Part 5

But ’tis all in a mist afther thin. First the neighbours come plutherin’ round, Callin’ wan to the other that Nelly was dead, an’ that Felix was dhrowned. An’ the pólis thramped black thro’ the glames of a moon that was takin’ to rise, An’ thin somebody said: ‘Sure he’s murthered her sweetheart before the girl’s eyes.’ Was it that set the win’ howlin’ ‘Murther!’ all over the land in the dark? An’ they axed me a power o’ questions, an’ fitted me fut in a mark On the bank. But it’s little I heeded whatever they’d do or they’d say, For thin Nelly was come to her sinses, an’ ravin’ an’ moanin’ away, An’ kep’ biddin’ thim hinder me dhrownin’ the lad in the hole be the hill. So sez I to meself whin I heard her: ‘I’ll let thim believe what they will. I’ll say naught, an’ the kinder they’ll thrate her belike.’ So I just held me tongue. An’ some chaps began booin’ an’ shoutin’ the villin’d a right to be hung. An’ his mother wint callin’ him soft, lettin’ on he was hid for a joke; But th’ ould father I’d seen shake his fist at me over the heads o’ the folk: Troth, as long as the life’s in me body he’ll ne’er git a minute o’ paice. And I seen Granny mopin’ about wid the fright puckered up in her face. Och, she’ll starve, now, the crathur, she’ll starve; that’s the throuble I’m lavin’ behind. Did I see? I’m scarce certin, but since, I’ll be seein’ it oft in me mind, What they dhrew up all dhrippin’, up out o’ the wather that shivered an’ spun In black rings, hauled up slow like a log, stiff an’ stark, an’ laid down where the sun Was just rachin’ to twinkle the dew on the grass. Whin ye looked where that lay, All the world seemed no more than a drift o’ deep night round a hand’s-breadth o’ day. But it’s clearer I see him come stepped thro’ the sunset in glimmers o’ gould, Than that wanst, sthretched his lenth there, stone-still, wid thim black snaky weeds, wet an’ could, Thrailin’ round him. Her darlint, her darlint--I hear that asleep and awake; I’d a right to quit hearin’ it now, whin he’ll listen no more than she’ll spake.

XIV

For they tould me this day little Nelly had died o’ the fever last night, An’ the frettin’; so nothin’ that matthers a thraneen’s left under the light. What’s the differ if people believe ’twas meself shoved him into the pool? They can’t help her or harm her. But, faith, sir, ye’ll think me a powerful fool, Or ye’d scarce have the face to be biddin’ me spake out the truth now, afore ’Tis too late; an’ yourself sittin’ there tellin’ lies this last half-hour an’ more, Wid your little black book full o’ blatheremskyte as its leaves is o’ print; Sure, I’d heard all your stories; an’ sorra a wan ye’ve the wit to invint That ’ill show folk the sinse o’ the life where they’ve come, an’ the death where they’ll go, If there’s sinse in’t at all; wan thing’s certin: it isn’t the likes o’ yez know-- Wid your chapels an’ churches, Heaven walled up in each, an’ Hell’s blazes all round. Och, the Divil _I_ keep is contint plaguin’ crathurs that bide above ground, Widout blatherin’ afther thim into the dark; that’s the Divil for me; Tho’ he wouldn’t suit you, sir: the folk’s aisier frighted wid things they can’t see. But just leave me in paice wid your glory an’ joy--they’re as bad as the rest. If there’s anythin’ manes me a good turn at all, let it give me what’s best-- The great sleep, that’s all sleep, ne’er a fear wan could wake, ne’er a thought to creep in; Ne’er a dhrame--or I’d maybe hear Nelly call Felix her darlint agin.

PAST PRAYING FOR

OR, THE SOUPER’S WIDOW

‘_Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans._’

PAST PRAYING FOR

OR, THE SOUPER’S[2] WIDOW

[2] _Souper_ is a term applied to the few Irish Catholic peasants who, during famine years, professed Protestantism in order to obtain the relief, often intrusted for distribution to the clergy of the then Established Church, who occasionally made a grant conditional upon attendance at their services, etc., though as a rule acting impartially and humanely.

(A.D. 184-)

I

Sure he’d never ha’ done it, not he, if I’d on’y but held o’ me tongue; Och, the fool that I was, the black fool--for the same I’d deserve to be hung; But, bedad thin, the tongue o’ ye’s harder than aught in the world else to hould, An’ that mornin’ we all was disthracted an’ perished wid hunger an’ could.

II

It was right in the worst o’ the famine, the first years the praties wint black-- Tho’ ye’re scarce of an age, Sisther Frances, to remember o’ things so far back; But in coorse ye’ve heard tell o’ thim times, whin the people was dyin’ be the score, Ay, be hundrids an’ thousinds, the like was ne’er seen in the counthry before. An’ what else should the crathurs ha’ done, wid the food o’ thim rotted to dirt? Och, to see thim--ye’d meet ne’er a man but his face was as white as his shirt. And ourselves had been starved all the winther, the childher, an’ Micky, an’ me, An’ poor Micky’s ould mother, till, comin’ on spring, not a chance could we see; For there wasn’t a house far or near where they’d give ye the black o’ your eye, And our Praste he was down wid the fever, an’ clane ruinated forby.

III

So it’s rale delighted we were on that evenin’ Pat Murphy brought word How the people o’ Lunnon had sint some relief to our townland he heard; Relief--that was oatmale, an’ loaves, an’ a grand sup o’ broth in a bowl, An’ to git it ye’d stip down to Parson, who’d tuk to disthribit the whole. So full early we started next day, sin’ the road’s a long sthretch to his place, An’ we hadn’t a scrap in the house but a crust for the childher. And in case We got out the big bag for the male, Mick an’ I, while the rest, lookin’ on, Did be wishin’ we’d bring it back full, an’ a-wondhrin’ how long we’d be gone. Sure, the laste o’ thim all, little Larry, that scarce was a size to run sthraight, Tuk a notion to come wid us too, whin he heard ’twas for somethin’ to ait. I remember the look of it yit, skytin’ afther us the lenth o’ the lane. Thin I mind, comin’ into the town, meetin’ cart-loads and cart-loads o’ grain, That Lord Athmore was sindin’ in sthrings to be shipped off from Westport by say; An’ the people stood watchin’ thim pass like as if ’twas a corpse on its way. An’ sez Mick, whin we met thim: ‘Look, Norah,’ sez he, ‘that’s not aisy to stand: It’s the lives of our childher th’ ould naygur’s a-cartin’ off out o’ the land.’ An’ sez I, just to pacify Mick: ‘Thin good luck to the folks as ha’ sint What ’ill keep o’ the sowls in their bodies; if we can but do that I’m contint.’

IV

But, och, Sisther darlin’, at Parson’s we got sorra a bit afther all; Not a taste in the world save the smell o’ the soup that was sthrong in the hall. For whin Parson come out from his breakfast, he said the relief that he’d got Was for thim who wint reg’lar to church--where he’d ne’er seen a wan of our lot; An’ he’d liefer throw bread to the dogs than to childher o’ papists, whose thricks Were no better than haythins’, brought up to be worshippin’ ould bits o’ sticks. Howsome’er, if we ’d give him our word we ’d attind the next Sunday, why thin He’d considher. But who could ha’ promised the like? Such a shame and a sin: Turn a souper in sight o’ thim all, an’ throop off to the place where they curse The ould Pope, an’ the Virgin, an’ jeer at the Mass--why, what haythin’d do worse? Yet that hape o’ big loaves. Sisther Frances, thim folk’s in a manner to blame Who know whin ye’re starvin’ an’ tempt ye. So we wint back the way that we came. But, ochone, it seemed double the lenth, an’ it’s never a word Micky said, An’ the ould empty bag on me arm was that light it felt heavy as lead; An’ the childher, that ran out to meet us as far as the top o’ the hill, Whin they found we’d brought nothin’ at all--I could cry now to think o’ thim still.

V

An’ twyst afther that Mick wint down there to thry if a bit could be had, But onless that we promised to turn, not a scrapeen we ’d git good or bad. Och, the long hungry days. So wan mornin’ we’d ate all the breakfast o’er night, And I hoped we ’d be late wakin’ up, but it seemed cruel soon gittin’ light. An’ the March win’ was ice, an’ the sun on’y shinin to show it its road, An’ the fire was gone out on us black, an’ no turf till wan thramped for a load. Thin the childher, an’ Mick’s mother herself, were that starvin’, the crathurs, an’ could, That they all fell to keenin’ together most woeful, the young an’ the ould; Until Mick, that was lyin’ in bed for the hunger, an’ half the week long Had scarce tasted a bit, he laned up on his elbow to ax what was wrong. An’ sez I--God forgive me, ’twas just the first thing that come into me head-- ‘Sure it’s cryin’ they are, man,’ sez I, ‘for the want of a mouthful o’ bread, And it’s dyin’ they may be next thing, for what help I can see. Och, it’s quare, But if Parson had knowed how we ’re kilt, an’ ye’d on’y ha’ spoken him fair, He’d allow us a thrifle at laste.’ An’ sez he: ‘Woman, whisht! what’s the use? I might spake him as fair as ye plase, or might give him the heighth of abuse, All as wan, he’s that bitther agin us. But throth will I stand it no more; I’ll turn souper this day for the male.’ And he ups wid himself off the floor; For ’twas Sunday that mornin’, worse luck: ‘It’s a sin, sure,’ sez he, ‘I know well, ’Siver, sooner than watch thim disthroyed, I’d say prayers to the Divil in Hell,’ Sez he, goodness forgive him--but, mind you, meself’s every ha’porth as bad, For thin, watchin’ him off down the lane, I dunno was I sorry or glad.

VI

And he wint, sure enough, to the church. Widdy Mahon she tould me next day How she ’d gone there herself for the victuals, an’ met wid him comin’ away; And how afther the service they stepped up to Parson’s to thry what they ’d git, An’ they got a half loaf, an’ the full o’ the male-bag; an’ never a bit Would he touch, but made off wid him sthraight, tho’ she said he seemed hard-set to crawl-- Och, ye see ’twas for us that he turned, for himself he ’d ne’er do it at all. An’ it’s wishful he was to slip home in a hurry, poor lad, wid his pack, An’ to bring us the best that he had. But och, Sisther, he never got back.

VII

For the boys comin’ up from the Mass down at Moyna, a while later on, Found him dhropped of a hape be the path past Kilogue wid the life of him gone; An’ th’ ould male-bag gripped close in his hand, that he thought to ha’ carried us home. Och, I mind it, the place where he lay, ’tis the lonesomest road ye can roam, Wid the bog black an’ dhreary around ye, an’ sorra a wall or a hedge, Sthretchin’ out till the hill-top lifts up like a fearful great face o’er the edge; An’ the breadths o’ the big empty sky, wid no end, look as far as ye will, Seem just dhrawin’ an’ dhrainin’ your life out, if weak-like ye’re feelin’ an’ ill; An’ it’s that way poor Mick was. Och, Sisther, there’s scarcely a day’s gone by In the years ever since, but I’m thinkin’ how desolit he happint to die, And I dhrame it o’ nights--be himself, starin’ lonesome an’ lost ’nathe thim skies, Wid the could creepin’ into his heart, an’ the cloud comin’ over his eyes, An’ that sin on his sowl--would ye say there’s a chance for him? Look, now, at me, Wid a bed to die aisy on here in the House, betther off, sure, than he, An’ me fau’t just as bad. Cock me up! to lie here where I’ve help widin call, An’ poor Mick out o’ rache on the road--where’s the manin’ or sinse in ’t at all?

VIII

Ay, in troth, ’twas no thing to go do; ay, a scandal it was and a sin; But mayhap they’d scarce judge him so hard if they knew all the sthraits we were in. There’s the Mother o’ Mercy, sez I to meself, sure, it’s childher she’s had-- May they ne’er want the bite or the sup, if she’ll spake a good word for me lad. Och, me head’s gittin’ doitered an’ quare, or I’d know they’ve tuk off out o’ this, And is settled in glory above, where there’s nought can befall them amiss. But suppose she remembers her time down below, if she even lived where The ould blight never come on their praties an’ dhruv the whole land to despair, Yet I’m thinkin’ there’s always been plenty o’ throuble about on this earth, An’ for sure ’twill ha’ happint her whiles to ha’ never a sod on the hearth, Or a scrap for the pot, an’ the childher around her all famished an’ white, An’ they cryin’, an’ she nothin’ to give them, save bid them to whisht an’ be quite.

IX

But, indeed, for that matther, the Lord, who’d enough to contind wid those times, Might ha’ some sort o’ notion himself how the poor people’s tempted to crimes, Whin they’re watchin’ their own folk a-starvin’, an’ no help for it, strive as they may. For himself set a dale by his mother, accordin’ as I’ve heard say, An’ remembered her last thing of all in the thick of his throuble, an’ thought To make sure she’d ha’ some wan to care her an’ heed that she wanted for nought, An’ be keepin’ the roof o’er her head while she lived, all the same as her son-- But, ye see, he’d a frind he could trust to, an’ Micky, the crathur, had none. An’ that same would be vexin’ his heart while he lay dyin’ there on the road; For the sorra a sowl would be left in the world to purtect us, he knowed; An’ I mind when the fever he had, an’ was wandh’rin’ a bit in his head, He kep’ ravin’ continyal as how ’twas desthroyed we’d be wanst he was dead. An’ poor Mick was that kind in his heart, he’d be put past his patience outright Whin th’ ould mother an’ childher was frettin’ wid hunger from mornin’ till night; An’ it’s that was the raison he done it--nought else. So, belike, if above They’d considher the hardships he met, till it s’ desprit, bedad, he was dhruv, An’ no hope o’ relief for the crathurs at home, mind you, barrin’ he wint An’ let on a bit now an’ agin--they’d believe ’twas no harm that he mint; An’ that wan sin he done, an’ he starvin’, they ’d maybe forgive an’ forget-- Och, Sisther Frances, me honey, would ye say there’s a chance for him yet?

MISS HONOR’S WEDDING

Οἷόν μ’ἀκούσαντ’ ἀρτίως ἔχει, γύναι, Ψυχῆς πλάνημα κἀνακίνησις φρενῶν

MISS HONOR’S WEDDING

I

Ould Sir Maurice’s youngest daughther, do I mind her, Sir, did ye say? Miss Honor is it? Och, sure the same as I’d seen her but yistherday; And her weddin’--Ay, Sir, her weddin’ I said. How long since? Well, I dunnό, But a matter o’ ten year back belike; anyway ’tis wan while ago.

II

We thought little enough o’ the match here below in the town; people said Miss Honor’d a right to ha’ looked at home, if so be she’d a mind to wed. There was plinty o’ betther than he did be afther her thin, ye’ll be bound, An’ she reckoned the greatest beauty in the sevin counties around. Yet she needs must take up wid a sthranger; I believe ’twas from Scotland he came. No, Sir, I ne’er chanced to behould him, and I disremember his name-- A big man, I’ve heard tell, as yourself’s, Sir, an’ pleasant o’ speech, but a bit Conthráry some whiles in his temper, an’ come of a quare wild set. Not aquil no ways to Miss Honor: sure, whin she’d be ridin’ the road, As many’s the time I’ve seen her, be the look of her no wan’d ha’ knowed Whether ’twas to the Earl, or the Countess, or ould Andy the fiddler she bowed; A rale lady, tho’, mind ye, some Quality thought her proud.

III

Howsomever, a sthranger or no, ould Sir Maurice was plased an’ content, An’ they settled to have a great weddin’ down here at the endin’ o’ Lent; An’ I mind the white sloe-flower was meltin’ from off the black hedges like hail In the sunshine, whin back to the Castle the family came wid a dale O’ grand company, frinds an’ relations; the house was as full as a fair. But, a couple o’ days to the weddin’, Kate Doyle, that’s in service up there, She run in wid a message to say they’d a kitchen-maid tuk to her bed Wid the awfulest toothache at all, an’ her cheek swelled the size of her head; An’ they wanted a girl be the week, an’ she’d spoke to the misthress for me-- So I slipped up that night afther supper, as proud o’ me luck as could be.

IV

Thin next day, whin they’d gone to the dinner, Kate showed me the grandeur they’d got Settled out in the library; all of her presents, a terrible lot. Sure, I couldn’t be tellin’ ye half, let alone nigh the whole o’ the things. There was wan o’ the tables was covered wid bracelets an’ brooches, an’ rings; An’ the big silver plates did be shinin’ like so many moons thro’ the mist; An’ the jugs wid their insides pure gold, an’ the taypots, an’ urns, an’ the rist. But the iligant chiney--och saints! the wee cups wid their handles all gilt, An’ their paintin’s o’ flower-wrathes an’ birds--if ye’d break wan, bedad, ye’d be kilt. An’ the jewels, och, the jewels was that purty, I’d ha’ sted there star-gazin’ all night; There was diaminds like raindhrops that each had a fire-sparkle somehow alight, An’ the pearls like as if they’d been stringin’ the bits o’ round hailstones for beads, An’ the red wans an’ green, if a rainbow was sowin’ ye’d take thim for seeds; An’ the grand little boxes to hold thim, all lined wid smooth satin below-- ‘Sure, it’s well to be her, Kate,’ sez I, an’ sez she, ‘Och, begorra, that’s so.’

V

Well, the morn, be the best o’ good luck, Kate an’ I got the chance to slip out, An’ away wid us off to the church, where the folk was all standin’ about, Tho’ it wanted an hour to the time; an’ we squeezed to a sate at the door, That was thrailed round most tasty wid wrathes that they’d put up the evenin’ before. An’ it’s there we’d the greatest divarsion beholdin’, for afther a while, All the guests was arrivin’ an’ roostlin’ in velvets an’ silks up the aisle, Every wan lookin’ finer than t’other, wid sthramers an’ feathers an’ lace-- But the sorra a sign o’ the bridegroom was seen comin’ nigh to the place. That was sthrange now; an’ folk did be sayin’ they wondhered what kep’ him, an’ thin It seemed Quality’s selves got onaisy, for ye’d see the grand bonnits begin Niddle-noddin’ together to whisper; an’ wan o’ the gintlemen’d quit, Slippin’ out be the little side door, an’ look down the sthraight road for a bit, An’ come back, blinkin’ out o’ the sun, wid a head-shake, for nothin’ he’d spied; Till at last, in the heighth o’ their throuble, in landed Miss Honor--the bride.

VI

Och, an’ she was a bride! Not a sowl but was wishin’ good luck to her groom. All in white, like a branch o’ wild pear, when ye scarce see the stem for the bloom, An’ her dark hair just glintin’ wid glames, like the bird’s wing that sthrakes off the dew-- Och, a beauty complate, from the crown of her head to the point of her shoe. Wid her hand on Sir Maurice’s arm, an’ he lookin’ as proud as ye plase, An’ eight iligant bridesmaids behind her, each pair dhressed as like as two pase, Wid their booquees o’ flowers like big stars in a thrimble o’ fern laves; ye’d say Be the scint they’d dhropped straight out of Heaven; I remember the smell to this day.

VII

But, next minute, in afther thim stepped a sthrange gintleman none of us knew, In a terrible takin’, an’ pantin’ as if ’twas a bellers he blew; Wid a yallerish slip in his hand o’ the sort they’ve for messages tuk Off the tiligrumph wires, an’ he ups to where Quality stared at him, sthruck Of a heap like; and somethin’ he sez, that I couldn’t exactually hear, But a somethin’ the others weren’t wishful Miss Honor should guess, that was clear, For they all wint hush-hushin’; however, I’m thinkin’ she heard what he said, And I saw her take hold o’ the paper, an’ whatever was in it she read.

VIII

I misdoubt what’s the thruth o’ the story. Some said all the while he’d a wife In the States unbeknownst, that was somehow found out, so he’d run for his life; An’ some said he was coortin’ a Marquis’s daughther in England instead; But some said it was nought on’y just a fantigue he’d tuk into his head. But whatever the raison might be, an’ whatever had happint amiss, The end of it was, he was never set eyes on from that day to this.

IX