have enough and lavins at dinner to-day.”

“Do you think so, Mehicle? God bless you for sayin’ so! I always heard you had a great head for these things.”

“Yes, maybe I have; but two heads are always better than one, even supposin’ they were no better than a couple of boiled pigs’ heads.”

With this profound reflection, they set to work, and with the help of the dinner which Mehicle had brought, and the tibbacky, managed to dig a good piece of the stubbles; and when evening came on, they made their way over the hill to Brian Mungavan’s house.

“And now,” said Mehicle, “do you introduce me just as your friend, but say nothing whatever about the match; lave all that to my management.”

They went in accordingly, and were welcomed, civilly by Mrs. Mungavan, coolly enough by Mr. Mungavan; but as for Miss Mungavan, it may not be too great a presumption to suppose that the fault would not lie inthatquarter, were the match not made.

Dinner, the much dreaded dinner, was announced; and, as faithful historians, we must say, too,whatwas for dinner. There were, then, a couple of good sized fat fowls, a turkey, too, and some bacon, with a proportionate supply of cabbage. Miss Mungavan, on being asked the dish of her choice, preferred, for certain reasons of her own, the delicatebreastof the turkey; Mehicle, before whom were placed the fowls, not a little to the astonishment of all, who stared at so unusual a proceeding, clapped one on Aidey’s plate, and kept the other himself, observing that “it wasn’t worth while to be dividin’ them for birds.”

Mr. Brian Mungavan, from old custom, gobbled up his bacon and cabbage with all celerity; but when he raised his eyes, and beheld the fierce and determined attack on the good things, he evidently foresaw it was useless to give the accustomed order to “take away;” for that if given, it would remain perfectly unheeded.

A fowl a-piece, with the bacon and various other appurtenances, was not a bit too much for men who possessed such keen appetites as Aidey and Mehicle; Miss Mungavan, as she had some one to keep her in countenance, also transgressed the rules, and doubtless enjoyed her share; the old woman, her mother, had enough; in short, it was a great day for that family. A dinner so completely discussed, was there, a rare occurrence. Such a day had never before been seen; but it was but a trifling forerunner of what was to come.

In fact theyate enough, and after they had eaten, they drank, all but the old kinnadt; he seemed quite lost in amazement at the quantity eaten, and bewildered at the assurance of Mehicle, who laughed, and talked, and played all sorts of antics, and cracked lots of jokes, as he always did, when engaged in an adventure just to his mind, as this was.

At length night came on, and bed-time was declared. All separated to their respective rooms, with the exception of Mehicle, who was to remain where he was, and to be content with occupying a “settle-bed” near the kitchen fire—and a not uncomfortable berth it is. But not long had Mehicle O’Kelopauthrick enjoyed his first sleep, when as he was, I believe, chuckling inwardly, while he dreamt of the tricks he was playing, a slight noise near the fire attracted his attention, and rousing him from his slumbers, caused him to raise his head cautiously. Peeping over the side of the settle-bed, he discovered Brian’s wife in the act of kneading on the table a cake of wheaten flour.

“Oho!” thought Mehicle, “this must be the supper that Brian gets every night, the scoundrel. He begrudges honest people the bite, and the sup, and itwould be only a proper good deed to chate him out of it himself.”

So Mehicle waited until he saw the old woman finish her cake, and cover it carefully in the hot ashes that still remained red on the hearth; and as soon as she had gone in to her room, he got up, slipped on his clothes, took his seat at the fire, and in a short time, out came the old woman, thinking the cake was now almost ready.

“O,” said Mehicle, “good morning, ma’am. I heard the cock crowing, and I thought it was break-of-day, and then I got up and sat here; and after that I considered itcouldn’tbe day, or you’d be up; butnowI see it is.”

“Seethat, now,” said Mrs. Mungavan, “you’re wrong all the while. Our cock always crows at twelve o’clock, and it’s not one at present; but my husband has agreat tooth-ache, and he says he’d be the better for a smoke, and I just came in for a red coal, and I’d advise you to go to bed again.”

“So I will, ma’am, by and bye; but as I’m up at all, I’ll wait until he’s done smokin’, and when I’ve got a puff of the pipe myself, I’ll go to bed.”

“O, wisha, wisha!” thought she, “what’ll I do? I’ll be kilt both ways. I’d be ashamed to take up the cake, and it’ll be burned entirely—and what’llhesay?”

“What are we to do?” said she, going in to her husband, “there’s that man, bad manners to him, up, and sittin’ near the fire; and I don’t like to let him see me take up the cake, but he says he’ll go to bed when he smokes; he heard our old cock, bad luck to him, bawlin’ and he thought it was day.”

“Well, here,” said Brian, “take him the pipe, and make haste and bring me the cake; but don’t let him see you takin’ it up.”

“Here, sir,” said she, “here’s the pipe; his tooth-ache’sgreatlybetter. Well, now, to be sure, tibbacky is a fine thing. Myself takes a sly puff now and again, to comfort me; can you tell me, sir, where it grows? I heard it grew up in Ulster?”

“O, not at all ma’am, but inAmericky, ma’am, where there’s plenty av land idle, and wantin’ occypation; and, faix, indeed, ma’am, that’s not the way here, when we’re a’most starved, and it’s so scarce, and wonderful dear; sit down here, if you plaze, ma’am, and I’ll tell you all aboutmy ownland, and how I lost it, and the hobble I’m in. Will we put down some turf, and make a good rousin’ fire?”

“O, yeh, no, sir!” getting frightened about the cake, “we’d never get to bed if we’d a good fire.”

“Well, then, never mind, ma’am. You see, about my farm. I was tellin’ you, ma’am, my farm (puff) was just likethat,” pointing to the ashes smoothed down quite flat over thecake; “well, my farm was quite smooth, and level, and flat, just likethat; but if it was, ma’am, my second brother, Pat, ma’am, (p-p-f-f-f)—here, ma’am, here’s the pipe for you, and smoke for a bit.”

“Thank’e, sir. Well! well, what about your brother Pat?”

“O, I’ll tell you. My second brother, Pat, ma’am, went to a blackguard ’torney, and gotan advice, and found out that he’d as good a right to the farm as I had myself; and he went to law with me, and he bate me, ma’am; and then it was all left to arbitration, ma’am, and,” said Mehicle, taking a piece of broken scythe in his hand, as if to illustrate his description, “the rascals were bribed, I’m sure; but, however, they made me divide the land into two halves, just now as I might dividethis,” making a desperate cut across the ashes, and, of course, through the centre of the cake.

“O, dear, sir!thatwasterrible,” said she. “Ihopethey didn’t doany moreto your land?”

“O, yes; that wasnothing, ma’am. The next brother, Terry, then, ma’am, says, says he, ‘Why hasn’t myself as good a right as them two?’ says he. ‘I’ll go to law,’ says he; and sohewent to law, and we did our best, but he bate us, and it was left to arbitration; and then we had to divide our land somehowso,” cutting across again, “or, stop, I’m wrong, there was more of a corner cut off than that—it was more likethis;” another sliver, “and there was a wall running across, as it might beso;” and here followed another slice; by this time, too, the cake was pretty well minced.

“O, dear, dear!” said she, “it must have beenspylte entirelyfor you, then, sir;” said she, thinking of the cake.

“O, musha, then! indeed it was, ma’am, not worth one fraction. But that wasn’t half of the misfortune; my youngest brother, Jack, ma’am, says, says he, ‘Why,’ says he, ‘why isn’t it mine as much as theirs?’ says he. ‘I’llgo to law,’ says he; andhewent to law, and it was left to arbitration; andtheywere bribed, and if they were, they made us turn, and mix, and twist it all to and fro, higgeldy piggeldy, in and out, this way and that way, just for all the world likethat,” said Mehicle, mixing ashes and cake all up together with the bit of scythe; “and see, now, it’s all destroyed and ruined, and broken up, just likethat,” pointing down at the fire.

Mrs. Mungavan was, to be sure, grievously vexed, but said nothing till she went in to her husband.

“O, Brian,” said she, “that’s a terrible man, that man at the fire. He has cut up and spylte your eligant cake, tellin’ me a story;” and here she told her husband how it happened.

“Well, Molly, accidents can’t be helped; but, indeed, faith, I’m very hungry. What else is there in the house?”

“Nothing, agrah, nothing. Them lads eat every bit that we had at dinner—howld on, there’s the cabbage that was boilt with the bacon, and maybe some av the bacon itself.”

“O, that’s right. Is that man in bed?”

“O, I’m sure he is.”

“Well, where’s the bacon and cabbage?”

“In the skillet, near the settle-bed.”

It was rather dark in the room; however, he found the right skillet, which Mehicle watched him putting down, determined, however, to cheat him of it if hecould. As soon as Mr. Mungavan had put down the cabbage, he retired to bed, and Mehicle hopped up.

Seeing another skillet near him, he examined it, and, O, joy! it was half full of tar.

In one minute the bacon and cabbage had vanished down his own throat, and in another the tar was beginning to hiss slightly in the skillet on the fire. Just then, said Brian to Molly, “Don’t you think, Molly, agrah, but the cabbage is near bein’ warm enough?”

“I think it ought to be now, Brian,” said Molly, “will I get a spoon for you?”

“O, no—wasn’t fingers made before forks.”

So out he came, and walking straight up to the fire, sat down on his heels, and flopped down his hand into the now nearly boiling tar, but quickly drew it up, all covered with the horrid stuff, and was hardly able to bear the pain.

“O, the divil carry it away for a skillet! O, Monum un ustha, but my fingers are all destroyed! Oh! oh!—I put down the wrong skillet! Well, I’ll not bawl out, I’d waken this honest man, and all the people—and they’d only laugh at me; O, voh! what’ll I do at all?”

In his agony, he bolted out into the garden, while Mehicle slipped out of the window, shillelah in hand, and though it was dark, saw Mr. Mungavan run to the cabbages, and begin stripping off the leaves, while he rubbed them to his fingers, in his vain attempts to cool his hands, and get the tar off.

“Hallo!—who’s this!” said Mehicle, running up with the stick, “who’s this?”

“O, dear!so you’ve caught me,” said Brian, “who are you?”

“Ah, ha! I’ve caught you, have I? I’ll let you know who I am. Here, Mr. Mungavan! Mr. Mungavan! quick! come out! jump up! here’s a man staylin’ your cabbages! Take that, you scoundrel; how dare you come here!” And here Mehicle began whacking him as hard as he could.

“Don’t strike me!” said Brian, “don’t!I’ll do any thing you like.Oh! Oh! don’t! Don’t you see it’smethat’s here?”

“O, I see you well enough! Come out, Mr. Mungavan!” said Mehicle, continuing to beat him.

“O, stop! and God reward you! stop! SureI’m Mr. Mungavan!”

“O, thunder, and pratees, and buttermilk! Why didn’t you tell me so before! Sure I wouldn’t do such a thing if Ididn’tknow it was you. Come in to the house. Poor man! are youmuchhurt?”

And now, many were the explanations on both sides. When they came in, Brian set to work, and called up all that were in the house, as it was now daylight. “And,” said he, “here, in the name of all that’s good and bad, let’s have breakfast, for I’m famished, not to spake of the scaldin’ and batin’ I got; but sure it’s all accidents, and can’t be helped.”

Breakfast was prepared and finished, and Brian got, gradually however, into better humor. But when that was over, his wife called him aside, and said,

“Now, Brian, all these accidents happened through your own fault; so, by all the books in Connemara, you must take my advice to-day. Have a fine dinner, and make them ate and drink enough;and if it’s Eileen that boy wants, faith, he’s a smart young man, and we couldn’t do better. Say you’ll give her a hundred pounds, or two, if one wont satisfy him; but, for goodness sake, give that Mehicle enough to ate.”

What a truly sensible speech was this. Here was the proper view of the question. Brian Mungavan overcame himself for once, and was generous. And there wassucha dinner! Eileen took good care ofthat. Turkeys, geese, and all manner of delicacies, graced the board. Take the words of a contemporaneous poet:⁠—

“Mutton, and good fat baconWas there, like turf in creels.”

“Mutton, and good fat bacon

Was there, like turf in creels.”

Or rather in the language of the old song:⁠—

“There waslashinsof beef there,Andstamminsof sheep there,And whiskey came pourin’galore.”

“There waslashinsof beef there,

Andstamminsof sheep there,

And whiskey came pourin’galore.”

And then it was, when all, including Mr. Mungavan, were in that happy state denominatedsoft, that Mehicle opened his unerring batteries, never yet known to fail.

Let us merely now wish them a happy wedding; but we somehow cannot help thinking there is in this tale a

Beeverhospitable; but, if you invite a friend or two,beware, when you say “Take away;” for you know not whether some time or another you may not fall in with aMehicle O’Kelopauthrick.

[1]The invariable salutation, in the West of Ireland, on approaching one who is at work.

[1]

The invariable salutation, in the West of Ireland, on approaching one who is at work.

[2]Old stingy fellow.

[2]

Old stingy fellow.

SONNET.

My wandering feet have trod those paths to-day,Where I so late with thee in joyance went,And gladly thitherward my steps I bent,Turning me from the dust and din away,And tracing with a quiet joy each spotHallowed by some remembrance dear to me,A smile, a tone that cannot be forgot⁠—Places whose every charm was won from thee;And therefore do I love that grassy way,And every spot which thou hast wandered o’er,And as a miser counts his secret storeWhen darkness has obscured the light of day,So in thy absence, which is my heart’s night,Thy treasured words and smiles tell I with deep delight.

My wandering feet have trod those paths to-day,

Where I so late with thee in joyance went,

And gladly thitherward my steps I bent,

Turning me from the dust and din away,

And tracing with a quiet joy each spot

Hallowed by some remembrance dear to me,

A smile, a tone that cannot be forgot⁠—

Places whose every charm was won from thee;

And therefore do I love that grassy way,

And every spot which thou hast wandered o’er,

And as a miser counts his secret store

When darkness has obscured the light of day,

So in thy absence, which is my heart’s night,

Thy treasured words and smiles tell I with deep delight.

THE STOLEN CHILD.

———

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

———

“There’s a glory over the face of Youth⁠—And Age as fair a light displays,When beautiful Love and spotless TruthHave guided all her ways!“But Sin is a hideous thing to see,His eyes are dulled before his prime,And each year leaveth the mark of three,For he hurries the hand of Time!”Thus spake the awaiting Angel Death,By a way-side beggar-crone,Who wrestled with the reluctant breathOn a pillow of broken stone!’Twas a fearful sight to see her gasp,And clutch the air in her sinewy palmsAs if forcing from a miser’s graspThe miserable alms!But a sight to bring the tear-drops downWas the little maiden pale and thinWho stood by her side in a tattered gownWhich let the sharp air in!Hatless and shoeless she stood in the rain,And shivered like autumn’s leaf,Trembling with very hunger and pain,And weeping with fear, not grief!“What ails you, mother?” the maiden cried,“What makes you tremble and stare?Why do you look so angry-eyedAs you strike the empty air?“I fear you mother! Your angry brow!Your wild and piercing eye!Oh, do not, do not hurt me now,There is no one to see me cry!“Oh, mother, why do you beat me so?And why do we walk all day,And rest at night, if it rain or snow,In cold, wet beds of hay?“Oh, why do the village children playAnd seem so very glad?And why are they dressed so clean and gayWhile I am so meanly clad?“Do not their parents beat them too,To make them moan and cry?Or are their mothers weaker than you,And the children stronger than I?“I’ve seen the parents kiss and holdTheir little ones on the knee!I, mother, am well nigh ten years old,You never did so with me!“Why am not I as pretty and goodAs the little girls in the town?Are mine the meaner flesh and bloodBecause I am burnt so brown?“And why do they go with happy looksUp where the chapel stands,Some with their little shining booksAnd flowers in their hands?“Oh, mother, I wish you would take me there!For often as we go byTheir voices come through the happy airAs if from the open sky!“Oh, mother, I wish I could join the strain,And learn their beautiful words;I am sure they do not sing for painNo more than the little birds!“You know how once we followed them outTo the forest green and gay;How they danced and sang a song aboutThe beautiful flowers of May!“Oh, they seemed like a band of angels, freeFrom hunger, pain and strife;As a lady once told me I should beIf I lived on honest life!“Then I wondered if we were to die that night,If we should be angels fair!But, mother, what makes your cheeks so white,Why, why do you shiver and stare?“Oh, mother, mother! you have often saidYou’d kill me yet in some lonely placeIf I did not steal—and did not shedMore tear-streams down my face!“And when in the prison cell we lay,Because you took the purse,I remember how I heard you sayA very dreadful curse!“How then you threatened to take my lifeBecause I lied not more!And I remember still the knifeYou said you had used before!“I fear you, mother! more and more!You groan and give such fearful starts,Ah, spare me now! and at every doorI’ll cry till I break all hearts!“But, mother, see, arise, arise!A carriage comes up the vale;They cannot, I’m sure, refuse our cries,Now that you look so pale!”Thus spake the maid—and the carriage came,And she stood as with hunger wild;While suddenly burst from the coach a dameCrying “my child! my child!”The crone half rose from her dying place,With her mouth and eyes all wide!And she knew the injured mother’s face,Then fell on her own and died!PART II.One day in the summer garden fairThe mother and daughter strayed;With trembling tongue and timid airThus spake the little maid.“Oh, must I call you mother, indeed?And are you really so?And may a useless way-side weedIn a beautiful garden grow?“Yes, you have told me all the tale,How I was stolen away,And how you grew all thin and pale,Grieving for many a day!“Day after day my heart repeatsThe story o’er and o’er!And when you say you love me, it beatsAs it never did before!“Oh, what are all these flowers that loadThe bushes with red and white?There are many growing beside the road,But none so large and bright!“Along the fence the alder grows,To shade the dusty way,And by the brook the briar blowsWhere the cat-bird sings all day!“Down by the meadows long and wet,The willow-walks are made;And now and then a violetGrows in the willow’s shade.“The dandelion and mullin bloomBy the glossy buttercups’ bed;And the thistle looks like a soldier’s plumeWith its beautiful tip of red!“Theblackberries grow by the stony wall,You may pick them as you pass;The strawberries, too, but so scattered and smallYou must hunt them in the grass!“All these along the highway shine;And as I see from hereThe turnpike’s long and winding line,My heart sends up a tear!“For they were the only things to cheerThe long and weary mile!The only things for many a yearThat ever wore a smile!“Oh, mother, in our idle hoursWe’ll wander down the glen,And I’ll show you some of the simple flowersThat smiled upon me then!“Come, let us walk by the road and search,There where the poplars stand;That I may carry some flowers to churchTo-morrow in my hand!“Then, where the old woman is doomed to lieIn the mound so new and bare,I’ll slip aside, as we go by,And quietly lay them there.“So that if she is up in Heaven,Singing the angels’ psalms,She may know that all has been forgivenBy these beautiful bright alms!“The good man told us, the other day,We must forgive our foes!And I forgive her; though she, you say,Was the mother of my woes!“I love to hear the church organ blowWhen the people rise from their places!And the children stand in a shining rowAnd sing with happy faces!“Their sweet hymns make my heart rejoiceLike a blue-bird in the spring;But when I try to raise my voiceI weep; for I cannot sing!“Their strain has a sweet and delicate tone;But mine has none of such;It seems more like the wind’s low moanOf which I have heard so much!“Then, since my voice will not join with theirs,In my heart I try to pray,And I whisper o’er those little prayersYou taught me how to say!“Say, mother, why did the preacher placeHis dripping hand on the little child?And did you not mark its rosy faceHow angel-like it smiled?“When I was so very, very small,Did you carry me up the aisle,And when I felt the waters fall,Say, did I weep or smile?“And then again in the afternoonThey brought another there,The while the organ’s solemn tune,Hung heavy on the air.“But this one in its coffin lay,While its mother sobbed aloud;And its little hands were cold as clay,And its face was white as its shroud.“Then they slowly lowered it into the ground,While the pebbles down after it slid;And, mother, I still can hear the soundOf the gravel upon the lid!“Asleep or awake I hear it fall,Andit’s grown to a pleasant noise;It seems like a loving angel’s call—And I must obey the voice!”Thus spoke the child—And the Sabbath calmBrought the loud organ’s sorrowful sound,And the great bell tolled its solemn psalmAs they laid her in the ground!

“There’s a glory over the face of Youth⁠—And Age as fair a light displays,When beautiful Love and spotless TruthHave guided all her ways!

“There’s a glory over the face of Youth⁠—

And Age as fair a light displays,

When beautiful Love and spotless Truth

Have guided all her ways!

“But Sin is a hideous thing to see,His eyes are dulled before his prime,And each year leaveth the mark of three,For he hurries the hand of Time!”

“But Sin is a hideous thing to see,

His eyes are dulled before his prime,

And each year leaveth the mark of three,

For he hurries the hand of Time!”

Thus spake the awaiting Angel Death,By a way-side beggar-crone,Who wrestled with the reluctant breathOn a pillow of broken stone!

Thus spake the awaiting Angel Death,

By a way-side beggar-crone,

Who wrestled with the reluctant breath

On a pillow of broken stone!

’Twas a fearful sight to see her gasp,And clutch the air in her sinewy palmsAs if forcing from a miser’s graspThe miserable alms!

’Twas a fearful sight to see her gasp,

And clutch the air in her sinewy palms

As if forcing from a miser’s grasp

The miserable alms!

But a sight to bring the tear-drops downWas the little maiden pale and thinWho stood by her side in a tattered gownWhich let the sharp air in!

But a sight to bring the tear-drops down

Was the little maiden pale and thin

Who stood by her side in a tattered gown

Which let the sharp air in!

Hatless and shoeless she stood in the rain,And shivered like autumn’s leaf,Trembling with very hunger and pain,And weeping with fear, not grief!

Hatless and shoeless she stood in the rain,

And shivered like autumn’s leaf,

Trembling with very hunger and pain,

And weeping with fear, not grief!

“What ails you, mother?” the maiden cried,“What makes you tremble and stare?Why do you look so angry-eyedAs you strike the empty air?

“What ails you, mother?” the maiden cried,

“What makes you tremble and stare?

Why do you look so angry-eyed

As you strike the empty air?

“I fear you mother! Your angry brow!Your wild and piercing eye!Oh, do not, do not hurt me now,There is no one to see me cry!

“I fear you mother! Your angry brow!

Your wild and piercing eye!

Oh, do not, do not hurt me now,

There is no one to see me cry!

“Oh, mother, why do you beat me so?And why do we walk all day,And rest at night, if it rain or snow,In cold, wet beds of hay?

“Oh, mother, why do you beat me so?

And why do we walk all day,

And rest at night, if it rain or snow,

In cold, wet beds of hay?

“Oh, why do the village children playAnd seem so very glad?And why are they dressed so clean and gayWhile I am so meanly clad?

“Oh, why do the village children play

And seem so very glad?

And why are they dressed so clean and gay

While I am so meanly clad?

“Do not their parents beat them too,To make them moan and cry?Or are their mothers weaker than you,And the children stronger than I?

“Do not their parents beat them too,

To make them moan and cry?

Or are their mothers weaker than you,

And the children stronger than I?

“I’ve seen the parents kiss and holdTheir little ones on the knee!I, mother, am well nigh ten years old,You never did so with me!

“I’ve seen the parents kiss and hold

Their little ones on the knee!

I, mother, am well nigh ten years old,

You never did so with me!

“Why am not I as pretty and goodAs the little girls in the town?Are mine the meaner flesh and bloodBecause I am burnt so brown?

“Why am not I as pretty and good

As the little girls in the town?

Are mine the meaner flesh and blood

Because I am burnt so brown?

“And why do they go with happy looksUp where the chapel stands,Some with their little shining booksAnd flowers in their hands?

“And why do they go with happy looks

Up where the chapel stands,

Some with their little shining books

And flowers in their hands?

“Oh, mother, I wish you would take me there!For often as we go byTheir voices come through the happy airAs if from the open sky!

“Oh, mother, I wish you would take me there!

For often as we go by

Their voices come through the happy air

As if from the open sky!

“Oh, mother, I wish I could join the strain,And learn their beautiful words;I am sure they do not sing for painNo more than the little birds!

“Oh, mother, I wish I could join the strain,

And learn their beautiful words;

I am sure they do not sing for pain

No more than the little birds!

“You know how once we followed them outTo the forest green and gay;How they danced and sang a song aboutThe beautiful flowers of May!

“You know how once we followed them out

To the forest green and gay;

How they danced and sang a song about

The beautiful flowers of May!

“Oh, they seemed like a band of angels, freeFrom hunger, pain and strife;As a lady once told me I should beIf I lived on honest life!

“Oh, they seemed like a band of angels, free

From hunger, pain and strife;

As a lady once told me I should be

If I lived on honest life!

“Then I wondered if we were to die that night,If we should be angels fair!But, mother, what makes your cheeks so white,Why, why do you shiver and stare?

“Then I wondered if we were to die that night,

If we should be angels fair!

But, mother, what makes your cheeks so white,

Why, why do you shiver and stare?

“Oh, mother, mother! you have often saidYou’d kill me yet in some lonely placeIf I did not steal—and did not shedMore tear-streams down my face!

“Oh, mother, mother! you have often said

You’d kill me yet in some lonely place

If I did not steal—and did not shed

More tear-streams down my face!

“And when in the prison cell we lay,Because you took the purse,I remember how I heard you sayA very dreadful curse!

“And when in the prison cell we lay,

Because you took the purse,

I remember how I heard you say

A very dreadful curse!

“How then you threatened to take my lifeBecause I lied not more!And I remember still the knifeYou said you had used before!

“How then you threatened to take my life

Because I lied not more!

And I remember still the knife

You said you had used before!

“I fear you, mother! more and more!You groan and give such fearful starts,Ah, spare me now! and at every doorI’ll cry till I break all hearts!

“I fear you, mother! more and more!

You groan and give such fearful starts,

Ah, spare me now! and at every door

I’ll cry till I break all hearts!

“But, mother, see, arise, arise!A carriage comes up the vale;They cannot, I’m sure, refuse our cries,Now that you look so pale!”

“But, mother, see, arise, arise!

A carriage comes up the vale;

They cannot, I’m sure, refuse our cries,

Now that you look so pale!”

Thus spake the maid—and the carriage came,And she stood as with hunger wild;While suddenly burst from the coach a dameCrying “my child! my child!”

Thus spake the maid—and the carriage came,

And she stood as with hunger wild;

While suddenly burst from the coach a dame

Crying “my child! my child!”

The crone half rose from her dying place,With her mouth and eyes all wide!And she knew the injured mother’s face,Then fell on her own and died!

The crone half rose from her dying place,

With her mouth and eyes all wide!

And she knew the injured mother’s face,

Then fell on her own and died!

PART II.

One day in the summer garden fairThe mother and daughter strayed;With trembling tongue and timid airThus spake the little maid.

One day in the summer garden fair

The mother and daughter strayed;

With trembling tongue and timid air

Thus spake the little maid.

“Oh, must I call you mother, indeed?And are you really so?And may a useless way-side weedIn a beautiful garden grow?

“Oh, must I call you mother, indeed?

And are you really so?

And may a useless way-side weed

In a beautiful garden grow?

“Yes, you have told me all the tale,How I was stolen away,And how you grew all thin and pale,Grieving for many a day!

“Yes, you have told me all the tale,

How I was stolen away,

And how you grew all thin and pale,

Grieving for many a day!

“Day after day my heart repeatsThe story o’er and o’er!And when you say you love me, it beatsAs it never did before!

“Day after day my heart repeats

The story o’er and o’er!

And when you say you love me, it beats

As it never did before!

“Oh, what are all these flowers that loadThe bushes with red and white?There are many growing beside the road,But none so large and bright!

“Oh, what are all these flowers that load

The bushes with red and white?

There are many growing beside the road,

But none so large and bright!

“Along the fence the alder grows,To shade the dusty way,And by the brook the briar blowsWhere the cat-bird sings all day!

“Along the fence the alder grows,

To shade the dusty way,

And by the brook the briar blows

Where the cat-bird sings all day!

“Down by the meadows long and wet,The willow-walks are made;And now and then a violetGrows in the willow’s shade.

“Down by the meadows long and wet,

The willow-walks are made;

And now and then a violet

Grows in the willow’s shade.

“The dandelion and mullin bloomBy the glossy buttercups’ bed;And the thistle looks like a soldier’s plumeWith its beautiful tip of red!

“The dandelion and mullin bloom

By the glossy buttercups’ bed;

And the thistle looks like a soldier’s plume

With its beautiful tip of red!

“Theblackberries grow by the stony wall,You may pick them as you pass;The strawberries, too, but so scattered and smallYou must hunt them in the grass!

“Theblackberries grow by the stony wall,

You may pick them as you pass;

The strawberries, too, but so scattered and small

You must hunt them in the grass!

“All these along the highway shine;And as I see from hereThe turnpike’s long and winding line,My heart sends up a tear!

“All these along the highway shine;

And as I see from here

The turnpike’s long and winding line,

My heart sends up a tear!

“For they were the only things to cheerThe long and weary mile!The only things for many a yearThat ever wore a smile!

“For they were the only things to cheer

The long and weary mile!

The only things for many a year

That ever wore a smile!

“Oh, mother, in our idle hoursWe’ll wander down the glen,And I’ll show you some of the simple flowersThat smiled upon me then!

“Oh, mother, in our idle hours

We’ll wander down the glen,

And I’ll show you some of the simple flowers

That smiled upon me then!

“Come, let us walk by the road and search,There where the poplars stand;That I may carry some flowers to churchTo-morrow in my hand!

“Come, let us walk by the road and search,

There where the poplars stand;

That I may carry some flowers to church

To-morrow in my hand!

“Then, where the old woman is doomed to lieIn the mound so new and bare,I’ll slip aside, as we go by,And quietly lay them there.

“Then, where the old woman is doomed to lie

In the mound so new and bare,

I’ll slip aside, as we go by,

And quietly lay them there.

“So that if she is up in Heaven,Singing the angels’ psalms,She may know that all has been forgivenBy these beautiful bright alms!

“So that if she is up in Heaven,

Singing the angels’ psalms,

She may know that all has been forgiven

By these beautiful bright alms!

“The good man told us, the other day,We must forgive our foes!And I forgive her; though she, you say,Was the mother of my woes!

“The good man told us, the other day,

We must forgive our foes!

And I forgive her; though she, you say,

Was the mother of my woes!

“I love to hear the church organ blowWhen the people rise from their places!And the children stand in a shining rowAnd sing with happy faces!

“I love to hear the church organ blow

When the people rise from their places!

And the children stand in a shining row

And sing with happy faces!

“Their sweet hymns make my heart rejoiceLike a blue-bird in the spring;But when I try to raise my voiceI weep; for I cannot sing!

“Their sweet hymns make my heart rejoice

Like a blue-bird in the spring;

But when I try to raise my voice

I weep; for I cannot sing!

“Their strain has a sweet and delicate tone;But mine has none of such;It seems more like the wind’s low moanOf which I have heard so much!

“Their strain has a sweet and delicate tone;

But mine has none of such;

It seems more like the wind’s low moan

Of which I have heard so much!

“Then, since my voice will not join with theirs,In my heart I try to pray,And I whisper o’er those little prayersYou taught me how to say!

“Then, since my voice will not join with theirs,

In my heart I try to pray,

And I whisper o’er those little prayers

You taught me how to say!

“Say, mother, why did the preacher placeHis dripping hand on the little child?And did you not mark its rosy faceHow angel-like it smiled?

“Say, mother, why did the preacher place

His dripping hand on the little child?

And did you not mark its rosy face

How angel-like it smiled?

“When I was so very, very small,Did you carry me up the aisle,And when I felt the waters fall,Say, did I weep or smile?

“When I was so very, very small,

Did you carry me up the aisle,

And when I felt the waters fall,

Say, did I weep or smile?

“And then again in the afternoonThey brought another there,The while the organ’s solemn tune,Hung heavy on the air.

“And then again in the afternoon

They brought another there,

The while the organ’s solemn tune,

Hung heavy on the air.

“But this one in its coffin lay,While its mother sobbed aloud;And its little hands were cold as clay,And its face was white as its shroud.

“But this one in its coffin lay,

While its mother sobbed aloud;

And its little hands were cold as clay,

And its face was white as its shroud.

“Then they slowly lowered it into the ground,While the pebbles down after it slid;And, mother, I still can hear the soundOf the gravel upon the lid!

“Then they slowly lowered it into the ground,

While the pebbles down after it slid;

And, mother, I still can hear the sound

Of the gravel upon the lid!

“Asleep or awake I hear it fall,Andit’s grown to a pleasant noise;It seems like a loving angel’s call—And I must obey the voice!”

“Asleep or awake I hear it fall,

Andit’s grown to a pleasant noise;

It seems like a loving angel’s call—

And I must obey the voice!”

Thus spoke the child—And the Sabbath calmBrought the loud organ’s sorrowful sound,And the great bell tolled its solemn psalmAs they laid her in the ground!

Thus spoke the child—And the Sabbath calm

Brought the loud organ’s sorrowful sound,

And the great bell tolled its solemn psalm

As they laid her in the ground!

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