The Emigrants Of Ahadarra / The Works of William Carleton, Volume Two

CHAPTER III.—Jemmy Burke Refuses to be, Made a Fool Of

—Hycy and a Confidant

Hycy Burke was one of those persons who, under the appearance of a somewhat ardent temperament, are capable of abiding the issue of an event with more than ordinary patience. Having not the slightest suspicion of the circumstance which occasioned Bryan M'Mahon's resentment, he waited for a day of two under the expectation that his friend was providing the sum necessary to accommodate him. The third and fourth days passed, however, without his having received any reply whatsoever; and Hycy, who had set his heart upon Crazy Jane, on finding that his father—who possessed as much firmness as he did of generosity—absolutely refused to pay for her, resolved to lose no more time in putting Bryan's friendship to the test. To this, indeed, he was urged by Burton, a wealthy but knavish country horse-dealer, as we said, who wrote to him that unless he paid for her within a given period, he must be under the necessity of closing with a person who had offered him a higher price. This message was very offensive to Hycy, whose great foible, as the reader knows, was to be considered a gentleman, not merely in appearance, but in means and circumstances. He consequently had come to the determination of writing again to M'Mahon upon the same subject, when chance brought them together in the market of Ballymacan.

After the usual preliminary inquiries as to health, Hycy opened the matter:—

“I asked you to lend me five-and-thirty pounds to secure Crazy Jane,” said he, “and you didn't even answer my letter. I admit I'm pretty deeply in your debt, as it is, my dear Bryan, but you know I'm safe.”

“I'm not at this moment thinking much of money matters, Hycy; but, as you like plain speaking, I tell you candidly that I'll lend you no money.”

Hycy's manner changed all at once; he looked at M'Mahon for nearly a minute, and said in quite a different tone—

“What is the cause of this coldness, Bryan? Have I offended you?”

“Not knowingly—but you have offended me; an' that's all I'll say about it.”

“I'm not aware of it,” replied the other—-“my word and honor I'm not.”

Bryan felt himself in a position of peculiar difficulty; he could not openly quarrel with Hycy, unless he made up his mind to disclose the grounds of the dispute, which, as matters then stood between him and Kathleen Cavanagh, to whom he had not actually declared his affection, would have been an act of great presumption on his part.

“Good-bye, Hycy,” said he; “I have tould you my mind, and now I've done with it.”

“With all my heart!” said the other—“that's a matter of taste on your part. You're offended, you say; yet you choose to put the offence in your pocket. It's all right, I suppose—but you know best. Good-bye to you, at all events,” he added; “be a good boy and take care of yourself.”

M'Mahon nodded with good-humored contempt in return, but spoke not.

“By all that deserves an oath,” exclaimed Hycy, looking bitterly after him, “if I should live to the day of judgment I'll never forgive you your insulting conduct this day—and that I'll soon make you feel to your cost!”

This misunderstanding between the two friends caused Hycy to feel much mortification and disappointment. After leaving M'Mahon, he went through the market evidently with some particular purpose in view, if one could judge from his manner. He first proceeded to the turf-market, and looked with searching eye among those who stood waiting to dispose of their loads. From this locality he turned his steps successively to other parts of the town, still looking keenly about him as he went along. At length he seemed disappointed or indifferent, it was difficult to say which, and stood coiling the lash of his whip in the dust, sometimes quite unconsciously, and sometimes as if a wager depended on the success with which he did it—when, on looking down the street, he observed a little broad, squat man, with a fiery red head, a face almost scaly with freckles, wide projecting cheek-bones, and a nose so thoroughly of the saddle species, that a rule laid across the base of it, immediately between the eyes, would lie close to the whole front of his face. In addition to these personal accomplishments, he had a pair of strong bow legs, terminating in two broad, flat feet, in complete keeping with his whole figure, which, though not remarkable for symmetry, was nevertheless indicative of great and extraordinary strength. He wore neither stockings nor cravat of any kind, but had a pair of strong clouted brogues upon his feet; thus disclosing to the spectator two legs and a breast that were covered over with a fell of red close hair that might have been long and strong enough for a badger. He carried in his hand a short whip, resembling a carrot in shape, and evidently of such a description as no man that had any regard for his health would wish to come in contact with, especially from the hand of such a double-jointed but misshapen Hercules as bore it.

“Ted, how goes it, my man?”

“Ghe dhe shin dirthu, a dinaousal?” replied Ted, surveying him with a stare.

“D—n you!” was about to proceed from Hycy's lips when he perceived that a very active magistrate, named Jennings, stood within hearing. The latter passed on, however, and Hycy proceeded:—“I was about to abuse you, Ted, for coming out with your Irish to me,” he said, “until I saw Jennings, and then I had you.”

“Throgs, din, Meeisther Hycy, I don't like the Bairlha (* English tongue)—'caise I can't sphake her properly, at all, at all. Come you 'out wid the Gailick fwhor me, i' you plaise, Meeisther Hycy.”

“D—n your Gaelic!” replied Hycy—“no, I won't—I don't speak it.”

“The Laud forget you for that!” replied Ted, with a grin; “my ould grandmudher might larn it from you—hach, ach, ha!”

“None of your d—d impertinence, Ted. I want to speak to you.”

“Fwhat would her be?” asked Ted, with a face in which there might be read such a compound of cunning, vacuity, and ferocity as could rarely be witnessed in the same countenance.

“Can you come down to me to-night?”

“No; I'll be busy.”

“Where are you at work now?”

“In Glendearg, above.”

“Well, then, if you can't come to me, I must only go to you. Will you be there tonight? I wish to speak to you on very particular business.”

“Shiss; you will, dhin, wanst more?” asked the other, significantly.

“I think so.”

“Shiss—ay—vary good. Fwen will she come?”

“About eleven or twelve; so don't be from about the place anywhere.”

“Shiss—-dhin—vary good. Is dhat all?”

“That's all now. Are your turf dry or wet* to-day?”

“Not vary dhry,” replied Ted, with a grin so wide that, as was humorously said by a neighbor of his, “it would take a telescope to enable a man to see from the one end of it to the other.”

Hycy nodded and laughed, and Ted, cracking his whip, proceeded up the town to sell his turf.

Hycy now sauntered about through the market, chatting here and there among acquaintances, with the air of a man to whom neither life nor anything connected with it could occasion any earthly trouble. Indeed, it mattered little what he felt, his easiness of manner was such that not one of his acquaintances could for a moment impute to him the possibility of ever being weighed down by trouble or care of any kind; and lest his natural elasticity of spirits might fail to sustain this perpetual buoyancy, he by no means neglected to fortify himself with artificial support. Meet him when or where you might, be it at six in the morning or twelve at night, you were certain to catch from his breath the smell of liquor, either in its naked simplicity or disguised and modified in some shape.

His ride home, though a rapid, was by no means a pleasing one. M'Mahon had not only refused to lend him the money he stood in need of, but actually quarrelled with him, as far as he could judge, for no other purpose but that he might make the quarrel a plea for refusing him. This disappointment, to a person of Hycy's disposition, was, we have seen, bitterly vexatious, and it may be presumed that he reached home in anything but an agreeable humor. Having dismounted, he was about to enter the hall-door, when his attention was directed towards that of the kitchen by a rather loud hammering, and on turning his eyes to the spot he found two or three tinkers very busily engaged in soldering, clasping, and otherwise repairing certain vessels belonging to that warm and spacious establishment. The leader of these vagrants was a man named Philip Hogan, a fellow of surprising strength and desperate character, whose feats of hardihood and daring had given him a fearful notoriety over a large district of the country. Hogan was a man whom almost every one feared, being, from confidence, we presume, in his great strength, as well as by nature, both insolent, overbearing, and ruffianly in the extreme. His inseparable and appropriate companion was a fierce and powerful bull-dog of the old Irish breed, which he had so admirably trained that it was only necessary to give him a sign, and he would seize by the throat either man or beast, merely in compliance with the will of his master. On this occasion he was accompanied by two of his brothers, who were, in fact, nearly as impudent and offensive ruffians as himself. Hycy paused for a moment, seemed thoughtful, and tapped his boot with the point of his whip as he looked at them. On entering the parlor he found dinner over, and his father, as was usual, waiting to get his tumbler of punch.

“Where's my mother?” he asked—“where's Mrs. Burke?”

On uttering the last words he raised his voice so as she might distinctly hear him.

“She's above stairs gettin' the whiskey,” replied his father, “and God knows she's long enough about it.”

Hycy ran up, and meeting her on the lobby, said, in a low, anxious voice—

“Well, what news? Will he stand it?”

“No,” she replied, “you may give up the notion—he won't do it, an' there's no use in axin' him any more.”

“He won't do it!” repeated the son; “are you certain now?”

“Sure an' sartin. I done all that could be done; but it's worse an' worse he got.”

Something escaped Hycy in the shape of an ejaculation, of which we are not in possession at present; he immediately added:—

“Well, never mind. Heavens! how I pity you, ma'am—to be united to such a d—d—hem!—to such a—a—such a—gentleman!”

Mrs. Burke raised her hands as if to intimate that it was useless to indulge in any compassion of the kind.

“The thing's now past cure,” she said; “I'm a marthyr, an' that's all that's about it. Come down till I get you your dinner.”

Hycy took his seat in the parlor, and began to give a stave of the “Bay of Biscay:”—

By the way, mother, what are those robbing ruffians, the Hogans, doing at the kitchen door there?”

“Troth, whatever they like,” she replied. “I tould that vagabond, Philip, that I had nothing for them to do, an' says he, 'I'm the best judge of that, Rosha Burke.' An, with that he walks into the kitchen, an' takes everything that he seen a flaw in, an' there he and them sat a mendin' an' sotherin' an' hammerin' away at them, without ever sayin' 'by your lave.'”

“It's perfectly well known that they're robbers,” said Hycy, “and the general opinion is that they're in connection with a Dublin gang, who are in this part of the country at present. However, I'll speak to the ruffians about such conduct.”

He then left the parlor, and proceeding to the farmyard, made a signal to one of the Hogans, who went down hammer in hand to where he stood. During a period of ten minutes, he and Hycy remained in conversation, but of what character it was, whether friendly or otherwise, the distance at which they stood rendered it impossible for any one to ascertain. Hycy then returned to dinner, whilst his father in the meantime sat smoking his pipe, and sipping from time to time at his tumbler of punch. Mrs. Burke, herself, occupied an arm-chair to the left of the fire, engaged at a stocking which was one of a pair that she contrived to knit for her husband during every twelve months; and on the score of which she pleaded strong claims to a character of most exemplary and indefatigable industry.

“Any news from the market, Hycy?” said his father.

“Yes,” replied Hycy, in that dry ironical tone which he always used to his parents—“rather interesting—Ballymacan is in the old place.”

“Bekaise,” replied his father, with more quickness than might be expected, as he whiffed away the smoke with a face of very sarcastic humor; “I hard it had gone up a bit towards the mountains—but I knew you wor the boy could tell me whether it had or not—ha!—ha!—ha!”

This rejoinder, in addition to the intelligence Hycy had just received from his mother, was not calculated to improve his temper. “You may laugh,” he replied; “but if your respectable father had treated you in a spirit so stingy and beggarly as that which I experience at your hands, I don't know how you might have borne it.”

“My father!” replied Burke; “take your time, Hycy—my hand to you, he had a different son to manage from what I have.”

“God sees that's truth,” exclaimed his wife, turning the expression to her son's account.

“I was no gentleman, Hycy,” Burke proceeded.

“Ah, is it possible?” said the son, with a sneer. “Are you sure of that, now?”

“Nor no spendthrift, Hycy.”

“No,” said the wife, “you never had the spirit; you were ever and always a molshy.” (* A womanly, contemptible fellow)

“An' yet molshy as I was,” he replied, “you wor glad to catch me. But Hycy, my good boy, I didn't cost my father at the rate of from a hundre'-an'-fifty to two-hundre'-a-year, an' get myself laughed at and snubbed by my superiors, for forcin' myself into their company.”

“Can't you let the boy ait his dinner in peace, at any rate?” said his mother. “Upon my credit I wouldn't be surprised if you drove him away from us altogether.”

“I only want to drive him into common sense, and the respectful feeling he ought to show to both you an' me, Rosha,” said Burke; “if he expects to have either luck or grace, or the blessing of God upon him, he'll change his coorses, an' not keep breakin' my heart as he's doin'.”

“Will you pay for the mare I bought, father?” asked Hycy, very seriously. “I have already told you, that I paid three guineas earnest; I hope you will regard your name and family so far as to prevent me from breaking my word—besides leading the world to suppose that you are a poor man.”

“Regard my name and family!” returned the father, with a look of bitterness and sorrow; “who is bringin' them into disgrace, Hycy?”

“In the meantime,” replied the son, “I have asked a plain question, Mr. Burke, and I expect a plain answer; will you pay for the mare?”

“An' supposin' I don't?”

“Why, then, Mr. Burke, if you don't you won't, that's all.”

“I must stop some time,” replied his father, “an' that is now. I wont pay for her.”

“Well then, sir, I shall feel obliged, as your respectable wife has just said, if you will allow me to eat, and if possible, live in peace.”

“I'm speakin' only for your—”

“That will do now—hush—silence if you please.”

“Hycy dear,” said the mother; “why would you ax him another question about it? Drop the thing altogether.”

“I will, mother, but I pity you; in the meantime, I thank you, ma'am, of your advice.”

“Hycy,” she continued, with a view of changing the conversation; “did you hear that Tom M'Bride's dead?”

“No ma'am, but I expected it; when did he die?”

Before his father could reply, a fumbling was heard at the hall-door; and, the next moment, Hogan, thrust in his huge head and shoulders began to examine the lock by attempting to turn the key in it.

“Hogan, what are you about?” asked Hycy.

“I beg your pardon,” replied the ruffian; “I only wished to know if the lock wanted mendin'—that was all, Misther Hycy.”

“Begone, sirra,” said the other; “how dare you have the presumption to take such a liberty? you impudent scoundrel! Mother, you had better pay them,” he added; “give the vagabonds anything they ask, to get rid of them.”

Having dined, her worthy son mixed a tumbler of punch, and while drinking it, he amused himself, as was his custom, by singing snatches of various songs, and drumming with his fingers upon the table; whilst every now and then he could hear the tones of his mother's voice in high altercation with Hogan and his brothers. This, however, after a time, ceased, and she returned to the parlor a good deal chafed by the dispute.

“There's one thing I wonder at,” she observed, “that of all men in the neighborhood, Gerald Cavanagh would allow sich vagabonds as they an Kate Hogan is, to put in his kiln. Troth, Hycy,” she added, speaking to him in a warning and significant tone of voice, “if there wasn't something low an' mane in him, he wouldn't do it.”

“Your health, mother. Mr. Burke, here's to you! Why I dare say you are right, Mrs. Burke. The Cavanagh family is but an upstart one at best; it wants antiquity, ma'am—a mere affair of yesterday, so what after all could you expect from it?”

Honest Jemmy looked at him and then groaned. “An upstart family!—that'll do—oh, murdher—well, 'tis respectable at all events; however, as to havin' the Hogans about them—they wor always about them; it was the same in their father's time. I remember ould Laghlin Hogan, an' his whole clanjamfrey, men an' women, young an' old, wor near six months out o' the year about ould Gerald Cavanagh's—the present man's father; and another thing you may build upon—that whoever ud chance to speak a hard word against one o' the Cavanagh family, before Philip Hogan or any of his brothers, would stand a strong chance of a shirtful o' sore bones. Besides, we all know how Philip's father saved Mrs. Cavanagh's life about nine or ten months after her marriage. At any rate, whatever bad qualities the vagabonds have, want of gratitude isn't among them.”

M'Bride, ma'am, will be a severe loss to his family.”

“Throth he will, and a sarious loss—for among ourselves, there was none o' them like him.”

“I think I ought to go to the wake to-night. I know it's a bit of a descent on my part, but still it is scarcely more than is due to a decent neighbor. Yes, I shall go; it is determined on.”

“Mine are brown, Mrs. Burke—the eyes you wot of; but alas! the family is an upstart one, and that is strongly against the Protestant interest in the case. Heigho!”

Jemmy Burke, having finished his after-dinner pipe and his daily tumbler both together, went out to his men; and Hycy, with whom he had left the drinking materials, after having taken a tumbler or two, put on a strong pair of boots, and changed the rest of his dress for a coarser 'suit, bade his mother a polite good-bye, and informed her, that as he intended to be present at M'Bride's wake he would most probably not return until near morning.

CHAPTER IV.—A Poteen Still-House at Midnight—Its Inmates.

About three miles in a south-western direction from Burke's residence, the country was bounded by a range of high hills and mountains of a very rugged and wild, but picturesque description. Although a portion of the same landscape, yet nothing could be more strikingly distinct in character than the position of the brown wild hills, as contrasted with that of the mountains from which they abutted. The latter ran in long and lofty ranges that were marked by a majestic and sublime simplicity, whilst the hills were of all shapes and sizes, and seemed as if cast about at random. As a matter of course the glens and valleys that divided them ran in every possible direction, sometimes crossing and intersecting each other at right angles, and sometimes running parallel, or twisting away in opposite directions. In one of those glens that lay nearest the mountains, or rather indeed among them, was a spot which from its peculiar position would appear to have been designed from the very beginning as a perfect paradise for the illicit distiller. It was a kind of back chamber in the mountains, that might, in fact, have escaped observation altogether, as it often did. The approach to it was by a long precipitous glen, that could be entered only at its lower end, and seemed to terminate against the abrupt side of the mountain, like a cul de sac. At the very extremity, however, of this termination, and a little on the right-hand side, there was a steep, narrow pass leading into a recess which was completely encompassed by precipices. From this there was only one means of escape independently of the gut through which it was entered. The moors on the side most approachable were level, and on a line to the eye with that portion of the mountains which bounded it on the opposite side, so that as one looked forward the space appeared to be perfectly continuous, and consequently no person could suspect that there lay so deep and precipitous a glen between them.

In the northern corner of this remarkable locality, a deep cave, having every necessary property as a place for private distillation, ran under the rocks, which met over it in a kind of gothic arch. A stream of water just sufficient for the requisite purposes, fell in through a fissure from above, forming such a little subterraneous cascade in the cavern as human design itself could scarcely have surpassed in felicity of adaptation to the objects of an illicit distiller.

To this cave, then, we must take the liberty of transporting our readers, in order to give them an opportunity of getting a peep at the inside of a Poteen Still-house, and of hearing a portion of conversation, which, although not remarkable for either elegance or edification, we are, nevertheless, obliged to detail, as being in some degree necessary to the elucidation of our narrative. Up in that end which constituted the termination of the cave, and fixed upon a large turf fire which burned within a circle of stones that supported it, was a tolerably-sized Still, made of block-tin. The mouth of this Still was closed by an air-tight cover, also of tin, called the Head, from which a tube of the same metal projected into a large keeve, or condenser, that was kept always filled with cool water by an incessant stream from the cascade we have described, which always ran into and overflowed it. The arm of this head was fitted and made air-tight, also, into a spiral tube of copper, called the Worm, which rested in the water of the cooler; and as it consisted of several convolutions, like a cork-screw, its office was to condense the hot vapor which was transmitted to it from the glowing Still into that description of spirits known as poteen. At the bottom of this cooler, the Worm terminated in a small cock or spigot, from which the spirits projected in a slender stream, about the thickness of a quill, into a vessel placed for its reception. Such was the position of the Still, Head, and Worm, when in full operation. Fixed about the cave, upon rude stone stillions, were the usual vessels requisite for the various processes through which it was necessary to put the malt, before the wort, which is its first liquid shape, was fermented, cleared off, and thrown into the Still to be singled; for our readers must know that distillation is a double process, the first product being called singlings, and the second or last, doublings—which is the perfect liquor. Sacks of malt, empty vessels, piles of turf, heaps of grains, tubs of wash, and kegs of whiskey, were lying about in all directions, together with pots, pans, wooden trenchers, and dishes, for culinary uses. The seats were round stones and black bosses which were made of a light hard moss found in the mountains and bogs, and frequently used as seats in rustic chimney corners. On entering, your nose was assailed by such a mingled stench of warm grains, sour barm, putrid potato skins, and strong whiskey, as required considerable fortitude to bear without very unequivocal tokens of disgust.

The persons assembled were in every way worthy of the place and its dependencies. Seated fronting the fire was our friend Teddy Phats, which was the only name he was ever known by, his wild, beetle brows lit into a red, frightful glare of savage mirth that seemed incapable, in its highest glee, to disengage itself entirely from an expression of the man's unquenchable ferocity. Opposite to him sat a tall, smut-faced, truculent-looking young fellow, with two piercing eyes and a pair of grim brows, which, when taken into conjunction with a hard, unfeeling mouth, from the corners of which two right lines ran down his chin, giving that part of his face a most dismal expression, constituted a countenance that matched exceedingly well with the visage of Teddy Phats. This worthy gentleman was a tinker, and one of Hogan's brothers, whom we have already introduced to our readers. Scattered about the fire and through the cavern were a party of countrymen who came to purchase whiskey for a wedding, and three or four publicans and shebeenmen who had come on professional business. Some were drinking, some indulging in song, and some were already lying drunk or asleep in different parts of this subterraneous pandemonium. Exalted in what was considered the position of honor sat a country hedge-schoolmaster, his mellow eye beaming with something between natural humor, a sense of his own importance, and the influence of pure whiskey, fresh it is called, from the Still-eye.

“Here, Teddy,” said one of the countrymen, “will you fill the bottle again.”

“No,” replied Teddy, who though as cunning as the devil himself, could seldom be got to speak anything better than broken English, and that of such a character that it was often scarcely intelligible.

“No,” he replied; “I gav'd you wan bottle 'idout payment fwhor her, an' by shapers I won't give none oder.”

“Why, you burning beauty, aren't we takin' ten gallons, an' will you begrudge us a second bottle?”

“Shiss—devil purshue de bottle more ye'll drunk here 'idout de airigad, (* Money) dat's fwhat you will.”

“Teddy,” said the schoolmaster, “I drink propitiation to you as a profissional gintle-man! No man uses more indepindent language than you do. You are under no earthly obligation to Messrs. Syntax and Prosody. Grammar, my worthy friend, is banished as an intruder from your elocution, just as you would exclude a gauger from your Still-house.”

“Fwhat about de gagur!” exclaimed Teddy, starting; “d—n him an' shun-tax an' every oder tax, rint an' all—hee! hee! hee!”

We may as well let our readers know, before we proceed farther, that in the opinion of many, Teddy Phats understood and could speak English as well as any man of his station in the country. In fairs or markets, or other public places, he spoke, it is true, nothing but Irish unless in a private way, and only to persons in whom he thought he could place every confidence. It was often observed, however, that in such conversations he occasionally arranged the matter of those who could use only English to him, in such a way as proved pretty clearly that he must have possessed a greater mastery over that language than he acknowledged. We believe the fact to be, however, that Teddy, as an illicit distiller, had found it, on some peculiar occasions connected with his profession, rather an inconvenient accomplishment to know English. He had given some evidence in his day, and proved, or attempted to prove, a few alibies on behalf of his friends; and he always found, as there is good reason to believe, that the Irish language, when properly enunciated through the medium of an interpreter, was rather the safer of the two, especially when resorted to within the precincts of the country court-house and in hearing of the judge.

“You're a fool, Teddy,” said Hogan; “let them drink themselves; blind—this liquor's paid for; an' if they lose or spill it by the 'way, why, blazes to your purty mug, don't you know they'll have to pay for another cargo.”

Teddy immediately took the hint.

“Barney Brogan,” he shouted to a lubberly-looking, bullet-headed cub, half knave, half fool, who lived about such establishments, and acted as messenger, spy, and vidette; “listen hedher! bring Darby Keenan dere dat bottle, an' let 'em drink till de grace o' God comes on 'em—ha, ha, ha!”

“More power to you, Vaynus,” exclaimed Keenan; “you're worth a thousand pounds, quarry weight.”

“I am inclined to think, Mr. Keenan,” said the schoolmaster, “that you are in the habit occasionally of taking slight liberties wid the haythen mythology. Little, I'll be bound, the divine goddess of beauty ever dreamt she'd find a representative in Teddy Phats.”

“Bravo! masther,” replied Keenan, “you're the boy can do—only that English is too tall for me. At any rate,” he added, approaching the worthy preceptor, “take a spell o' this—it's a language we can all understand.”

“You mane to say, Darby,” returned the other, “that it's a kind of universal spelling-book amongst us, and so it is—an alphabet aisily larned. Your health, now and under all circumstances! Teddy, or Thaddeus, I drink to your symmetry and inexplicable proportions; and I say for your comfort, my worthy distillator, that if you are not so refulgent in beauty as Venus, you are a purer haythen.”

“Fwhat a bloody fwhine Bairlha man the meeisther is,” said Teddy, with a grin. “Fwhaicks, meeisthur, your de posey of Tullyticklem, spishilly wid Captain Fwhiskey at your back. You spake de Bairlha up den jist all as one as nobody could understand her—ha, ha, ha!”

The master, whose name was Finigan, or, as he wished to be called, O'Finigan, looked upon Teddy and shook his head very significantly.

“I'm afraid, my worthy distallator,” he proceeded, “that the proverb which says 'latet anguis in herba,' is not inapplicable in your case. I think I can occasionally detect in these ferret-like orbs that constitute such an attractive portion of your beauty, a passing scintillation of intelligence which you wish to keep a secretis, as they say.”

“Mr. Finigan,” said Keenan, who had now returned to his friends, “if you wouldn't be betther employed to-morrow, you'd be welcome to the weddin'.”

“Many thanks, Mr. Keenan,” replied Finigan; “I accept your hospitable offer wid genuine cordiality. To-morrow will be a day worthy of a white mark to all parties concerned. Horace calls it chalk, which is probably the most appropriate substance with which the records of matrimonial felicity could be registered, crede experto.”

“At any rate, Misther Finigan, give the boys a holiday to-morrow, and be down wid us airly.”

“There is not,” replied Finigan, who was now pretty well advanced, “I believe widin the compass of written or spoken language—and I might on that subject appeal to Mr. Thaddeus O'Phats here, who is a good authority on that particular subject, or indeed on any one that involves the beauty of elocution—I say, then, there is not widin the compass of spoken language a single word composed of two syllables so delectable to human ears, as is that word 'dismiss,' to the pupils of a Plantation Seminary; (* A modest periphrasis for a Hedge-School) and I assure you that those talismanic syllables shall my youthful pupils hear correctly pronounced to-morrow about ten o'clock.”

Whilst O'Finigan was thus dealing out the king's English with such complacent volubility—a volubility that was deeply indebted to the liquor he had taken—the following dialogue took place in a cautious under-tone between Batt Hogan and Teddy.

“So Hycy the sportheen is to be up here to-night?”

“Shiss.”

“B—t your shiss! can't you spake like a Christian?”

“No, I won't,” replied the other, angrily; “I'll spake as I likes.”

“What brings him up, do you know?”

“Bekaise he's goin' to thry his misfortune upon her here,” he replied, pointing to the still. “You'll have a good job of her, fwhedher or no.”

“Why, will he want a new one, do you think?”

“Shiss, to be sure—would ye tink I'd begin to run (* A slang phrase for distilling) for him on dis ould skillet? an' be de token moreover, dat wouldn't be afther puttin' nothin' in your pockets—hee! hee! hee!”

“Well, all that's right—don't work for him widout a new one complate, Teddy—Still, Head, and Worm.”

“Shiss, I tell you to be sure I won't—he thried her afore, though.”

“Nonsense!—no he didn't.”

“Ah, ha! ay dhin—an' she milked well too—a good cow—a brave cheehony she was for him.”

“An' why did he give it up?”

“Fwhy—fwhy, afeard he'd be diskivered, to be sure; an' dhin shure he couldn't hunt wid de dinnaousais—wid de gentlemans.”

“An' what if he's discovered now?”

“Fwhat?—fwhy so much the worsher for you an' me: he's ginerous now an' den, anyway; but a great rogue afther all, fwher so high a hid as he carries.”

“If I don't mistake,” proceeded Hogan, “either himself or his family, anyhow, will be talked of before this time to-morrow.”

“Eh, Batt?” asked the other, who had changed his position and sat beside him during this dialogue—“how is dhat now?”

“I don't rightly know—I can't say,” replied Hogan, with a smile murderously grim but knowing—“I'm not up; but the sportheen's a made boy, I think.”

“Dher cheerna! you are up,” said Teddy, giving him a furious glance as he spoke; “there must be no saycrits, I say.”

“You're a blasted liar, I tell you—I am not, but I suspect—that's all.”

“What brought you up dhis night?” asked Teddy, suspiciously.

“Because I hard he was to come,” replied his companion; “but whether or not I'd be here.”

“Tha sha maigh—it's right—may be so—shiss, it's all right, may be so—well?”

Teddy, although he said it was all right, did not seem however to think so. The furtive and suspicious glance which he gave Hogan from under his red beetle brows should be seen in order to be understood.

“Well?” said Hogan, re-echoing him—“it is well; an' what is more, my Kate is to be up here wid a pair o' geese to roast for us, for we must make him comfortable. She wint to thry her hand upon somebody's roost, an' it'll go hard if she fails!”

“Fwhail!” exclaimed Teddy, with a grin—“ah, the dioual a fwhail!”

“An' another thing—he's comin' about Kathleen Cavanagh—Hycy is. He wants to gain our intherest about her!”

“Well, an' what harm?”

“Maybe there is, though, it's whispered that he—hut! doesn't he say himself that there isn't a girl of his own religion in the parish he'd marry—now I'd like to see them married, Teddy, but as for anything else—”

“Hee! hee! hee!—well,” exclaimed Teddy, with a horrible grimace that gave his whole countenance a facequake, “an' maybe he's right. Maybe it 'udn't be aisy to get a colleen of his religion—I tink his religion is fwhere Phiddher Fwhite's estate is—beyant the beyands, Avhere the mare foaled the fwhiddler—hee! hee! hee!”

“He had better thry none of his sckames wid any of the Cavanaghs,” said Bat, “for fraid he might be brought to bed of a mistake some fine day—that's all I say; an' there's more eyes than mine upon him.”

This dialogue was nearly lost in the loudness of a debate which had originated with Keenan and certain of his friends in the lower part of the still-house. Some misunderstanding relative to the families of the parties about to be united had arisen, and was rising rapidly into a comparative estimate of the prowess and strength of their respective factions, and consequently assuming a very belligerent aspect, when a tall, lank, but powerful female, made her appearance, carrying a large bundle in her hand.

“More power, Kate!” exclaimed Hogan. “I knew she would,” he added, digging Teddy's ribs with his elbow.

“Aisy, man!” said his companion; “if you love me, say so, but don't hint it dat way.”

“Show forth, Kate!” proceeded her husband; “let us see the prog—hillo!—oh, holy Moses! what a pair o' beauties!”

He then whipped up a horn measure, that contained certainly more than a naggin, and putting it under the warm spirits that came out of the still-eye, handed it to her. She took it, and coming up towards the fire, which threw out a strong light, nodded to them, and, without saying a word, literally pitched it down her throat, whilst at the same time one of her eyes presented undeniable proofs of a recent conflict. We have said that there were several persons singing and dancing, and some asleep, in the remoter part of the cave; and this was true, although we refrained from mingling up either their mirth or melody with the conversation of the principal personages. All at once, however, a series of noises, equally loud and unexpected, startled melodists, conversationalists, and sleepers all to their legs. These were no other than the piercing cackles of two alarmed geese which Hogan's wife had secured from some neighboring farmer, in order to provide a supper for our friend Hycy.

“Ted,” said the female, “I lost my knife since I came out, or they'd be quiet enough before this; lend me one a minute, you blissed babe.”

“Shiss, to be sure, Kate,” he replied, handing her a large clasp knife with a frightful blade; “an', Kate, whisper, woman alive—you're bought up, I see.”

“How is that, you red rascal?”

“Bekaise, don't I see dat de purchaser has set his mark upon ye?—hee! hee! hee!” and he pointed to her eye* as he spoke.