Chapter II: Part 2

As for the editor, he was a tallish, well-developed man, with dark hair, whiskers, and moustache considerably more than sprinkled with gray. At first sight you would guess his age at about fifty. But having regard to his light springy step and genial smile, you might have set him down at about forty, and still have been wrong, for in truth he was only thirty-eight. It was a grand relief for him to leave the Metropolis and his editorial worries behind once a year, and spend a glorious autumn holiday at Lochenbreck—fishing, talking with his old friend Robert, and—well—yes! (of late years, that is to say) enjoying a chat with his pretty little daughter. It was not accidentally that he came alone this time. Usually he brought a roistering squad of literary bohemians, who made the ceiling of the private parlour ring with jest and song till unseemly hours of the morning. And the reason was, he came prepared to offer his heart and hand to the fair Nan! He did not imagine for a moment he was in love with her. Oh, no! he was too old and sedate for such nonsense as that. In his professional capacity he had dissected and analysed so many excruciatingly sentimental love tales, that he imagined himself Cupid-proof. But things had driven his thoughts towards matrimony. He had got tired of his lady-housekeeper, with her Cockneyfied vulgar airs. Now, if he could only get rid of her, he thought, pension her off, or get another situation for her, and place this Scotch girl at the head of his table, how much brighter life would seem to him! Would she take him? Well, he thought she would. Of one thing he was certain, she was really fond of him; there was no rival in the way; and the father was certain to favour the match. He did not care for girlish gush; sound lasting affection, and purity and singleness of mind, were what he wanted.

The wagonette had now arrived at the inn—a quaint old crow-stepped edifice, half covered with ivy, and surrounded by a garden-wall. Old Mr Porteous was at the door, and bade his guest a hearty welcome. Then Anne set to work, and in less than half an hour there was a tempting breakfast smoking on the private parlour table, which Mr Hannay did excellent justice to. To keep him company, his host and hostess sat at table with him, and made believe to partake of the dainties before them; while the truth was, they had had a hearty breakfast three hours before. The sun, which till now had brightened up the room, became overcast, and a few drops from a passing shower rattled against the diamond-paned window. Mr Hannay rose from his chair and looked out. A splendid day for fishing. ‘Come, Nan, my lass,’ he said, ‘let’s to work. It’s a shame to sit here idling, with the loch in such fine trim for trouting.’

‘Well, sir, I suppose I must obey orders,’ she rejoined, and tripping up-stairs, soon returned arrayed in an old frock, and a headpiece of stiff white calico, resembling in design a sou’wester, and suited to protect from sun, rain, or wind. Half an hour later they were floating on the loch; Nan slowly paddling along, her companion industriously whipping the water; both keeping up a desultory conversation. Her experiences at Brussels naturally formed the chief topic. On this subject she spoke with enthusiasm. She had never seen Paris, therefore its miniature presentment impressed her all the more vividly. Hannay was pleased to hear scenes described with her fresh girlish fervour, to which he had long been _blasé_. Apart from the warm feelings he had towards her, her conversation had a literary charm for him, for she was a born narrator. She took him with her in all her rambles and escapades, and her six months’ residence in the gay little capital seemed exposed to his mental vision as clearly as if he had been her companion. Yet the sly little damsel forgot, quite innocently of course, to tell him of sundry moonlight walks with a certain Scotch student, under the linden trees of the Boulevard des Alliers.

The fishing was progressing but slowly. Perhaps there was thunder in the air; or possibly the angler’s mind was abstracted, and he was thinking of matters of weightier import, than the capture of a few silvery trout. After missing excellent ‘offers’ on two or three occasions, his companion burst into a merry laugh, and asked him if his wits had gone a wool-gathering, ‘I am afraid,’ she continued, gravely shaking her head, ‘that you are still in love with that wicked Mademoiselle Sylvestre.’

Now, the lady referred to was an aged ex-prima donna of the English opera, and a warm friend of his. It pleased Nan, however, to make-believe that their relationship to each other was of a strongly amorous nature, and she missed no opportunity of teasing him about her. Now was a chance to broach the matter he had at heart. For, strange to say, this experienced man of literature and society, this ornament of London drawing-rooms, felt oddly embarrassed in his new relationship of suitor to a simple country girl. True it was, she had no idea of the terrible designs he had on her heart and liberty; but that seemed only to make the matter worse in his eyes. There was not an atom of self-consciousness about her. Her clear gray eyes were crystalline; he fancied he could read every thought of her soul in their transparent depths. No thoughts of love there evidently. It looked almost brutal to disturb their sweet maidenly repose—almost like shooting a trusting, tame rabbit. If there had been but the least spice of coquetry about her, it would have been so much easier for him to have unburdened himself of his heart’s secret—at least so he thought. He never felt so morally limp in all his life, and it was with the courage of despair that he wound up his reel and determined to know his fate then and there. A few intermittent drops of rain began to fall, and seating himself beside her on the thwarts, he shared his waterproof with her. He never yet had spoken, save in the language of raillery; how on earth was he now to address her in accents of love and sentiment? However, it must be done; and he took ‘a header.’

‘My dear Nan,’ he began, ‘it is really too bad of you to mention that estimable old lady. I like her very much, as I am sure would you if you knew her. But she might easily be my mother! Ah, Nan,’ he continued, slipping his arm round her waist underneath the waterproof—‘ah, Nan, there is only one girl in all the world I care a pin for, and it is your own sweet self! Nan—will you be my wife?’

As he spoke the last few words, Nan’s face grew deadly pale; then the truant blood rushed back to her cheeks tumultuously, flushing them carmine.

‘Oh, no, no!’ she piteously cried as she shrunk from him, and gently disengaged his arm from round her waist; ‘oh, no! Mr Hannay, that can never, never be! O how stupid and foolish I’ve been. Forgive me, forgive me, my dearest of friends! But—but—indeed I never looked on you in any way like that. I have been very imprudent—I have been far too free with you—but it was all thoughtlessness. Tell me you don’t for a moment believe I was so wicked as to have done it purposely.’

She put her hands over her face, and sobbed aloud. Here was a nice position for a lover to be in, who an hour ago was confidently dreaming of years of sweet companionship with her who now told him in language not to be misunderstood that such could never, never be. These were not the simulated tears and sobs of a heartless coquette; the honest simple girl had evidently never dreamed of the possibility of him being a wooer. He was too old—that was it. And what a fool he had made of himself! Well, he would just require to swallow it all, and comfort himself with the reflection that no one knew of his folly, for he knew _she_ would never tell. His heart went out in pity to her. He told her never to mind. He even went the length of pretending that he was almost glad she had refused him, for he was so wedded to city life, with its clubs, greenrooms, and what not, that he was certain he would have been a very careless, inattentive husband, and she a neglected, heart-broken wife. In such wise did he comfort the girl, who dried her eyes and tried to look quite gay and cheerful. There was no more fishing; they rowed slowly back to the hotel. Nan insisted on taking the oars; her rejected lover sat musing at the stern. Suddenly he raised his head, and said with a sedate smile: ‘Some one else, eh, Nan?’

His question was not very intelligibly put; but she understood well enough what he meant. Drooping eyelids, a face slightly averted, and a faint blush for answer. After a pause, ‘Papa does not know—at least not yet,’ she timidly said; ‘you’ll not tell him?’

‘Oh, of course not!’ he answered, and biting the end of a fresh cigar, began smoking vigorously. A few minutes, and they were at the Inn jetty, and to old Mr Porteous’ extreme astonishment, without a fin to show for their three hours’ work.

Dinner past, father and daughter and guest adjourned to the private parlour. Anne retired early under the plea of headache. Host and guest continued to enjoy a cheerful glass and gossip all to themselves.

‘By-the-bye, Mr Porteous,’ said the latter as he was lighting his candle preparatory to going up-stairs to bed, ‘I forgot to say my stay this time will be but a brief one. I am expecting every day to have a letter from a friend at Lucerne who wants me to join him in the fishing there. He says the sport is excellent, and I promised to go if he found such to be the case. Good-night!’

The landlord was astonished, but was too well bred to press him to stay. The truth is, our friend had been far more seriously ‘hit’ by simple Nan than he had supposed, or was even yet inclined to admit. Try as he would, sleep refused to come to his tired brain; mocking visions of ‘what might have been’ flitted through his waking dreams; and he arose in the morning more tired than when he went to bed. The post brought him two letters; one of them, he said, required his instant presence in London on an important matter of business; after that, he would go to Switzerland to join his friend in the fishing; and meantime, he would have reluctantly to bid them farewell. Porteous was both surprised and vexed; his daughter was neither, for she felt it would be happier for them both to be apart—at least for the present.

LANDSLIPS.

Scarcely less alarming than the fall of an avalanche, and sometimes, indeed, far more destructive, are those sudden descents of earth and other materials commonly known as landslips. The cause of these remarkable calamities—for such they commonly are—may be briefly described. The strata of a mountain or lesser elevation are often found to deviate considerably from a horizontal position; and if shale or any other substance pervious to water forms the lowest stratum, a landslip may take place. For instance, if there be an abundance of rain or melted snow, which percolates down so as to soften the lower stratum, the upper strata are liable to be loosened, and, in process of time, to slide away. Such was the case in Shropshire towards the close of last century, as related by Mr Fletcher of Madeley. This took place at a spot on the Severn between the Grove and the Birches. ‘The first thing that struck me,’ says Mr Fletcher, ‘was the destruction of the little bridge that separated the parish of Madeley from that of Buildwas, and the total disappearing of the turnpike road to Buildwas Bridge, instead of which, nothing presented itself to my view but a confused heap of bushes and huge clods of earth, tumbled one over another. The river also wore a different aspect; it was shallow, noisy, boisterous, and came down from a different point. Following the track made by a great number of spectators who came from the neighbouring parishes, I climbed over the ruins and came to a field well grown with ryegrass, where the ground was greatly cracked in several places, and where large turfs—some entirely, others half-turned up—exhibited the appearance of straight or crooked furrows, as though imperfectly formed by a plough drawn at a venture. Getting from that field over the hedge into a part of the road which was yet visible, I found it raised in one place, sunk in another, concave in a third, hanging on one side in a fourth, and contracted as if some uncommon force had pressed the two hedges together. But the higher part of it surprised me most, and brought directly to remembrance those places of Mount Vesuvius where the solid stony lava had been strongly marked by repeated earthquakes; for the hard beaten gravel which formed the surface of the road was broken every way into huge masses, partly detached from each other, with deep apertures between them, exactly like the shattered lava. This striking likeness of circumstances made me conclude that the similar effect might proceed from the same cause, namely, a strong convulsion on the surface, if not in the bowels, of the earth.’

This conjecture was not confirmed by facts and circumstances related by others; indeed, the latter part of his description proves, almost beyond question, that the various results described were occasioned by a landslip, and not by a shock of an earthquake, of which no one heard anything.

He continues: ‘Going a little further towards Buildwas, I found that the road was again totally lost for a considerable space, having been overturned, absorbed, or tumbled, with the hedges that bounded it, to a considerable distance towards the river. This part of the desolation appeared then to me inexpressibly dreadful. Between a shattered field and the river, there was that morning a bank, on which, besides a great deal of underwood, grew twenty-five large oaks; this wood shot with such violence into the Severn before it, that it forced the water in great volumes a considerable height, like a mighty fountain, and gave the overflowing river a retrograde motion. This is not the only accident which happened to the Severn, for, near the Grove, the channel, which was chiefly of a soft blue rock, burst in ten thousand pieces, and rose perpendicularly about ten yards, heaving up the immense quantity of water and the shoal of fishes that were therein.’

John Philips in his work on _Cider_ alludes to Marcley Hill as the scene of a landslip:

I nor advise, nor reprehend, the choice
Of Marcley Hill; the apple nowhere finds
A kinder mould; yet ’tis unsafe to trust
Deceitful ground; who knows but that, once more,
This mount may journey, and, his present site
Forsaking, to thy neighbour’s bounds transfer
The goodly plants, affording matter strange
For law debates.

Marcley Hill is near the confluence of the Lug and Wye, about six miles east of Hereford. In the year 1595, it was, says Mr Brown, the editor of White’s _Selborne_, ‘after roaring and shaking in a terrible manner for three days together, about six o’clock on Sunday morning put in motion, and continued moving for eight hours, in which time it advanced upwards of two hundred feet from its first position, and mounted seventy-two feet higher than it was before. In the place where it set out, it left a gap four hundred feet long, and three hundred and twenty broad; and in its progress it overthrew a chapel, together with trees and houses that stood in its way.’

That interesting naturalist, Mr White of Selborne, gives at length, in one of his letters to the Honourable Daines Barrington, an account of an extraordinary landslip in his own neighbourhood, at a date corresponding with that of the landslip in Shropshire. He says: ‘The months of January and February 1774 were remarkable for great melting snows and vast gluts of rain, so that, by the end of the latter month, the land springs, or _levants_ [eastern; so called, I suppose, because of the prevalence of easterly winds at this season], began to prevail, and to be near as high as in the memorable winter of 1764. The beginning of March also went on in the same tenor, when in the night between the 8th and 9th of that month, a considerable part of the great woody hanger [a local term for an overhanging woody cliff] at Hawkley was torn from its place and fell down, leaving a high freestone cliff naked and bare, and resembling the steep side of a chalk-pit. It appears that this huge fragment, being perhaps sapped and undermined by waters, foundered, and was ingulfed, going down in a perpendicular direction; for a gate which stood in the field on the top of the hill, after sinking with its posts for thirty or forty feet, remained in so true and upright a position as to open and shut with great exactness, just as in its first situation. Several oaks also are still standing [written in 1775 or 1776] and in a state of vegetation, after taking the same desperate leap.

‘That great part of this prodigious mass was absorbed in some gulf below is plain also from the inclining ground at the bottom of the hill, which is free and unencumbered, but would have been buried in heaps of rubbish, had the fragment parted and fallen forward. About a hundred yards from the foot of this hanging coppice stood a cottage by the side of a lane; and two hundred yards lower, on the other side of the lane, was a farmhouse, in which lived a labourer and his family; and just by, a stout new barn. The cottage was inhabited by an old woman, her son, and his wife. These people, in the evening, which was very dark and tempestuous, observed that the brick floors of their kitchens began to heave and part, and that the walls seemed to open and the roofs to crack; but they all agree that no tremor of the ground indicating an earthquake was ever felt, only that the wind continued to make a tremendous roaring in the woods and hangers. The miserable inhabitants, not daring to go to bed, remained in the utmost solicitude and confusion, expecting every moment to be buried under the ruins of their shattered edifices. When daylight came, they were at leisure to contemplate the devastations of the night. They then found that a deep rift, or chasm, had opened under their houses, and torn them as it were in two, and that one end of the barn had suffered in a similar manner; that a pond near the cottage had undergone a strange reverse, becoming deep at the shallow end, and so _vice versâ_; that many large oaks were removed out of their perpendicular, some thrown down, and some fallen into the heads of neighbouring trees; and that a gate was thrust forward with its hedge full six feet, so as to require a new track to be made to it. From the foot of the cliff, the general course of the ground, which is pasture, inclines in a moderate descent for half a mile, and is interspersed with some hillocks, which were lifted in every direction, as well towards the great woody hanger as from it. In the first pasture the deep clefts began, and running across the lane and under the buildings, made such vast shelves that the road was impassable for some time; and so over to an arable field on the other side, which was strangely torn and disordered. The second pasture-field, being more soft and springy, was protruded forward without many fissures in the turf, which was raised in long ridges resembling graves, lying at right angles to the motion. At the bottom of this inclosure, the soil and turf rose many feet against the bodies of some oaks that obstructed their further course, and terminated this awful commotion.’

Passing by a number of catastrophes of this nature occurring at earlier dates, we propose to give some interesting particulars concerning one which took place in the early part of this century in Switzerland, where they are very frequent.

In one corner of the canton of Schweitz are the lakes Wallenstadt, Zug, and Lowertz. Near the last is a mountain called the Righi, and a smaller one, the Rossberg. The latter is composed of strata of freestone, pudding-stone—a conglomeration of coarse sandstone, with silicious pebbles, flints, &c.; and clay, with frequent blocks of granite, in the lower part. On the 2d of September 1806, a large portion of this mountain—a mass about a thousand feet in width, a hundred feet in depth, and nearly three miles in length—slipped into the valley below. It was not merely the summit or a projecting crag which fell, but an entire bed of strata extending from the top to nearly the bottom. A long continuance of heavy rains had softened the strata of clay, which sloped downwards; and so the mass was set free, and slipped into the valley, a chaos of stones, earth, clay, and clayey mud. For hours before the catastrophe there had been signs of some convulsion approaching. Early in the morning and at intervals during the day there were noises as if the mountain were in the throes of some great pang, so that it seemed to tremble with fear; so much so, that the furniture shook in the houses of the villages of Arth and St Ann. About two o’clock, a superstitious farmer, who dwelt high up the mountain, hearing a strange kind of cracking noise, and thinking it was the work of some demon, ran down to Arth to fetch the priest to exorcise the evil spirit. There were now openings in the turf, and stones were ejected in a few instances. In the hamlet of Unter Rothen, at the foot of the mountain, a man was digging in his garden, when he found his spade thrust back out of the soil, and the earth spurted up like water from a fountain. As the day advanced, the cracks in the ground became larger, portions of rock fell; springs began to flow, and frightened birds took wing in confusion, uttering discordant screams.

About five o’clock, the vast mass of material set loose began to move. At first the movement was slow, and there were repeated pauses. An old man sitting at his door smoking his pipe, was told by a neighbour that the mountain was falling. He thought there was plenty of time, and went indoors to fill his pipe again; but his neighbour ran down the valley, falling repeatedly by reason of the agitation of the ground, and escaped with difficulty. When he looked back to the village, the old man’s house had disappeared. In the space of about three minutes, the vast mass, separated into two portions, had descended three miles, sweeping everything before it. The smaller portion took a course towards the foot of the Righi, destroying the hamlets of Spitzbuhl, Ober and Unter Rothen. Its velocity was such as to carry enormous fragments to a great height up the opposite mountain. A peasant who survived the calamity, was engaged in cutting down a tree near his house, when a noise like thunder arrested his attention; he felt the ground tremble under his feet, and he was immediately thrown down by a current of air. Retaining his presence of mind, a dreadful scene presented itself; the tree he had been cutting down, his house, and every familiar object, had disappeared, and an immense cloud of dust enveloped him.

The ruin effected by the descent of the larger portion was more terrible. It took the direction of the Lake of Lowertz. Among its first victims were nine persons belonging to a party which had come from Berne to climb to the top of the Righi. Besides the village of Goldau, the adjacent villages of Bussingen and Hussloch, and three-fourths of the village of Lowertz, were overwhelmed. But the destruction did not stop here. The larger of the two portions filled up nearly one-fourth of the Lake of Lowertz. The body of water thus displaced formed a wave which swept over the little island of Schwanau in the lake, rising to the height of seventy feet, besides doing a great deal of mischief along the shore, especially to the village of Seewen.

By this disaster nearly five hundred persons lost their lives, and damage was done to the amount of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds. Of all the inhabitants, about twenty were taken alive from the ruins. Two out of a family of seven were saved as by a miracle. At the moment of the catastrophe the father was standing at his own door with his wife and three children. Seeing the mass rolling towards him, he caught up two of the children, bidding his wife follow him with the third. Instead of doing so, however, she turned back into the house to fetch the remaining child, Marianne, and Frances Ulrich, the servant-maid. Frances seized the little girl by the hand, and was leading her out, when the house, which was of timber, seemed to be torn from its foundations, and to turn over and over like a ball, so that she was sometimes on her head and sometimes on her feet. A storm of dust made the day dark as night. The violence of the shock separated her from the child, and she hung head downwards. She was squeezed and bruised a good deal, and her face was much cut and very painful. After some time she released her right hand, and wiped the blood from her face. She then heard Marianne groaning, and calling ‘Frances, Frances!’ The child said that she was lying on her back among stones and bushes, unable to rise; that her hands were at liberty, and that she could see the daylight and the green fields. Frances had imagined that they were buried a great depth under ground; and thought that the last day was come.

After remaining in this state some hours, Frances heard a bell, which she knew to be that of the village church of Steinen, calling the survivors to prayer. The little girl was now crying bitterly from pain and hunger; and the servant-maid tried in vain to comfort her. From sheer exhaustion, however, the cry became weaker, and then ceased entirely. Meanwhile, Frances herself was in a most painful position, hanging with her head downwards, enveloped in the liquid clay, and cold almost beyond endurance. By persevering in her efforts, she at length got her legs free, and so obtained partial relief. A silence of some hours followed. When the dark hours of that terrible night had passed and morning came, she had the satisfaction of knowing that the child was not dead, but had fallen asleep. As soon as she awoke, she began to cry and complain. The church bell now went again for prayers; and Frances heard also the voice of her master making lamentations over his loss. He had succeeded in escaping and rescuing the two children he had with him, though one was for a time partly buried in the fringe of the landslip. Seeking for the other members of his family, he had found the lifeless body of his wife with the child she had taken in her arms, at a distance of more than a quarter of a mile from where his house had stood. All of her that was visible was one of her feet. While digging out her body, he heard the cries of little Marianne. The child was at once disinterred from her living grave; and though one of her legs was broken, she seemed more anxious for the release of Frances than for her own comfort. The maid was soon extricated; but she was bruised and wounded in a frightful manner. For a long time her recovery was very doubtful. Even after she was out of danger, she was unable to bear the light, and was for a lengthened period subject to convulsions and seasons of extreme fear and terror.

A traveller who visited the district about a week after the catastrophe has given an interesting description of his visit: ‘Picture to yourself a rude and mingled mass of earth and stone, bristling with the shattered remains of wooden cottages, and with thousands of heavy trees torn up by their roots and projecting in all directions. In one part you might see a range of peasants’ huts, which the torrent of earth had reached with just force enough to overthrow and break in pieces, but without bringing soil enough to cover them. In another were mills broken in pieces by huge rocks, separated from the top of the mountain, which were even carried high up the Righi on the opposite side. Large pools of water were formed in different places; and many little streams, whose usual channels had been filled up, were bursting out in various places.’

THE WHITEBOYS OF SIXTY YEARS AGO.

There is living in our neighbourhood an old man, the son of a once famous ‘Whiteboy.’ As such, his bringing-up must have been strangely in keeping with the moonlighting propensities of the present day, and of which we unfortunately hear so much. But not so. ‘Barry,’ as we shall call him, has a horror of Land-leagueism, and will have nothing to do with it. His experience of the Whiteboys, or Moonlighters of sixty years ago, is interesting—at least to me; and I hope the following account will prove so to those who are not quite _au fait_ with the doings of these confederations in Ireland sixty years ago.

Some time since, on the death of a relative, besides other effects willed to me, was a box containing several _curios_. Amongst them was a genuine letter written in 1823 by Captain Rock, in those days the Moonlight leader of the Whiteboys. Knowing from Barry that his father had been not only an admirer of Captain Rock, but a follower of his, I showed him the letter, hoping that in doing so I would also verify its authenticity. It was as follows:

¹ PEREVIL OF THE PEAK. ¹

_Notis._

Notis to Mistres H—— And all Whoe it May consarn that Whin Capton
Rock and His Adicongs visot you next you Will take Kare to Have
plenti of Mate and Pratees not Forgeting a Smol drop of the
Crater.[1]

Sind—J. ROCK. R.T.L.

_given at our counsil this |
10th day of April 1823._ |
----------------------------+

‘Sure, and that’s a real letter, and no mistake,’ said Barry, handing it back to me after perusal. ‘I remember when I was a gorsoon [boy], my father writing letters just like it, when he and the Boys would meet of nights at our house. Many is the queer thing I heard them plan, when they thought I was asleep in bed; and though I forgets most of their doings now, I remembers a few; and I’ll tell them same to you and welcome, if you likes to hear them. The Whiteboys, and the Bloodsuckers, and the Molly M‘Guires resembles the Moonlighters of the present day; though they were not, so to say, as bad entirely, still they were fidgety creatures enough. ’Tis nigh on sixty years since my father died, and I was a tidy bit of a lad then. He was a follower of Captin Rock, the leader of what we called one kind of Whiteboys, in those days. Captin Rock was, you know, only an imaginary name, just as Captin Moonlight is in these times. I would not say as the Whiteboys in my father’s time was as bad as those as followed them. _They_ said nothing against paying the rent; and a good drop of the _crater_ would do wonders with Captin Rock and his followers. Sure, ’twas hard in name he was, as my father used to say, and not in nature.

‘The Bloodsuckers, who came next, were frightful creatures. They were so called because they took money to inform. ’Twas the price of blood, you see.

‘The famine of 1845 had a demoralising effect on the people, and many and many the poor creature breaking stones on the roadside had a pistol or some weapon of defence hid in the heap beside them. There was one gentleman you would like to hear about, maybe, who met with great troubles at the hands of the Boys. I knew him well, for many a pocketful of apples he gave me; and he was as hard-working and honest a creature as you’d meet with in a day’s walk. The Boys had no ill-will against himself personally; but they thought to frighten him from taking a farm as was “useful to them,”’ said Barry, with a knowing wink. ‘The first thing they did was to send him a threatening letter. Then a man as I knew full well—for many’s the time he and my poor father laid their plans together—he was turned off to shoot him. He stood inside the road-wall where there was an old archway half built up—a mighty convenient place, as he afterwards said, to rest a gun on. But for all that, he didn’t fire the shot that night, for reasons which you’ll hear presently. The Boys were so disappointed, that two of them went at dusk one evening to the gentleman’s own hall door and knocked. Sure enough, just as they thought, he opened it himself for them. On doing so, he saw the two Boys, one with a pistol, the other with a blunderbuss.

“Come out; you are wanted,” says they to him.

“Yes,” replied he; “but wait till I get my hat.”

“Don’t mind your hat,” was the answer; “you’ll do for us without it.”

‘Just then the Missis came into the hall, and hearing the noise, off they went.

‘Weeks afterwards, these men told the Master (as I shall call him, seeing I never likes to mention names) that had he gone in for his hat as he wanted to, they’d have shot him dead just where he stood, for they would have been afraid he was going for help.

“Why didn’t you shoot me the night you were behind the old archway on the old Moiveen road?” he asked one of them.

“The night was cold,” replied the Boy; “and the drop of the _crater_ as the Captin sint me was that strong that it set me to sleep. I axes your pardon now for going to shoot you at all, for you are such a ‘dacent’ [plucky] man, you might be one of the Boys yourself. And to show you I has no ill-will agin you, if there is any little job as you wants done before marning” (meaning murder, of course), “I’ll do it for you meself and welcome.”

‘However, this didn’t see the poor Master at the end of his troubles; there was more before him. A short time after, as the man was ploughing in the field, four of the Boys came and told him to stand aside. Then two of them held him, while the other two put a bullet through the head of each horse, and the poor creatures died the same night. The Boys broke the plough afterwards and warned the man away. They tied notices on it forbidding any one to plough for the Master till he gave up the idea of taking the farm, as Captin Rock wanted it for his own use.

‘But the Master, he was an iligant man surely. Many’s the time, gorsoon though I was, I’d have given my two eyes to help him; but though I was no Whiteboy, and I hated their dirty work, I was the son of one, and you know, “There is honour among thieves.”—Well, as I was saying, the Master was an iligant, foine man. Being a bit handy, he mended his plough, took it in his own hands, and with his loaded gun laid across it, did all the ploughing himself. Maybe you won’t hardly credit me when I tell you that he did most of the work with a mule; and sometimes, to help the poor baste, when the ground was light, he yoked himself with her, whilst an old man who lived with the Master guided the plough. After this, the Boys, seeing they could not frighten him, let him alone.

‘When the Bloodsuckers had had their day, next came the Molly M‘Guires. ’Twas them as had the big blunderbuss called “Roaring Mag,” which maybe you have heard tell of. There was an Englishman who came over to Ireland and laid down a weir to catch our salmon; but the Molly M‘Guires would not have any foreigners come a-fishing to our shores, so they cut away the nets and destroyed the weir. Whenever they performed a bould feat such as this, they made poetry of it, writing it out, and giving a copy to the principal Molly M‘Guire Boys. ’Tis many a year ago since four of the Boys, long since dead, wrote the piece I allude to; and I doubt if there is any one alive but meself who could repeat it for you; but I always had a good mimory,’ concluded Barry proudly.

MOLLY M‘GUIRE.

WRITTEN AND COMPOSED FOR THE
BOYS, BY FOUR OF ’EM.

_approved of |
by our counsil_ |
----------------+

Sind—MOLLY M‘GUIRE.

’Twas of a Sunday morning,
All by the break of day,
When Molly M‘Guire and her army
Came sailing down the say.
She heard ‘Tom Spratt’s’ got down a weir
The salmon to insnare.
But soon she did them liberate,
Once more to sport and play.

When Molly M‘Guire came into the weir,
The salmon to her did say:
‘If you don’t us liberate,
We’ll surely die this day.’
But Molly bein’ a commander bold,
She soon did give them orders
The salmon to liberate.

Pat Munster the spy
He scampered the police to bring down,
Sayin’, there is an armed party
Come sailin’ to this town
With their guns and bagnots screwed and fixed,
Besides the ‘Roaring Mag;’[2]
For they surely will cut down the weir;
They seem to be all mad.

The sargint cries: ‘Come on, me boys;
We’ll fire at them some shots.’
But Molly M‘Guire made them soon retire,
Her army stood so brave.
She chases the poliss to their dens,
Like dogs that lost their tails;
For Molly M‘Guire will rise the hire,
An’ cut away the weirs.

‘That’s a fine piece of poetry, isn’t it?’ asked Barry, as he concluded this extraordinary medley, which cannot, I fear, be dignified by the name of rhyme, much less poetry. ‘A grain of powder and shot and a glass or two of the _crater_ would make a Molly M‘Guire your friend for life, maybe. Sure, and many’s the curious thing I’ve known, and many’s the plan made in my hearing by the Boys and my father; but I would never tell on them, though I never had ought to do with their intrigues, as I calls them. But though my poor father was a real Whiteboy, he never had, as I knows of, the dark deeds on his conscience that some of them Moonlighters of the present days has. These is no times to be talking, leastways I keeps my thoughts to meself; but as you seemed anxious-like to hear of them that went before the Moonlighters, I am glad to oblige you. I have been able to do that without mentioning names; and there isn’t many alive who could tell you as well as meself of the doings in Old Oireland of sixty years ago.’

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Irish poteen whisky.

[2] The big blunderbuss taken in Clare.

CONCISE AND TO THE POINT.

Spartan brevity of speech is still sometimes amusingly illustrated. A most worthy man, unaccustomed to public speaking, being suddenly called upon to address a Sunday school, rose to his feet, and, after vainly struggling for utterance, at last hoarsely muttered: ‘Dear children, don’t ever play with powder.’—The following gallant toast was lately given at a military dinner in Carolina: ‘The ladies—our arms their protection—their arms our reward.’

‘Don’t eat stale Q-cumbers. They will W up,’ is the terse advice of some wit.—Announcements on shop-signs expressed in the succinct style of one connected with a certain restaurant in New York, should serve as startling advertisements: ‘Lunch, 75 cents; square meal, 1 dollar; perfect gorge, 1 dollar 25 cents.’—In the same city, a shopkeeper is said to have stuck upon his door this laconic advertisement: ‘A boy wanted.’ On going to his shop next morning, he beheld a smiling little urchin in a basket, with the following pithy label: ‘Here he is!’—A penny-a-liner would hardly find much employment on the Kansas paper which informed the public that ‘Mr Blank of Missouri got to owning horses that didn’t belong to him, and the next thing he knew he couldn’t get his feet down to the ground.’ Lynched, probably.—A Western writer, speaking of a new play just written by a gentleman of Cincinnati, says: ‘The unities are admirably observed; the dullness which commences with the first act, never flags for a moment until the curtain falls.’

The characteristics of several nations have been summed up in the following concise form: The first thing a Spaniard does on founding a colony is to build a gallows; a Portuguese, to build a church; an Englishman, a drinking-booth; and a Frenchman, a dancing-floor.

A cobbler visited one of the large manufactories the other day, and for the first time in his life saw shoes made by machinery. ‘What do you think of that?’ asked the foreman.—‘It beats awl,’ was the laconic and significant reply.—A ‘sensible’ woman, as Dr Abernethy would have called her, was discovered by a shy man, who made her a rather original proposal. He bought a wedding ring, and sent it to the lady, inclosing a sheet of notepaper with the brief question, ‘Does it fit?’ By return of post he received for answer: ‘Beautifully.’

It is related that Makart, the great Viennese painter, is even more taciturn than Von Moltke, the man who is silent in seven languages. An American, who had been told that the best way to get on friendly terms with the artist would be to play chess with him at the café to which he resorted nightly, watched his opportunity, and, when Makart’s opponent rose, slipped into his chair. At last his dream was about to be realised, he was to spend an evening in Makart’s society. The painter signed to him to play, and the game began, and went on with no other sound than the moving of the pieces. At last the American made the winning move, and exclaimed, ‘Mate!’ Up rose Makart in disgust and stalked out, saying angrily to a friend who asked why he left so early: ‘Oh, I can’t stand playing with a chatterbox!’

The expressions used by some boys and girls if written as pronounced would look like a foreign language. Specimens of boys’ conversation like the following may be called shorthand talking: ‘Warejego lasnight?’ ‘Hadder skate.’—‘Jerfind the ice hard’ngood?’ ‘Yes; hard’nough.’—‘Jer goerlone? ‘No; Bill’n Joe wenterlong.’—‘Howlate jerstay?’ ‘Pastate.’—‘Lemmeknow wenyergoin, woneher? I wanter go’nshowyer howto skate.’—‘H—m, ficoodn’ skate better’n you I’d sell out ’nquit.’ ‘Well, we’ll tryerace ’nseefyercan.’

The well-known answer of the Greeks to the Persian king before the battle of Thermopylæ, was rivalled by the despatch of General Suvaroff to the Russian Empress: ‘Hurrah! Ismail’s ours!’ The Empress returned an answer equally brief: ‘Hurrah! Field-Marshal!’

The message from Lord Charles Beresford to his wife from the fort near Metemmeh was pithy enough: ‘Quite well and cheerful. Privations have been severe; thirst, hunger, battles desperate; but things look better.’

There are some quaint and pithy epistles on record. Quin, when offended by Rich, went away in resentment and wrote: ‘I am at Bath.’ The answer was as laconic, though not quite so civil: ‘Stay there.’

Sibbald, the editor of the _Chronicles of Scottish Poetry_, resided in London for three or four years, during which time his friends in Scotland were ignorant not only of his movements, but even of his address. In the longrun, his brother, a Leith merchant, contrived to get a letter conveyed to him, the object of which was to inquire into his circumstances and to ask where he lived. His reply ran as follows: ‘DEAR BROTHER—I live in So-ho, and my business is so-so.—Yours, JAMES SIBBALD.’

Concise and to the point was the curious letter sent by a farmer to a schoolmaster as an excuse for his son’s absence from school: ‘Cepatomtogoatatrin.’ This meant, kep’ at ’ome to go a-taterin’ (gathering potatoes). A Canadian freshman once wrote home to his father: ‘DEAR PAPA—I want a little change.’ The fond parent replied by the next post: ‘DEAR CHARLIE—Just wait for it. Time brings change to every one.’

Briefer than these was an epistle of Emile de Girardin to his second wife, with whom he lived on most unfriendly terms. The house was large enough to permit them to dwell entirely separate from one another. One day, Madame de Girardin had an important communication to make to her husband. Taking a small sheet of paper she wrote: ‘The Boudoir to the Library: Would like to go to Switzerland.’—M. de Girardin, imitating her concise style, responded: ‘The Library to the Boudoir: Go.’ That was all.

One of the most laconic wills on record ran thus: ‘I have nothing; I owe a great deal—the rest I give to the poor.’—A similar terse epitaph to the following would have suited that will-maker: ‘Died of thin shoes, January 1839.’

PARTED.

Once more my hand will clasp your hand;
Your loved voice I shall hear once more;
But we shall never see the land,
The pleasant land we knew of yore;
Never, on any summer day,
Hear the low music of its streams,
Or wander down the leafy way
That leadeth to the land of dreams.

Still, borne upon the scented air,
The songs of birds rise clear and sweet,
As when I gathered roses there,
And heaped their glories at your feet;
And still the golden pathway lies
At eve across the western sea,
And lovers dream beneath those skies,
Which shine no more for you and me.

No more, ah, nevermore! and yet
They seem so near, those summer days,
When Hope was like a jewel set
To shine adown Time’s misty ways;
I sometimes dream that morning’s light
Will bring them back to us once more,
And that ’tis but one long dark night
Since we two parted by the shore.

We parted with soft words and low,
And ‘Farewell till to-morrow,’ said;
From sea and sky, the sunset’s glow
A golden halo round you shed;
Then as you went, I heard you sing,
‘Haste thee, sweet morrow:’ parting thus,
How could we dream that life would bring
Not any morrow there for us?

We parted, and that last farewell
Its shadow on our life-path cast;
And Time’s relentless barriers fell
Between us and our happy past;
And now we meet when cares and tears
Have dulled the parting and the pain,
But never can the weary years
Bring back our golden dreams again.

D. J. ROBERTSON.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

* * * * *

_All Rights Reserved._

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[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 627: Luée to Lucé—“earth at Lucé”.]