The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

"Then, it's no use in my telling you," continued Pat, "how every life-dhrop of my heart was devoted to that same girl, how every wakin' thought, an' every sleepin' dhrame was filled up with her; now I've lost her, and the sunshine of my life is gone with her for ever."

"I know it all."

"But what – what am I to do? tell me, or I shall go mad."

"Thry your luck somewhere else."

"Pshaw! I might as well thry to stop the tide with a pitchfork."

"You do really love her, then?"

"Love her! Why do you ask? Do you doubt it?"

"I do."

"That shows how much you know, and now I doubt your power to tell any one's thoughts, since you can't tell mine."

"Oh, yes, but I can, if you want me to prove it, I'll tell you who you're thinking of at this moment."

"Do, and I'll believe anything."

"Cousin Pether!"

Pat fairly started from his seat; large drops suddenly gathered on his brow; he was frightened.

Biddy, seeing her advantage, went on: "You're a purty fellow, to call my power in question. I've a great mind to make you feel it in airnest. Will I go on or not?"

"Go on; anything," said Pat; "I'll say no more."

Biddy then shuffled the dirty pack of cards, cut and set them out in her lap, saying, as she proceeded: "Bad – nothing but bad luck. There, that queen of clubs is your sweetheart, and that knave of hearts must be Cousin Pether; he's rather carroty-headed."

Pat groaned.

"Here's a wedding," Biddy went on, "and lots of money, to who? Let me see: if it isn't to that knave of hearts again."

"Curse the knave of hearts," cried Pat, starting up, "I have had enough of this. I do believe you've been playin' wid me all this time. Good-bye" —

"Stay one minute; you think I've been playing with you, eh?" said the old witch, rising, and speaking in a mysteriously solemn tone of voice, "Young man, have you strength of mind enough to look upon the magic glass, and have your eyes convinced?"

"What mean you?" exclaimed Pat.

"To show you what you least wish to see – Norah and her cousin in each other's arms."

"Impossible; you're juggling with me now; you cannot show me that."

"Look!" screamed old Biddy, tearing back the dingy curtain – and there, sure enough, within the frame of the mirror, locked in each other's embrace, were Norah and Peter.

The suddenness of the disclosure, combined with the terror of the moment, acting upon a frame rendered weak from apprehension, made the blood rush into the brain of the unfortunate lover, and without uttering a sound, he fell heavily to the floor in a faint.

It was some time before he was restored to consciousness, when the first form that fell upon his sight was that of the detested Peter. He shut his eyes in the misery of unavailing rage, but opened them again in astonishment, as a well-known voice whispered in his ear:

"Dear Pat, it's your own Norah that's beside you."

Pat's delight was perfectly indescribable, and I shrink from the responsibility of attempting it; suffice it to say, for the elucidation of our mystery, that Norah and Peter were beforehand with him at old Biddy's, when, seeing him approach, they hid themselves behind the curtain. Norah had such a convincing proof of Pat's truthful love, that she never quarrelled with him again – at least before they were married: of their further proceedings I frankly confess my ignorance.

THE FAIRY CIRCLE

"Don't be conthrairyWith an Irish fairy,Or, I declare, heWon't regard you much;But be complaisant,When that he's adjacent,And he'll use you dacent,If you merit such."

"Corney; avic?"

"Ma'm to you."

"What the mischief are you thinking so thremendious hard about?"

"Me thoughts is me own, anyway, Missis O'Carrol."

"Unless, may-be, you borrowed them from some one else; an' that's most likely, Mr. O'Carrol; for the niver an original idaya did I obsarve iminatin' from your own sinsabilities, sence here I've been."

"Exceptin' once."

"An' whin was that, may I ax?"

"Whin I tuk it into me foolish head to marry you."

"An' have you the owdashious vanity to suppose that nobody thought that before you?"

"Not to me knowledge, Mrs. O'C."

"The saints be good to us! There's a dale of ignorance in the world; but come now, tell me, what is it that makes you lave off your work, evry now an' thin, lookin', for all the world, as cute as a concaited gandher."

"Why, thin, Moll machree, I'll tell you; but you must promise not to make fun o' me, for it's your good that's iver foremost in me heart."

"The blessin's on your lovin' sowl! I know it is."

"Well, then, Moll, come an' sit near me, an' lave off polishin' up that owld copper kittle; for I want to spake mighty sarious to you. Haven't you noticed that big, slated house that's just builded up, fornenst our very nose?"

"Of coorse I have."

"Yes, but do you know who's livin' in it? Who, but young Phil Blake, that was as poor as a thranieen, an' as ragged as a mountain goat, in his ivry-day clothes, not more nor six months ago?"

"You don't say!"

"It's the mortial truth; didn't I see him awhile ago, struttin' up an' down the place, as proud as any other paycock, wid a blew coat on his back, covered over wid brass buttons, a'most as big as fryin' pans, enough to dazzle the eyes out of a Christian's head; an' he ordherin' the min about, as importint as you plaze. Phil Blake, of all fellows in the worrild, that niver had the ghost of a fippenny-bit to bless himself wid, to see him now, crammin' his fists into his breeches pockets, an jinkin' the goold an' the silver about, in the most aggravatin' way."

"But where did he get it all?"

"That's the chat – where? Guess, won't you?"

"I don't know, may-be some rich ould lady fell in love wid him."

"Is it wid Phil? Small chance of that, I'm thinkin'. Guess agin."

"May-be he had a lawshuit!"

"Be my sowkins, you're further in the mud than iver, Moll-shee. Lawshuits isn't the stuff goold mines is made of; if so, it's only the lawyers that's licensed to dig. I'll tell you. Last night, meself an' a few boys was takin' a jug of punch, at the "Cross Kays," whin one of them up and towld us all about it. Moll, as thrue as you're here, it was neither more nor less than a fairy-gift."

"No!"

"Gospel! He cotch one of the little schamers (saving their prisince, for I suppose there's a lot of thim listenin', if we knew where they were perched), an' so, he wouldn't let him go until he gave him hapes of money. Why, they say Phil's as rich as an archbishop!"

"But, Corney, darlin', don't you know that fairy money niver thrives? let us wish Blake good luck, and think no more about it."

"Pooh! Nonsense! He has luck enough; we had better wish ourselves a slice. Money's money, Moll; a fairy groat would pay for a pot of porther just as aisily as Father Fogarty's. It isn't that I'm over covetious, but I can't help envyin' Phil."

"An' you see what harm even the first beginnin' of such a feelin' does. All this blessed day, you've hardly done a stitch of work; instead of makin' the lapstone echo with the sound of your merry voice, you've been lookin' as disthracted as a sthray pig; why, you haven't even kissed the babby sence dinner. Go to work, Corney, while I get a cup of tay ready. Thank God, we've never wanted for a male's vittles yet, and have always a plinty in the house, agin we do."

"Yes, I know that; but haven't I to work for it, day afther day! No rest; nothing but slave, slave, slave, from year's end to year's end, while gintlefolks, like Phil, bad 'cess to him, can sthroll up an' down the sunny-side of the street, smoke as many pipes of tibbacky as they plaze; have roast beef ev'ry Sunday, an' wear top-boots. Murdher alive! It's a great thing to be one of the quality."

"Well, the mischief has got into you, I b'lieve. Corney, you niver tuk such a fit as this, afore."

"Niver mind, Moll, I know what I know; luck's like a fox; you have to hunt it hard before you ketch it; the divil a toe will it come to you. There's plinty of fairies about, an' who knows but there may be as lucky chaps as Phil Blake in the worrild."

At the conclusion of the above conversation, Corney silently resumed his work, endeavoring to add another piece to a wonderfully patched brogue, while Mary busied herself at the little bright turf-fire, boiling the water for tea– a few scanty grains of some apochryphal herb, representing that indispensable delicacy. She holds a rasher of exceedingly fat bacon on the end of a fork, which screws and twists itself about like some living thing enduring fierce agony, while a sleepy-looking puss, with her tail twisted comfortably around her paws like a muff, sits intently watching the operation, evidently wondering in her own mind what it can possibly be that spits so cat-like and so spitefully into the fire. The walls of the little room are comfortably whitewashed; only one broken pane of glass in the window, and that neatly mended with a piece of old newspaper; the dresser is as white as soap and sand applied by tidy hands can make it, while the few household utensils that adorn it, shine to the utmost extent of their capability. It's hardly necessary to say, that a good, cleanly, homely and sensible wife, was Mary O'Carrol; and our friend Corney was an ungrateful rascal to be dissatisfied with his condition. The mistake he made was this (and it is by no means confined to Corney), he contrasted his situation in life with the few who were better off than himself, instead of the many who were infinitely worse.

And now, dear, domestic, tidy Mary spreads her little cloth, coarse 'tis true, but scrupulously clean and ironed, every fold showing like a printed line; she opens a little cupboard and produces an enormous home-baked loaf, so close and dense that a dyspeptic individual would feel an oppression by merely looking at it, but which our toil-hungered friends can dispose of by the pound, without the assistance of tonics; then, the small, black teapot, having stood the conventional time, is carefully wiped, and placed on the table, and the whole frugal but comfortable meal arrayed with that appetizing neatness without which it becomes a mere matter of feeding and not of enjoyment.

"Now, Corney, dear," said Mary, "tay's ready."

"Faix, an' there's a pair of us," replied Corney, "I'm just about as hungry as a dragin."

And no gourmet, even after he had lashed his appetite with stimulants, which would otherwise have sneaked away from the laborious work it had to undergo, ever sat down with so keen a palate, or rose from table with so capital a sense of satisfaction as did Corney on this particular occasion.

"Well, Molly machree," he cried, "I don't know that I iver had a greater thrate nor that same rasher; if the fat of it wasn't, for all the worrild, like double-distilled marra, may I niver use another tooth; an' that tay! Gogs bleakey, Moll, if you haven't a recait for squeezin' the parliaminthary flaviour out of the herrib! regard the color of it!"

"An' afther three wathers," replied Mary, with pardonable vanity.

"Thrue for you, darlin'; why, the bread seems lighter, an' the butther sweeter, an' the crame thicker. I'll be judged by the cat – look at the baste; if she hasn't been thryin' to lick the last dhrop off of her hushkers, for as good as a quarther of an hour, an' it's stickin' there still, as tight as a carbuncle to a Christian's nose; an' may-be I ain't goin' to enjoy this," he continued, as drawing his chair close to the fire, out came his use-blackened pipe. He took just as much time in preparation, cutting his tobacco and rolling it about in his hand, as Mary did to clear away the tea-things, in order that nothing should interfere with that great source of comfort – his smoke. Having placed a small piece of lighted turf on top of his pipe he threw himself back in his chair. With eyes half closed, and an expression of the most profound gratification creeping over his features, he sent forth several voluminous whiffs – what he called "saysonin' his mouth;" but very soon, as though the sensation was too delicious to be hurried over, he subsided into a slow, dignified, and lazy smoke, saying, between puffs:

"Blessin's on the fellow that first invented 'baccy; it's mate an' dhrink to the poor man; I'd be on me oath, if I wouldn't rather lose me dinner nor me pipe, any day in the week."

"Where did 'baccy come from, Corney?" inquired Mary.

"Why, from 'Meriky; where else?" he replied, "that sint us the first pitaty. Long life to it, for both, say I!"

"What sort of a place is that, I wonder?"

"'Meriky, is it? They tell me it's mighty sizable, Moll, darlin'. I'm towld that you might rowl England through it, an' it would hardly make a dent in the ground; there's fresh water oceans inside of it that you might dround Ireland in, and save Father Matthew a wonderful sight of throuble; an' as for Scotchland, you might stick it in a corner of one of their forests, an' you'd niver be able to find it out, except, may-be, it might be by the smell of the whisky. If I had only a thrifle of money, I'd go an' seek me fortune there."

"Arrah, thin, what for Corney?"

"Oh! I don't know; I'm not aisy in me mind. If we were only as rich now as Phil Blake, how happy we might be!"

There was the cloud that shut out content from Corney's heart – far-sighted envy, that looks with longing eyes on distant objects, regardless of the comfort near. Most stupid envy, which relinquishes the good within its grasp to reach at something better unattainable, and only becomes conscious of its folly when time has swept away the substance and the shadow.

"It was the fairies that gave it to him," resumed Corney, as though communing with himself, while poor Mary, with a fond wife's prescience, mourned, as she foresaw that the indulgence of this new feeling would, most probably, change her hitherto industrious mate into an idle visionary.

"The Fairies!– An' why the divil shouldn't they give one man a taste of good luck, as well as another? I'll do it – I will – this very blessed night —I'll do it!"

"Do what?" interrupted Mary, in alarm.

"Oh, nothing, nothing! – an' yet, I've niver kept anything from you, Molly, an' I don't know why I should now! Sure, it's you that'll have the binifit of it, if it comes to good."

"Dear Corney," replied Mary, "I'm happy enough as it is, so long as Heaven gives us strength to provide for each other's wants, an' you continue to be, what you always have been, a good husband to me. I'd rather not be throubled with any more."

"It's nothin' but right for you to say so, Mary, darlin'," returned Corney; "but now, supposin' that I could make a lady of you – eh? Think of bein' able to wear a fine silken gound, an' a beautiful sthraw bonnet, wid a real feather stuck in it; wouldn't you jerk your showlders to show off the silk, an' toss your purty head for to humor the feather?"

I must confess Mary's heart did flutter a little, at the mention of the silk gown and the feather. Corney saw his advantage, and continued,

"You know how it was Phil got his money; it was by sleepin in a fairy circle. I know where there's one, an' wid a blessin', I'll thry it meself."

"You won't be so foolish, Corney?"

"May I niver taste glory, if I don't do it!"

Of course, after that solemn, though doubtful obligation, Mary dared not endeavor to dissuade him from following out his intention, notwithstanding the most melancholy forebodings of kidnapping, fairy-blighting, and all the terrors associated with supernatural agency, filled her imagination.

The evening was now far advanced, and Corney, having finished his pipe, rose to go.

"Come, Molly," he exclaimed, gaily, "kiss me before I start, an' wish me iligant luck."

Mary, with tearful eyes, replied, "Dear Corney, if you had all the luck I wish you, you wouldn't have to go out into the cowld to hunt for it."

"Well, God bless you, darlin', if I don't come back to you Cornalius O'Carrol, Esquire."

"You'll come home my own dear, contented husband."

"We'll see," said Corney, and away he went.

It was nothing but reasonable that he should pay a visit to the "Cross Kays" before he went on his fairy hunt, and it was nothing but natural upon his arrival there, to find his resolution had receded so far that it took sundry pots of beer to float it up again. At last, brimful of that unthinking recklessness, which the intoxicated generally mistake for courage, off he started on his expedition, singing remarkably loud, in order to persuade any lurking feeling of cowardice that might be within him, that he wouldn't be influenced by it a morsel. As he neared the village church, however, his voice unconsciously subsided into utter silence; there was a short cut through the churchyard to the place of his destination, but he made a full stop at the little stile; many and many a time had he crossed it night and morning, without a thought, and now it seemed to call up ghostly images; the wind as it moaned through the trees, appeared to address itself particularly to him; it wasn't more than a stone's throw to the other side, and he wanted to clear it with a bound. At this moment the rusty old clock suddenly squeaked and boomed out upon the startled air. The first stroke, so sharp and unexpected, shattered Corney's nerves like a stroke of paralysis; recovering from his fright, he laughed at his folly, but the sound of his own voice terrified him still more. It was not familiar to him – he didn't know it! A fancy came into his head that somebody was laughing for him, and he fairly shivered!

A sudden thought relieved him: there was no occasion to go through the churchyard at all!

"What a fool I am," thought he, "it isn't so far round, and there's plenty of time. Divil take me if I wouldn't go home agin, only Mary would think me such a coward, besides, didn't Phil do it? That's enough; faint heart never won anything worth spakin' of – so here goes."

About half an hour's walk brought him to the meadow in which lay the object of his search – a fairy-circle. Now this same fairy-circle, is nothing more nor less than a ring of grass, which, from some cause or another, probably known to botanists, but certainly a mystery to most people, is of a different shade of color to that which surrounds it. Tradition celebrates such places as the favorite resort of fairies, by whom they were formed, that they might pursue their midnight revelry without fear of danger from inimical powers. The Irish peasantry carefully avoid trespassing on those sacred precincts, and indeed scarcely ever pass them without making a reverential bow.

Our ambitious friend, Corney, hesitated for some time, before he entered the magic enclosure, exceedingly doubtful as to the treatment he should receive; at last, swallowing his trepidation with a spasmodic gulp, he placed one foot within the circle, taking care to propitiate the invisibles on whose exclusive property he was so unceremoniously intruding.

"The blessin's on all here," said he, "an' I hope I'm not disturbin' any frolic or business that yez may be indulgin' in. It's mighty sleepy that I am, an' if yer honors would give me lave to recline meself atop of the grass, an' make it convanient not to stick any rheumaticks into me for takin' such a liberty, I'd recaive it as a compliment. If it's a thing that I happen promiscuously to thread on anybody's toes, I have no manin' whativer in it. By your laves, I'm goin' to lie down, an' I'll drop aisy, in order that I mayn't hurt anything."

So saying, Corney let himself down very gingerly, and lay full length within the fairy circle; he was one of those weather-proof individuals to whom the meadow-grass was as good as a feather-bed. Consequently what with the walk and the beer, it wasn't many minutes before he was snoring fast.

He hadn't been asleep, as he thought, an instant, before he felt an innumerable quantity of tiny feet traversing him all over; with regular step they marched up his throat, and scaled his chin; making two divisions up his cheeks, they arrived at his eyes, where they commenced tugging at the lids until they were forced open; the sight that met his view filled him with dreadful wonder. The circle of meadow, in which he had barely room to stretch himself out, formed all he could see of earth. Church, village, country, all had vanished; he rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was nothing; with an inexpressible sensation of awe, he turned round, and creeping cautiously to the edge of the circle, gazed downward, and could just discover the village he had quitted about a mile below; with still increasing dread, he was now aware that he was gradually mounting higher and higher. One more look, villages, cities, countries, were blended into an undistinguishable mass, and soon the globular form of the earth appeared, thoroughly defined, swinging in the air.

He then became sensible of a tremendous heat, which increased in intensity, until he found to his dismay that he was rapidly shrinking in size; his flesh dried up, shrivelled, cracked, and clasped his diminishing bones tighter, until at last he was not bigger than a respectable fly. "This is mighty quare," thought Corney, "there's a great lot of things like me frolicin' about. I feel as light as a feather. I wonder if I couldn't make one among them." So saying, he bounded up, and to his great amazement found that he had literally jumped out of his skin. He perched upon his own head, which had resumed its natural size and flying off, found himself floating securely in the air, while the carcass which he had just deserted fell, fairy-circle and all, rapidly towards the earth, and finally, also disappeared. Oh! the pranks that Corney played in the first delight of being able to fly; he dived down, he careered up, he threw mad summersets like a tumbler-pigeon – so light and buoyant had he become, that the passing vapors served him for a resting-place; he was happy, intoxicated with glee, thousands upon thousands of atomies gambolled around him like gnats in a sunbeam, the whole surrounding expanse was instinct with joyous life.

And they knew Corney, and saluted him as he passed by, with a compliment.

"Hallo!" said they, "here's Corney O'Carrol; how are you, Corney? It's well you're looking;" and Corney was astonished at the extensive nature of his atmospheric acquaintance.

"How do you like a fairy's life, Corney?" said one slim, midge-waisted chap.

"Iligant, your fairyship, iligant," said Corney.

"Then, I'd advise you to make the most of it, while it lasts. You'll soon have to appear before our king, and if you don't give a satisfactory reason for seeking him, woe betide you."

"Don't be frightened, sir," said Corney; "I've rayzon enough for comin', to satisfy any dacint-disposed fairy."

"Doubtful," said the good-natured elf, and off he flew.

"Stupid sperrit," thought Corney, and over he tumbled in mad recklessness, enjoying actually, that delicious sensation which sometimes occurs to people in dreams – the ability to skim through the air with the speed and safety of a bird. What struck Corney most particularly was the universal expression of glee which prevailed; nothing could he hear but a universal hum, which rose and fell on the ear with a purr-like undulation, such as one might imagine would proceed from a paradise of remarkably happy cats.

While Corney was thus revelling in his new-found element, he was suddenly accosted by two very genteel fairies. "Mr. Cornelius O'Carrol, we presume?" said they.

"There's not a doubt of it, gintlemen," replied Corney.

"We have come to have the honor of conducting you into the presence of our king," they continued.

"With a heart and a half," said Corney; "where might his majesty domesticate?"

"In yonder goold-tinted cloud, a few seconds' fly from this; follow us."

Upon nearing the regal abode, Corney observed sundry small substances, like duck-shot, dropping downward. "What's thim?" inquired he of his conductors.

"Oh!" answered one, "only a few discontented souls, who, like you, have sought our king, and haven't given sufficient reason for troubling him with their complaints."

Corney began to feel nervous, but coming to the conclusion that he had as good a right to be enriched through fairy agency as ever Phil Blake had, he put on a bold front, and was ushered into the presence of the fairy potentate. There, a sight of such dazzling splendor presented itself to his view, that, as he said himself, "You might as well try to count the stars of a frosty night, or look right into the sun's heart of a summer's day, as to give the slightest notion of the grandeur that surrounded me." All he could compare it to, was, a multitude of living jewels of every variety of hue, sparkling and flashing in perpetual light.