Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/93

82 world goes round; and they sind craytures like that down here to put contintion among the people; they call it enlight’nin uz. Sure we have light consciences, and light stomachs, glory be to God! an if that’s not lightnin enough, I don’t know what is!”

I now perceived Darby’s drift.

“O, they want to convert you, Darby, do they?”

“Ye have it now, yer honor. Musha, don’t let the pipe out!—Well, as I was tellin yer honor, one of thim chaps tuck a purty joke out of me a while ago. He was a sort uv an inspecthur,—a fat jolly chap enough too, an plinty of fun in his way; and bedad ids myself thinks id was more the money he was makin than the marvels he was workin, that tuck up the most of his time!”

“What did he do to you, Darby?” I inquired, fearing his garrulity would lead him to be discursive.

“Why thin I’ll tell you. I stopped at Corny Callaghan’s up here above, one mornin, to lave him a bag of male; bud while I was lightin the pipe, down comes my gintleman throttin along the Boreen as brisk as a two-year-ould.—‘Have ye an empty sate on the car?’ says he.—‘Id wouldn’t take a blind man to tell that,’ says I, ‘seein there’s none of thim full.’—‘Bedad yer a pleasant fellow, anyhow,’ says he, jumpin on the car. ‘What’s yer name, my man?’ says he, as I druv on.—‘Darby Dillon, at yer sarvice,’ says I, lookin at him hard, yer honor, this way:” and Darby screwed his little grey ferret-eyes into a look that he meant to pierce like gimlets.— ‘Yer a mimber,’ says he, ‘of that erroneous religion that sheds ids baleful influence over this benighted land!’—‘Bedad,’ says I, ‘I don’t know what that manes, at all at all; bud if ids what persuasion I am,’ says I, daytermined to let him see I wasn’t as ignorant as he was, ‘I’m an humble follower of that pagan Prince the Pope of Roome,’ says I, ‘and at yer sarvice!’ Well, my jewel, wid that ye think the blackguard id dhrop off the car wid the laughin. ‘Manners is a purty thing,’ says I, in a huff, ye undherstand, yer honor, for a chap doesn’t like to be laughed at by thim kind of cattle.—‘‘ ’ [sic]Pon my honor, Darby,’ says he, ‘I beg yer pardon!’—‘Och, thin,’ says I, ‘if ids comin bogthrottin down here ye are, ye’d betther lave yer honor behind ye!’ angered like, ye know, to hear a spalpeen like that takin’ the word out uv a gintleman’s mouth.—‘Well, Darby,’ says he, ‘and do you attind yer devotions?’—‘As often as Her Majesty lets me,’ says I; ‘but she has such a constant demand for my sarvices, that whin I do get a male of prayers I make a good one!’—‘And do you understand what the priest says whin he’s prayin for you?’ says he.—‘No,’ says I, ‘why should I? Ids not for the likes of uz,’ says I, ‘to be too pryin!’—‘An what good does it do you,’ says he, ‘if ye don’t understand it?’—‘It’s mighty edifyin,’ says I, ‘an comfortin too, that fine ould Roman language!’—Well, bedad, I shut him up completely, an he hadn’t another word to say for a long time. By’m bye, anyhow, he got over it, and, as we’d meet a flock of geese, he’d begin to cackle, ‘Gobble, gobble, gobble! Cackle, cackle!’ until, upon my conscience, the ould gandhers thimselves didn’t know whether they wer on ther heads or ther tails. Thin, if we met an ould puckawn goat, he’d begin to ‘Ma-a-a-h-a!’ till ye’d think he’d crack his jaws. And as to cows and calves and jackasses, bedad he had thim all dancin quodreels along the road. Thinks I to myself, says I, bedad this is a lunytic, and I got into a fair thrimble uv fright: all uv a sud den he jumps up and ketches me by the arm: ‘Darby!’ says he, wid a shout.—‘Y-y-e-s, sir,’ says I, making ready to lep off the car and run for my life.—‘D’ye undherstand what I’m sayin to the geese and the goats?’ says he.—‘Divil resave the word!’ says I.—‘Aren’t ye edified?’ says he.—‘I am,’ says I, thinkin to humour his madness, ye know.—‘Aren’t ye comfortable?’ says he.—‘N— Yes,’ says I, ketchin myself before I vexed him.—‘Well, whisper,’ says he.—Now I’m in for it, says I; he’ll bite the ear off me anyhow: bud sure may be he’d knock my brains out if I don’t; so I stooped down to him, yer honor, and he says: ‘Sure ye won’t tell any one,’ says he.—‘Divil a word,’ says I.— ’Pon yer honor?’ says he. ’Pon my honor!’ says I.—‘Well,’ says he, ‘that’s as good to you as the priest’s Latin. ”

Enjoying a hearty laugh with the good-humoured Darby, we rolled ourselves up afresh, for the storm came on more pitilessly than ever. We had by this time arrived in a very wild and bleak mountain district, and occasionally we caught glimpses of the Atlantic lashing the iron-bound coast with impotent fury. Wilder and wilder whistled the blast through the narrow defile through which we endeavoured to urge the panting steed; the sheets of driving rain were whirled into mist and fog, enough to obscure the daylight; when suddenly, as we emerged from the rocky pass, there was a lull in the gale, the rain suddenly ceased, the sun shone forth in meridian splendour, and I beheld a scene which has left an impression on my mind never to be effaced: we had entered a narrow valley, surrounded with bleak and barren mountains, adown whose sides leaped foaming torrents; nor verdure, leaf, nor tree gave relief to the eye on three sides of our point of view, but on our right such a romantic little picture enchained the eye, that I jumped from the car and stood for a lengthened period lost in astonished admiration. The road wound in the form of a large horseshoe, on the inside of which ran a clear and beautiful river, unstained by mountain torrent or aught else that was impure; its bed of snow-white pebbles strongly contrasting with the rich emerald-hued verdure of a mound of considerable extent, whose base it washed with a playful ripple, as if to injure such a lovely spot would be a mortal crime against nature. The mountain rose gently from the back of this mound, and there laurestina, arbutus, and evergreens of various kinds luxuriated in wild profusion. Row over row, and tier over tier, this miniature mountain forest arose like the seats of an amphitheatre; the wild rose and sweet-briar gave forth their richest perfume; and the primrose, blue bell, and wood violet flourished in lavish wildness. But the mound, this emerald mound, if ever there