Chapter VI: Part 6

Sandry.—Why, then, Crull said jue wor down to Wheal Bog
With he and Tabban, and ded play some tricks
By dabben clay at jungsters makan bricks;
Aand that from there jue went to Aafe-waye house,
Aand drink’t some lecker. Mal, now there’s down souse.
Aand jue to he, like a think ded zay,
Jue wed have he, and I mait go away.

Mal.—I tell the lubber so! I to Wheal Bog!
I’ll scat hes chacks, the emprent, saucy dog.
Now hire me, Sandry Kemp, now down and full,
Ef thee arten hastes, the shust hire the whole.
Fust jue must naw, tes true as thee art theere,
Aant Blanch and I went to Golsinney feer.
Who overtookt us in the dusty road,
In common hum but Crull, the cloppen toad.
Zes he to Aant, “What cheer? Aant Blanch, what cheer?
Jue makes good coose, suppose jue ben to feer.”
“Why, hiss,” zes Aant, “ben there a pewer spur;
I wedn’t a gone ef nawed ed ben so fur.
I bawft a pair of shods for Sarah’s cheeld.”
By this time, lock! we cum jist to the field.
We went to clember up the temberen style,
(Haw keept his eye upon me all the while.)
Zes haw to Aant, “Then whos es thees braa maide?
Come tha wayst long, dasent be afraid.”
Then mov’d by my side, like a thing,
Aand pull’d my mantle, and jist touch’d my ching.
“How arry, jung woman?” zes haw. “How dost do?”
Zes I, “Jue saucy dog, what’s that to jue?
Keep off, jung lad, else thees have a slap.”
Then haw fooch’d some great big doat figs in me lap,
So I thoft, as haw had ben so kind,
Haw might go by Aant Blanch, ef haw had a mind.
Aand so haw ded, aand tookt Aant Blanch’s arm.
“Areah!” zes haw, “I dedn’t mane no harm.”
So then Aant Blanch and he ded talk and jest
Bout dabbing clay and bricks at Perran feast.

Sandry.—Ahah then, Mal, ’twas there they dabbed the clay?

Mal.—Plaase Faather, Kemp, tes true wot I do saay.
Aand hire me now, pla-sure, haw dedn’t budge
From Aanty’s arm tell jest this side Long Brudge.
Aand then zes he to Aant, “Shall we go in
To Aafe-way house, and have a dram of gin
Aand trickle mixt. Depend ol do es good,
Taake up the sweat and set to rights the blud.”
So Aant ded say, “Such things she dedn’t chuse,”
Aand squeeze my hand, aand loike a thing refuse.
So when we passed along by Wheal Bog moor,
Haw jumpt behind, and pok’t us in the door.
Haw caal’d for gin, aand brandy too, I think.
He clunk’d the brandy, we the gin ded drink.
So when haw wish’d good night as es the caase,
Haw kiss’t Aant Blanch, and jist neen touch’d my faace.
Now, Sandry Kemp, there’s nothing shure in this,
To my moinde, then, that thee shust taake amiss.

Sandry.—No fath, then Mal, ef this es all, aand true,
I had a done the same ef I was jue.

Mal.—Next time in any house I see or hear am,
I’ll down upon the plancheon, rat am, scat am,
Aand I will so poam am,—

Sandry.—Our Kappen’s there, just by thickey bush.
Hush! now Mally, hush!
Aand as hes here, so close upon the way
I wedent wish haw nawed what we ded zay,
Aand jett I dedent care, now fath and soul,
Ef so be our Kappen wor to hire the whole.
How arry Kappen? Where be going so fast?
Jure goin’ hum, suppose, juse in sich haste.

Kappen.—Who’s that than? Sandry, arten thee ashamed
To coosy so again? Thee wust be blamed
Ef thees stay here all night to prate wi’ Mal!
When tes thy cour, thee wusten come to Bal.
Aand thee art a Cobbe, I tell thee so.
I’ll tell the owners ef thee dosent go.

Sandry.—Why, harkee, Kappen, don’t skoal poor I,
Touch pipe a crum, jue’ll naw the reason why.
Coozen Mal aand I ben courtain bout afe a year.
Hould up tha head, Mal; don’t be ashamed, dost hire?
Aand Crull one day made grief ’tween I and she;
But he shall smart for it now, I swear by G——.
Haw told me lies, as round as any cup.
Now Mal and I have mit, we’ve made it up;
So, Kappen, that’s the way I stopt, I vow.

Kappen.—Ahah! I dedent giss the caase jist now.
But what dost think of that last batch of ore?

Sandry.—Why pewer and keenly gossen, Kappen sure;
I bleeve that day, ef Franky’s pair wornt drunk,
We shud had pewer stuff too from the sump.
But there, tes all good time, as people saay,
The flooken now, aint throw’d us far away;
So hope to have bra tummalls soon to grass.
How ded laast batch down to Jandower pass?

Kappen.—Why, hang thy body, Sandry, speed, I saay,
Thees keep thy clacker going till tes day.
Go speak to Mally now, jue foolish toad,
I wish both well, I’ll keep my road.

Sandry.—Good nightie, Kappen, then I wishee well.
Where artee, Mally? Dusten haw hire me, Mal?
Dusent go away, why jue must think of this,
Before we part, shure we must have a kiss.

She wiped her muzzle from the mundic stuff,
And he rubb’d his, a little stain’d with snuff.

Now then, there, good night Mal, there’s good night;
But, stop a crum.

Mally.—Good night.

Kappen.—Good night.

Kendle teenan, candle lighting.
Squarded hat, broken or cracked hat.
Lem ma knaw, let me know, tell me.
Wheal Bog, wheal, or, correctly spelt, huel, is old Cornish, and
signifies a mine or work.
Doat figs, broad figs.
A Cobbe, a simpleton, a bungler.
Bra tummalls, brave heaps, large piles of ore.

The guest, for whose entertainment the old men had furbished up their memories, said, “that piece is a capital one, and it seems all the better from the way in which you have told it. Your dialect is pleasant to hear; it is softer and more musical than that of most other parts of England.

“Many Cornish drolls remind me of Irish stories, which show similar traits of character. I have seen a piece by Tregellas, a St. Ann’s man, I suppose, as he says much about people in that parish and its neighbourhood.

“There is one story of his which shows how prone Cornish people are to stretch a point or two, as you call it. I mean that story of a boy telling his mother there are scores and hundreds of cats caterwauling upon the roof; his mother reproves him for making such an unreasonable stretch, and sends him out to see how many are there; he returned, and, condescending to tell the truth at last, says that he could ‘only see grammar’s cat and ours.’

“An Irish story, called ‘The Three Geese,’ shows the habit of augmenting the number of things, and of obstinacy in sticking to the words said.

“I’ll tell the Irish story, if you’d like to hear it, as it’s told by my old friend Patrick Kennedy.”

“We should all be delighted to hear et, I’m sure,” said the host.

“Then let us have a good large jug of toddy—half-a-gallon or so—that all the company may drink together of the same, and make the story seem less dry,” said the Irish gentleman.

A jorum of hot grog having been brought and served, all the company wished the guest health, happiness, and a long life; and “may your shadow never grow less,” added our host.

Then the following Irish story was told in native style.

THE THREE GEESE.

Oh, dear! O, dear! what headstrong crathers the womankind is! The more you want them to do any thing that’s right, the surer they are not to do it, unless the advice is given to a young girl by a gay deludher of a young man something above her station, or to a mistress of a family by some tay-dhrinking, gossiping, cabin-hunting, idle sthra that does nothing but go about pretending to knit a stocking, and she does knit it at the rate of four rounds in the day. It reminds me of the tailor and his wife that were not satisfied without bringing trouble into their cabin, when it pleased Providence not to be sending any. The poor man was sitting contentedly on his board stitching away (I’m sure I wish I knew how a tailor manages to keep his thraneens of legs the way he does for so long), and his wife that was cabin-hunting may be, bawled out, just as she was darkening the door, “Ah, you idle sthronshuch! there you are sitting at your aise, and a hundred geese trampling down our little oats; get up, you lazy drone, and drive them away.” “Musha, I think,” says he, “you’re more at leisure yourself; but rather than have a scolding match, here we go.” So getting up, he went out, and when he looked to the field, “Arrah, woman,” says he, “what’s on your eyes at all? I see but two geese.” “Two geese, inagh! purshuin’ to the goose less than fifty there, any way.” “Fifty? I wish I was as sure of fifty guineas as that there is only two in it.” “Ah! goodness help poor creatures of women with their tyrants of husbands! I tell you up to your teeth, there is forty geese there destroying the oats, as sure as there is one.” “Well, well, two, or forty, or a hundred, I had better drive them off.”

When dinner came she poured out the potatoes, and laid his noggin of milk and plate of butter out for him; but went and sat in the corner herself, and threw her apron over her head, and began to sob. “Arrah, Judy acushla,” says he, “what’s this for? come over and take your dinner, and let us be thankful, instead of flying in God’s face.” “N-n-n-no indeed, I w-w-w-will not. To say such a thing as that there was only two ge-ge-ge-geese there when I reckoned a whole score!” “Oh! to Halifax with them for geese: let them go and be shot, woman, and come over to the table.” “Indeed and I will not till you own to the truth.” Well not a bit did she eat; and when night came, she make a shake down for herself, and would not gratify the poor tailor by sleeping in her own good high-standing bed. Next morning she did not rise; but when her husband spoke kindly, and brought some breakfast to the bedside, she asked him to go for her mother and relations till she’d take leave of them before she’d die, as there was no use living any more, when all love was gone from him. “But, Judy dear, why do you go on in this way? what have I done?” “Don’t you say there was only two geese there, and at the very lowest there could not be less than a dozen. Can’t you acknowledge the truth, you obstinate pig of a man, and let us be at peace again?”

Instead of making any answer, he walked over to her mother’s house, and brought her over, with two or three of her family; and they laid siege to the wife, but they might as well be preachin’ to a stone wall; and she almost persuaded them that her husband was to blame. “Now call him,” says she, “and I’ll insense you who is wrong. Darby, on the nick of your soul, and if you don’t intend to send me to my grave, speak the truth like a Christian, and don’t be heapin’ sins on your miserable head. I’ll leave you no back door, for I’ll only insist on three geese, though I’m sure there was six at the very least; wasn’t there three geese in the field when I called you out!” “Och, Judy asthore? never mind: let there be three-and-thirty if you like, but don’t let us be idlin’ and tormentin’ our people here. Get up in the name of goodness and eat a bit.” “But wasn’t there three geese there, I say, Darby?” “Ah, dickens a one but two if you go to that.” “Oh, Vuya, Vuya! isn’t this a purty story? Go home, go home, all of yez, and bid Tommy Mulligan prepare my coffin, and bring it over about sun-down, and just give me one night’s dacent waking: [14] I won’t ax the two, for I don’t wish to give so much trouble to the neighbours, and indeed I think I couldn’t stand the ungratitude and conthrāriness of them that ought to know better, and feel for a body; and after all that I done and slaved for him, and gave up Neddy Brophy for him, that was six inches taller, and a carpenter besides.”

Well, thinking it might give her a fright, they went and brought a coffin that was ready made at the time, and some fresh shavings in the bottom; and the women of the town, that gathered as soon as the coffin came, ordered out the men till they’d wash the corpse.

She said nothing till the men were outside; but then she gave tongue, and asked how dare they think that she wanted washing! It might do well enough for a real dead body, but she was thankful it hadn’t come to that with her yet, and if she chose to die it was no concern of theirs; and if any one attempted to lay a drop of water on her skin, she’d lay the marks of her ten nails on their face. Well, she was got some way into the coffin, and a clean cap and frill put round her face; and, as she was not pale enough, a little girl shook some flour on her cheeks. Before the men and boys were let in, she asked for a looking glass, and when she saw what a fright she looked with the flour, she got a towel and rubbed every bit of it off again.

She bid her husband be called in, and gave her sister and mother charge, in his hearing, to be kind and attentive to the poor angashore after she was gone: at any rate till he’d get a new wife, which she supposed would not be very far off; for though he was unkind and conthrāry, thank goodness she knew her duty, and she supposed he could not help his nature, and it was better as it was, before they’d grow old, and she might get peevish and lose her temper, and they might become a gazabo to the neighbours by fightin’ and scoldin’. “I’ll engage now, after all is said and done, he won’t give way an inch, nor acknowledge the three geese.” Well, the moment the geese were mentioned, he put on his hat without a word, and walked out.

So evenin’ came, and the candles were lighted, and the tobacco and pipes were all laid out, and the poor dead woman had to listen to a good deal of discourse not at all to her liking; and the talk went on in this way. “Musha, neighbour, doesn’t the corpse look mighty well? When did she die, poor woman? What ailed her, did you hear?” “Indeed I believe it was Gusopathy, as Tom K. the schoolmaster called it just now; something with ‘goose’ in it any way: you know the way the skin does be in a sudden cold, with little white risings on it, they call it a goose’s skin. May be she had it very bad, and her husband could not bear it, and so she died of grief.” “Poor man, he’ll feel her loss for a week or two, she was a careful woman.” “Ah, but hadn’t she a bitter tongue of her own?” “Troth I think Darby will bear her loss with Christian patience. He is a young man for his years; he doesn’t look forty, he’ll be getting his choice of wives. I think poor Judy was careful and laid by a few guineas; won’t the new wife feel comfortable, and may be soon put wind under the money!” “To my notion, Judy was in too great a hurry to die. From her looks there, she might bury two tailors yet, and may be get a big bodagh of a farmer for her third husband. Well, it can’t be helped, but I would not like to be warming a bed for the best woman in the townland if I was Judy. She is at peace at last, poor woman; and mighty hard she found it to keep the peace with her neighbours while she was alive. Who is that you said used to be walking with Darby of odd Sunday evenings before his marriage? If ghosts are allowed to take the air on Sunday evenings, poor Judy’s will have something to fret her in a few weeks.”

Well, all this time, the poor dead woman’s blood was rushing like mad through her veins; and something was swelling in her throat as if she was going to be choked, but still the divel was so strong in her that she never opened her eyes nor her mouth. The poor broken-hearted husband came up after some time, and leaning over her face he whispered, “Judy, acushla, isn’t it time to be done with this foolery? Say but one reasonable word, and I’ll send all these people about their business.” “Ah, you little-good-for crather, you havn’t the spirit of a man, or you would never bear all they have been saying of your poor neglected wife these two hours past. Are the three geese there?” “Not a goose but two if you were to be waked for a twelvemonth;” and off he went and sat in a dark part of the room till daylight.

He made another offer next morning, just as the led was puttin’ on the coffin, and the men were goin’ to hoise it on their shoulders; but not a foot she’d move unless he’d give in to the three geese.

So they came to the churchyard, and the coffin was let down in the grave, and just as they were preparing to fill all up, poor Darby went down, and stooping to where he had left some auger holes in the lid, he begged of her even after the holy show she made of himself and herself, to give up the point, and come home. “Is the three geese there?” was all he could get out of her, and this time his patience got so thread-bare, and he was so bothered by want of sleep, and torment of mind, that he got beside himself, and jumped up, and began to shovel the clay like mad, down on the coffin.

The first rattle it made, however, had like to frighten the life out of the buried woman, and she shouted out, “Oh, let me up! I’m not dead at all: let there be only two geese, Darby asthore, if you like.” “Oh, be this and be that,” said Darby, “it is too late: people have come far and near to the funeral, and we can’t let them lose their day for nothing: so for the credit of the family, don’t stir,” and down went the clay in showers, for the tailor had lost his senses. Of course the by-standers would not let the poor woman be buried against her own will; so they seized on Darby and his shovel, and when his short madness was checked, he fell in a slump on the sod. When poor Judy was brought to life, the first sight she beheld was her husband lyin’ without a kick in him, and a wag of a neighbour proposed to her to let Darby be put down in her place, and not give so many people a disappointment after coming far and near. The dead woman, by way of thanks, gave him a slap across the face that he felt for two days; and not minding the figure she cut in her grave-clothes, fell on poor Darby, and roared and bawled for him to come to life, and she’d never say a conthrāry word to him again while she lived. So, some way or other they brought the tailor round; but how her and him could bear to look each other in the face for a while, I don’t know. May be as there was a good deal of love under all the crossness, they found a way to get into their old habits again, and whenever she felt a tart answer coming to her tongue, she thought of the rattling of the clay on the coffin, and of the three geese that were only two after all; and if they didn’t live happy——but that’s the end they put to lying fairy stories, and as this one is so true and moral, it can afford to do without a tail.

When the applause and remarks occasioned by this story had somewhat subsided, our hostess spoke a few words in her husband’s ear; she might have meant to whisper, but the guest asked what she said about trouble. “That she and the rest,” replied our host, “wed beg and pray for ’e to tell them another story, but they were afraid to trouble ’e.”

“It will give me much pleasure,” said the Irish gentleman, “to tell another, of quite a different sort,” and he presently told the following story of a brave Irish boy’s luck.

THE EARL OF STAIRS’ SON.

The father was called the Earl of Stairs, because his little house was just on the side of Black Stairs, looking towards Puck’s Bridge. One eave rested on the side of the rock, and the walls were good strong stone walls (there is no scarcity of stones in them parts), and the roof was as snug as scraws and heath could make it. The Earl enclosed as much land off the common as he could till; so there was no scarcity of oaten bread, or potatoes, or eggs, or goats’ milk; and small thanks to him for keeping up a good fire, for the turf bog was within a hen’s race of his castle. Both he and his wife were of old respectable families; and so, as they had the good drop of blood, and some larning, and were mighty genteel in their manners, they were called Lady Stairs and the Earl of Stairs. One day, an ignorant omadhaun of a mountaineer came in on some business, and he sat down, and kept looking at a bunch of keys that was hanging from a table-drawer, and says he, after a long pause, “Ma’am,” says he, “do you sell kays here?”

Well, when the little boy was about fifteen years old, and knew more nor any school-master within ten miles of him, he was so eager after the learning, that he set out over the mountain, and through Carlow, and Kilkenny, and whatever lies at the back of them, till he came to Munster. He got into a capital school there, and learned all them branches I mentioned while ago, ay, and grammar along with them; I forgot the grammar. A Mr. Blundell teached in that school about twenty years ago, but I don’t know the name of the young Earl’s master who lived long before that time. He paid nothing for his knowledge, but helped the master now and then; and the farmers’ children going to the school were glad to take him home at night, as he was so ready to share his knowledge with them. No wonder he should find it so easy to pick up learning in Munster, where they say the little boys minding the cows converses with one another in Latin.

At last and at long, he returned home, a fine genteel young man; and did not his poor mother cry with joy, when she heard him talking to the priest the next Sunday, after Mass, and conversing with him in Latin, and French, and Portugee.

Well, there was nothing to hinder him now from being a priest himself, if he chose, as the old people had some guineas laid up in the thatch in an old stocking; but though he was pious enough in his own way, he said he had no vocation; and that any one becoming a priest without a vocation, would be only endangering his own soul and the souls of his flock. Every week he used to get an invitation to some great farmers’ house for tay and hot cake, and wherever the priest had a station, he was sure to be there. The girls had an eye on him, but though he was polite enough, he paid no particular attention to any one; and then they began to find out that his parents were below their own rank in life, and that his geese were all swans in his own eyes, and that the concait of some people was astonishing. He used to ramble about the rocks with a book in his hands; and though he was ready enough to help the Earl at his work, the deuce a hand would the old fool let him lay to a single thing.

At last as they were sitting round the fire on a winter’s night, the young fellow up and told the old couple, that he was tired of doing nothing and having nothing to do, and that he would set out on his travels, and that he hoped he would have something pleasant to write home about before long.

The poor old people were sad enough at this; but after doing all they could to persuade him to stay at home, and marry, and take a farm, or open a shop in Newtownbarry (it was only Bunclody then), or Enniscorthy, or New Ross, he still held out, and one fine day he set forward to Dublin, and took ship there, and tale or tidings were not heard from him for two years, except one letter that he sent them from Paris about five months after he set sail; and in this letter he said he was well off teaching English to a merchant’s children.

A last one fine summer afternoon, a fine looking gentleman with a foreign appearance, and speaking English in a queer style, and travelling in a post-chaise, stopped at the inn at the cross of Rathduff, and put up there till next day; but said he wanted a guide to show him the way to the Earl of Stairs’ castle. The people knew the nickname well enough, and after he got some refreshment, a boy was sent to show him the way. When they came nigh the cabin which was on the open common, and near the ending of a lane that came up straight through the enclosed fields, they heard a great grunting and squeeling, and there they saw two stout two-year old pigs with their noses to the half-door, shrovellin’ at it with all their might, and only for the rings in their snouts they’d have it down in less than no time; and the squeelin’ they kept up all the time was enough to vex a saint. A puckawn [15] and eleven meenshogues [16] were surnadin’ along the ridge of the roof, and cantherin’ round the bawn, and givin’ a puck now and then to the musicianers at the door to quicken the tune a bit. Well, the gorsoon got through the goats and gave a welt or two to the pigs, and got them out of the way, and then he bawled out, “Earl of Stairs, are you within if you please, sir? Here’s a gentleman from foreign parts come to see you.” So with that the Earl came and opened the half-door, and requested the gentleman to walk in. There was as fine a dish of white eyes on their little table as you could wish to see, and a couple of noggins of boiled goats’ milk by the side of it, and a plate of butter, and the moment the gentleman entered, they pressed him to sit down and join them; and Lady Stairs filled out a mug of milk, and laid a knife and a pat of butter for the stranger.

He thought to explain his business at once, but they would not hear a word till he would first eat and drink. So he hung his hat on a peg, and taking the knife in his hand, he cut one of the potatoes in two, and watched to see how the master and mistress managed theirs. And he was so polite that he laid down his knife, and began to peel off the potato skins with his fingers. Well, he did not relish that way of going to work much, so he took up the knife again and dispatched a couple of potatoes, and took a pull at the milk which I’m sure was good enough for a queen. Well, the table was small, and the mistress thinking that the potatoes were not much to their visitor’s taste, took down a wooden bowl, filled with good home-made cakes; and laying it on her lap, as the little table was crowded, she buttered a good slice, and asked him to try it if he pleased. He done his best to seem to relish every thing, and the Earl holding a lighted dipped rush in one hand, pressed him to make a hearty supper.

When the cloth was off the table, the Earl wiped his hands on a wisp of straw in the corner: you will know by and by, why I mention this straw, and the other things. When he was done with it he threw it into the blaze, and it was burnt. Now, don’t forget the dish held on the lady’s lap, nor the rush in the Earl’s hand, nor the straw.

At last says the Frenchman in broken English, as soon as they would let him speak, “Madame, the mistress of the house, havn’t you a son that left you about two years ago?” The poor woman got into such a tremble, that some of the cakes fell out of the bowl, and the father opened his eyes and his mouth, but couldn’t say a word. “Oh sir, dear,” says the mother, “have you seen our poor boy!” “Yes,” says he, “I have seen him, and he is alive and well, and well to do, and likely to be better.” “And when is he coming home, and why didn’t he write, and how does he look, and why didn’t he come with you?”

“As I can’t speak the English very easily, you may better let me tell my story in my own way,” says the Frenchman, for a Frenchman he was: “I am the head man of business to a merchant in Paris; and about a year and half ago, a young genteel looking Irishman was engaged by my employer to teach his children English. There was something so mild and engaging about the young fellow, that the children and the elder people got very much attached to him, and the young lady their eldest daughter began to like him better than the others. Your son, for so he was, never took any airs on himself, and the young lady seeing that he paid no particular attention to her, began to mope and be dismal, and at last took to her bed, and was sick in earnest. The mother, by some means, found out what ailed her, and let her husband know; but he was very angry, and indeed herself was not much better, but still the girl was ailing without making any complaint. The young teacher made a great many mistakes in the lessons from the first day he missed the young lady from her place; and some of the servants remarked him several nights in the street at late hours, and looking up at the light of one of the windows. At last, fearing that they would lose their daughter altogether, the mother began to question the young Irishman about his family at home. He made no boast, except that he was descended from good old Irish families on both sides; and that the lands belonging to his forefathers were taken from them, because they would not renounce their religion nor their king; and he mentioned that his own father and mother were still called in jest, Earl and Lady Stairs.

“Well they had no great occasion to ask him what he thought of their daughter, for one of her young brothers happening to call one day at his lodging, and stepping in on tiptoe, and peeping over his shoulder, he found him sobbing and kissing a little picture which he had made of his sister, unknown to any body.

“So the old gentleman at last gave his consent, on condition that a person he’d send over to Ireland, to his father’s place, would be able to give a satisfactory account of the state of things here. I think he expected that by getting time, and leaving the lady to herself, she might change her mind; especially as there is no end to the balls and entertainments going on, and as all the young gentlemen of their acquaintance are invited to the house, night after night. Miss Mary is a very lively, rattling young damsel, with dark sparkling eyes; and we all wondered how she was so taken with your son, who is very quiet in his manner, and used to say so little. My master hopes from the briskness of her character, that she will get tired of his quietness; but I am sure he will be mistaken; and now a good deal depends on the news I am to send home in a day or two.”

“Oh dear,” says the poor mother, “what will you be able to say about such humble people as we, to make your employer think well of the match?”

“At all events,” says the stranger, “I can say of you, that before you knew anything of my business, you shared the best you had with me, and what more could you do if you were a real lady? Now if you have any way for me to sleep, I’ll let my guide go back and bring up my dressing-case from the inn; and we will take to-morrow to go to the top of this mountain here, and walk about, and settle how every thing is to be; and next day I’ll write home.”

Well, then, he pulled out a letter from their son; and, between laughing and crying, they read, how at first he wrote after getting into business, and then when the trouble came, he did not wish to send any letter till he would have something pleasant to say. He put in everything to make them cheerful; and now and then something about the young lady would slip out, and her mother’s kindness, and the love he had for the little brothers, and what a charitable good young lady she was, etc. So when the evening got late, Mounseer was put to rest in a snug little room where their son had his bed long ago, and well he might sleep too, for there was a feather pallet, with a nice dry mat under it; and the fresh air of the mountain got in through chinks and crannies, and did not let the place feel too close; and the sheets were clean and well aired, and the quilt had all the beautifulest flowers in the world cut out on it in the neatest patterns.

Lady Stairs going in and out took notice that he spent a good deal of time about his razhurs and other dressing implements; but if he passed any time on his kness, it was a mighty short one entirety. Next morning they contrived to give the Frenchman a decent breakfast of tay, and white bread, and butter, though them things didn’t often get so high up in the mountains; and they say that the French don’t use tay at breakfast; and after that he walked in his thin boots along with the Earl, to the very top of Blackstairs. I’m sure they had a delightful view from it, over the castles and demesnes of Mr. Colclough, Mr. Blacker, Mr. Carew, and all their plantations, and the woods of Kilaughrim, and Tombrick, and the Slaney flowing along, and the towns of Enniscorthy and New Ross looking so small, and all the snug farmers’ houses down in the county Carlow, with the green paddocks around them, and the bogs here and there, and the dry stone fences to the fields, and the town of Carlow, and the fine broad Barrow flowing off towards Graigue and New Ross. If they turned around to the sunrise, they could enjoy the view of Mount Leinster, and the Wicklow hills, and Ferns, and Corrig Rua, and the far-off sea beyond all.

Well, that evening he pulled out his letter paper, and his pen, and ink-horn; and began a letter to the merchant in Paris, and this is the way a part of it was wrote.

“Most respected sir,

“I write these few lines to you, hoping they shall find you in
health as it leaves me at present, thanks, etc., etc., and the
mistress, and Miss Mary, and the young Irish gentleman, and the
other children. This country is very different from France; land is
so cheap and plenty that they cut away a great deal of every field
to make a big dyke, and they build up a great big ditch with the
clay and stones they take out. The people are cheerful, and
hospitable, and obliging; but they are too fond of staying in their
chapels, and saying long prayers. Our young gentleman was rather
modest in speaking of his father’s rank and possessions. I can
hardly make a guess at the extent of the demesne that spreads round
his mansion for miles and miles, without hedge or ditch, and the
sheep and cattle that graze on it are beyond counting. When I drew
nigh to the castle, up an avenue half a mile long, it was in the
evening, and the Earl and his Lady were at their supper. There were
two musicianers stationed before the hall-door, and they played
during the whole time, such music as you never heard in your life
at any entertainment, no nor the King of France himself. Twelve
halberd-men were drawn up in front by way of royal guard; so
venerable as they looked, and such beards as they had! and while
they were on duty they would not return a salute, nor answer a
question to the King nor the Lord Lieutenant himself. Though the
Earl and his Lady were at their supper in state, they showed me the
greatest respect, when they heard from where I came. Will I ever
forget the splendour of that supper! The side table could not be
valued by the owner at less than fifty thousand pounds; and I am
sure that the Earl would not part with the chief candlestick that
gave light to the feast for ten thousand any way.

“After supper, the nobleman dried his hands on a towel with gold
fringes, at least they looked very like gold; and so little regard
had he for it that when he was done he thrune it into the fire.
Moreover, he need not go out of his own demesne for firing for a
hundred years to come; and by the end of that time, I’m sure you
would hardly miss the trees that would be cut down. Such is the
wonderful splendour of every thing here that I can hardly believe
my own account of it; and I’m sure the young Earl when he came to
Paris, and ever since, pretended to be poor, that he might find
some good young lady who would marry him for his own sake, and not
for his rank nor his riches.

“I will take a look at Dublin, and the Wicklow and the Welsh
mountains on my return; and I hope to see my young mistress with
the ring on her hand when I get home.

“I am, etc., etc.”

Well, the clever Frenchman was asked to the priest’s house to take tea that evening, and two or three of the gentlemen-farmers met him there. He was very glad to get in company with the priest, as he spoke French well, having studied at a place abroad called Louvain, and he told him the sort of letter he was sending home. The clergyman wondered at it, you may be sure, but he said that the young lady would be thankful for the invention; and that her mother was won over already; and that the father only wished to make the thing look well in the eyes of their acquaintance; and so the letter would satisfy everybody; and from all he could hear of the young man from his old neighbours, his young mistress would never meet a better husband; for he had good manners and a good appearance, and was a good scholar, and what few young Paris gentlemen were, he was a good Christian into the bargain.

Well to make my long story short, the Earl of Stairs soon made an addition of two rooms to his castle, a parlour and a bed-room, and the next year, there was joy and merriment in his house, for his son and his beautiful black-eyed bride came home; and they brought only a boy and a girl to wait on them; and the servants were harder to please than their master and mistress; and the merry young lady ran about among the heath and rocks, and her serious young husband and she were as fond as fond could be of one another; and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks at the notion of the halberd-men, and the musicianers, and the demesne, and the side table, and the candlestick, and the towel with the gold fringes; and she was as serious and devout at the little chapel as the poorest person there. They came to spend a part of every summer at Blackstairs during the life of the old people; and if they didn’t live happy, THAT WE MAY!”

“These stories,” continued the guest, “are pretty fair examples of such as are still related at Irish hearths.”

“We once had stories told here,” said the host, “which were full of action and adventures, but they are forgotten now. Instead of such old tales, we have now mere quibbles on words, or modern anecdotes, with but little in them worth remembering. As Henny Quick said, years ago,—

“Our Cornish drolls are dead, each one.
The fairies from their haunts have gone;
There’s scarce a witch in all the land,
The world has grown so learn’d and grand.”

“Henny wrote many short pieces,” continued our host, “had them printed, and he sold them, with his mother’s help; yet what Henny called his copies of verses were on very doleful subjects when there was any new matter in them.

“There was also a rhymster in Sancras, called Billy Foss, who would talk for ever so long in doggerel verse, but the greater part of it was very abusive; this es what he said of Boslow:—

“As I traversed Boslow
I saw an old cow,
A hog, and a flock of starved sheep;
Likewise an old mare,
Whose bones were so bare
They made her old master to weep:

A few acres of ground
As bare as a pound,
An old house just ready to fall;
Beside, there was no meat
For the people to eat,
And that was the worst thing of all:

No grass for the flocks,
But a carn of dry rocks,
Which afforded a horrible sight;
If you chance go that way,
You must do so by day,
For you’d smash out your brains in the night.

No crock, pan, nor kettle;
No goods, much nor little,
Was there to be found in the house;
No tables nor chairs,
No bedding upstairs—
Not so much as to cover a mouse.”

“There are rhymes enough in that,” said the guest, “and whether there’s any reason you may best know.”

About this time the Cap’n of the tin-stamps and other old men rose and came to wish us good night, saying, “we must love ’e and leave ’e my dears, for we haave to get to work early; the time es gone quickly, es past our landlord’s hour for closean; ef you are goan away to-morrow we wish ’e well, and hope you may come to ‘Sennor’ agen soon.”

We were glad to get sleep too, having had a long ramble in the morning, and expecting a tiresome walk back to Penzance before the next night.

In Zennor church we noticed, on a bench-end, the curious carving of a mermaid, which has probably given rise to a legend [17] well known in the neighbourhood.

The following epitaph on a mural tablet, in the same church, is also somewhat remarkable:—

Here rest the Mortal part of
John Quick, of Wicka, Yeoman.
He was hospitable, sociable, peaceable, humble,
honest, and devout in manner.
HE EXCELLED HIS EQUALS.
In piety he was their example.
He met death with composure.
Sept. 12th, 1784, aged 74.

“The Memory of the Just is Blessed.”

FROM PENZANCE TO CARN GALVA: NOTEWORTHY OBJECTS BY THE WAY.

The past is slipping from our hold, as shadowy as dreams, The dim, mysterious, lifeless past,—how faint, unreal it seems. But here and there we come across some waif upon the shore, Thrown landward by the waves of time, for man to ponder o’er.—J. B.

Having the day before us, we take our course to Madron, and only pause when near the village to turn round and admire the splendid landscape.

MADRON.

Madron Church is interesting to the archæologist: the east end is said to be that of the original early English Church of about 1260. Among the objects worthy of notice in the interior, are the font, sedile, and piscina, and also several mural monuments.

On one old tomb may be seen the following matter-of-fact inscription:—

“Belgium me birth, Braitaine me breeding gave,
Cornwalle a wife, ten children, and a grave.”

Observe also the inscription on the brass of John Clies, in which the place now called Penzance is spelt Penzour; and the north-west end window, recently presented to this Church by the Rev. M. N. Peters, the Vicar. There are many quaint inscriptions on the old tombs, besides that to George Daniel.

At Landithy farm house, near at hand, note the ancient doorway, which formed a portal to the preceptory of the Knights’ Templars; a considerable portion of the college of these warrior monks, with some of the rooms adorned with curious portraits, supposed to be those of the early kings and queens of England, was standing until a few years ago, when the interesting old building was taken down and a farm-house erected on its site.

From the old portal of Landithy college, we pass up the road north of the Church; at the corner of the Union garden, take the path across the fields; at the bottom of the lane leading out of the third field, turn down through the moors on the right, and a path over soft grass and camomile brings us to a stile, which takes us into the moor where are St. Madron’s Well and Chapel.

MADRON WELL.

To find the Holy Well, on entering the lower enclosure, pass down across the moor at a right angle to the hedge, and a minute’s walk will bring us to the noted spring, which is not seen until very near, as it has no wall above the surface, nor any mark by which it can be distinguished at a distance. Much has been written of the remarkable cures effected by these holy waters, and the intercession of good St. Madron. This was when Madron Well was so famous that the maimed, halt, and lame made pilgrimages from distant parts of the country to the heathy moor.

The water is still resorted to on the first three Wednesdays in May by some few women of the neighbourhood, who bring children to be cured of skin diseases by being bathed in the Well water. And its old repute as a divining fount has not yet quite died out, though young folks come here now to drop pins or pebbles into the spring, more for fun and the pleasure of each other’s company, than through any belief that the falling together, or separation of pins or pebbles, will tell how the course of love will run between the parties indicated by the objects dropped into the spring; or that the number of bubbles which rise in the water, on stamping near the well, mark the number of years, in answer to any question of time; but there was not such want of faith in the virtues of this water half a century ago.

A few weeks before the Excursion, we took a ramble through Boswarva, Bosullow, and some other ancient hamlets on the higher side of Madron, to see if we could glean anything from the old inhabitants about the rites formerly practised at the Crick-stone, Madron Well, and elsewhere.

An elderly dame, who had lived the best part of her time near Lanyon, gave us the following account of the doings at the Well about fifty years ago. “At that time, when she lived in Lenine, scores of women from Morvah, Zennor, Towednack, and other places, brought their children to Madron Well to be cured of the shingles, wildfires, tetters, and various skin diseases, as well as to fortify them against witchcraft and other mysterious ailments.

“An old dame, called An (aunt) Katty, who then mostly lived about in the Bosullows, or some place near, and who did little but knitting-work, picked up a good living in the spring of the year, by attending at the Well, to direct the high country folks how they were to proceed in using the waters.

“First she had the child stripped as naked as it was born; then the creature was plunged or popped three times through the water against the sun; next, the child was passed quickly nine times round the spring, going from east to west, or with the sun; then the babe was dressed, rolled up in something warm, and laid to sleep near the water; if the child slept and plenty of bubbles rose in the water, it was a good sign.”

We enquired if a prayer, charm, or anything was spoken during the operations? “Why, no, to be sure,” the dame replied, “there mustn’t be a word spoken all the time they are near the water, or it will spoil the spell; and a piece rented off from some part of the clothes worn by the child or any other person using the Well, must be left near the water for good luck, ever so small a bit will do; this is mostly placed out of sight, alongside of the stream, which runs from the Well.

“Whilst one party went through the rites at the spring, all the others remained over the stile, in the higher enclosure, or by the hedge, till they came up from the water, because if a word were spoken by anyone near the well, during the dipping, they had to come again. The old woman, An Katty, was never paid in money, but balls of yarn, or anything else she wanted, were dropped on the road, outside the Well-moors, for her. This old dame also got good pickings by instructing the young girls how to try for sweethearts at the Well.

“Scores of maidens” (the dame’s words) “used, in the summer evenings, to come down to the Well, from ever so far, to drop into it pins, gravel, or any small thing that would sink. The names of the persons were not spoken when the objects, which represented them, were dropped into the water; they were only thought of, and as they remained together or separated, such would be the fate of the couple. It was only when the spring was working (rising strongly) that it was of any use to try the spells; it was always unlucky to speak when near the Well at such times.”

Such is the substance of what the dame told us. She never heard that any saint had anything to do with the water, except from somebody who told her there was something in a book about it; nor had she or anybody else heard the water called St. Madron’s Well, except by the new gentry, who go about giving new names to the places, and think they know more about them than the people who have lived here ever since the world was created.

We enquired if the people ever went to the old chapel to perform any ceremony? Not that she ever heard of; Morvah folks, and others of the Northern parishes who mostly resort to the spring pay no regard to any saint or to any body else, except some old woman who may come down with them to show how everything used to be done. We were also informed that there is a spring in some moor in Zennor, not far from Bosporthenes, which is said to be as good as Madron Well, and that children are often taken thither and treated in the same way.