Irish Stew

Front matter

LONDON: DIGBY LONG & CO., 18 BOUVERIE ST., FLEET ST., E.C IRISH STEW WORKS BY JAMES J. MORAN. A DEFORMED IDOL, znd Edition. One Vol., 6s. PRESS OPINIONS. "A unique work." — Evening Sun. "A pretty love story." — Bookman. "A joyous, smart novel equal to any issuing from the press." — Liverpool Mercury. " A masterpiece in its way." — Athenæum. " The plot is strong, original, and splendidly worked out." — Mr. Justin M'Carthy, M.P. THE DUNFERRY RISIN', A TALE OF THE I.R.B., yrd Edition. Lithograph Cover, is. ; Cloth gilt, with Portrait of Author, 2s. PRESS OPINIONS. The Evening Sun, in a column review, says: — " The book deals with the most important epoch of modern Irish history, and though the scene is laid in some remote village in Mayo, in which previous to the arrival of the hero of the story Fenianism was unknown — a likely story — the descriptions are vivid and natural, the wit racy, and the narrative charming ".

The Literary World : — " Frequent whiffs of light Celtic drollery are wafted through its pages ". Whitehall Review : — " There is an odd flash of fun in the book, and that counts for something in these days ". Dundee Courier : — "In his tale of the I.R.B. he makes a distinct hit ". LONDON: DIGBY, LONG AND CO. IRISH STEW BY JAMES J. MORAN AUTHOR OF "A DEFORMED IDOL," "RUNS IN THE BLOOD," "THE DUNFERRV RISIN* : A TALE OF THE I.R.B.," ETC. LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO., Publishers 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C. * 1894 [All rights reserved'] ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS. Jacsli Q mo Id's soar

Chapter I. En Route

Jack was a true specimen of those stolid Cockneys who " take their pleasures sadly ". He had for many years been doing such strange things, and taking his annual holidays in such dismal, out-of-the-way places, that his fellow members of the Bohemian Club had ceased to feel any surprise at his actions. They would have merely laughed good-naturedly if he announced his intention to start on a holiday tour to the Congo or^ to an Esquimaux settle ment. " Why don't you behave like an orthodox Christian, Jack ? " Dick Waters asked one day. Dick was one of the "recognised wits" of the fraternity, and he was always " nagging " Jack. " Couldn't you take a month at Brighton or Trouville like me, and learn what real enjoyment is, instead of tramping away, God knows where, and coming back with a portfolio of sketches of outlandish scenery ?

" " Every man has his own way of enjoying himself," said Jack stolidly; "and my way suits me better than yours would. How would I look " — Jack was six feet two and jack Arnold's tour. 2 built in proportion — " parading on a crowded beach like you fellows, tricked out in holiday finery, and waiting to be admired ? " The general opinion was that he would look very foolish indeed, and very much out-of-place besides ; so Jack's eccentric habits were left unquestioned after that. But, accustomed as they were to his goings on, it was, nevertheless, a surprise to them when one blazing July day, towards the close of the " sixties," Jack announced his intention of taking a tour alone and on foot through Donegal. To these London journalists Ireland was then the most horrible spot on the face of the globe.

Their papers teemed daily with bloodthirsty accounts of Fenian atrccities, Fenian risings, and Fenian trials. Needless to say that nine out of every ten of those London gentlemen knew practically nothing of Ireland, but they were gifted with very powerful imaginations, besides having a stock of big type always on hand to draw public attention to " Another Fenian Massacre," etc. Jack, of course, had the orthodox English opinions about Ireland; but "the noisy little island" was beginning to have a great fascination for him, and he determined to see it for himself. When he expressed his intention, in his usual stolid way, to a circle of acquaintances in the smoking-room of the Bohemian, he was met by a chorus of " By Joves ! " and Dick Waters in a thrilling whisper desired somebody beside him to " go for a strait jacket ".

" Is your life insured, Jack ? " asked one. " Good-bye for ever, Jack," said Dick Waters pathetically. "We shall never see you in this life again, 'but in the EN ROUTE. 3 next we ne'er shall sever '. What about subscribing to the expenses of his funeral, boys ? " " No necessity," said another. " He'll just fall a victim to a Fenian tomahawk, or salmon, or whatever it is " " Pike," said the first speaker, who had once been in Ireland, and professed to be an authority on all things Irish. " Pike — yes, I knew it was the name of a fish. Then they'll throw him into a bog-hole, and say a prayer for the repose of his soul. They're full of piety — those Fenians." " Don't they supply large funerals for their victims? I read in Carleton's Traits and Stories " "That was long ago. They don't supply funerals for corpses now, but corpses for funerals."

During all this banter Jack listened in an indifferent way, as if they were talking of some matter in which he took no interest. Then seeing that they had exhausted themselves, he remarked quietly : — "Well, I'm going anyhow; and, at least, I'll be able to write of Ireland as an eye-witness when I get back. Will any of you fellows come with me ? " " I would," said Dick Waters with a serio-comic whinge, as he rubbed his eyes with his coat sleeve, " but I'm my mother's only son." " Fudge ! " said Jack. "I don't believe there's any real danger of a stranger being tomahawked if he minds his own business." " Bring us some Irish poteen, Jack," was the last request, as he shook hands with them in turn. " It's the only thing that noisy little island is good for." Jack started next morning, his whole wardrobe in a little travelling-bag, and the inevitable sketching portfolio under his arm.

Chapter II. Jack Goes

SKETCHING— "Where the deuce am I, I wonder?" mused Jack, as he sat down in the shade of a rudely-built stone wall, with a sigh of relief that seemed to come from the depths of his heart. It was emphatically a summer day ; old Sol sent down his blazing rays from an unclouded sky — quite an unusual thing in Donegal, that land of mist and rain. Jack had by this time been a few weeks in Donegal, and was making his way southward. Pie had left the pretty little village of Ardara that morning; and in a light coat, broad-rimmed hat, and knickerbockers, had tramped all through a district of unsurpassed wildness and beauty, until, at 5 p.m., he sat down in this spot. Jack had a strong feeling of the romantic in his nature — though it was a rather antiquated feeling for the leader-writer of a London daily — and, in viewing the ever-varying panorama of towering mountains and lonely valleys, he had quite forgotten his physical dis comforts.

Only now, as he sat down and endeavoured to discover his location, did he remember that he had got no dinner. But there did not seem to be the slightest chance of obtaining one, for, look in whatever direction he would, not a human habitation met his eye. A towering mountain rose before him, while behind him a series of bleak bogs and rugged hills alone rewarded his gaze. It would be a dismal prospect for any other man similarly circumstanced, JACK GOES SKETCHING — 5 but Jack's life-long wanderings in queer places, together with his stolid disposition, had taught him to think little of casual hardships, or not to think of them at all. "When I get a smoke I'll be all right," he muttered, as he pulled out that never-failing source of consolation, his pipe and pouch, and in a few moments the scent of his fragrant honey-dew was wasted on the air.

" I wonder where might this collection of molecules, known as Jack Arnold, be located now-?" he soliloquised, as he watched the wreaths of smoke evolved from his meer schaum circling upwards in the calm air. " Well, I'm somewhere in Ireland, anyhow, and, by Jove, it's a bigger place than I imagined. This is the country where all those Fenian and agrarian atrocities are committed, isn't it ? In all my tour, I haven't met any one more aggressive looking than myself. They are deuced good-natured people, those Irish, though rather simple — a few centuries behind the times. Hello ! mister," he shouted to a ragged peasant, who was trudging past with a creel of turf upon his back ; " you're just the man I'm looking for." "Me, yer honour?" inquired the countryman, starting in affright, and then staring helplessly at Jack.

"Don't be frightened, man; I'm not going to eat you," said Jack. " I only want to know where I am. Is there a house at hand where I could get something to eat — and drink, too, for I'm deuced thirsty ? " The peasant breathed more freely, and drew near Jack. "I'll make bould to ax if yer a gauger, sir?" he asked confidentially. " No," said Jack who did not know what the term meant. "I'm an English tourist." " Oh ! it's all right so, sir," said the peasant, who was as much in the dark about " tourist," as Jack was about " gauger ". He lifted down the creel, looked around cau tiously, and asked in a whisper : — " Have you a glass in yer pocket, sir? " Jack produced a small looking-glass. " Not wan o' thim, sir ; but wan for this," said the mysterious personage with the creel, as he threw the sods of turf out of it until he came to a small jar in the bottom.

"Oh! I understand," said Jack knowingly, putting back the mirror and producing a folding-cup. In fact his pockets seemed like those in the old fairy-tale, from which the lucky owner could produce whatever he pleased. "Begorrah, that's a handy little 'yoke,'" grinned the countryman, as he pulled the cork out of the jar and filled the cup. " What is it? " asked Jack, eying the sparkling liquid as it issued from the mouth of the jar. "Just a dhrop o' poteen, sir. Oh! let me fill id," as Jack made a motion to signify that he had got enough. "Sure, it's as mild as sweet milk, an' it wouldn't harm a child." Somewhat reassured by this, Jack allowed the cup to be filled, and then tasted the liquid. By — Jove ! Was it the fabled nectar of the gods, or was it merely Donegal poteen ? Jack said nothing, but the expression of his face, and the despatch with which the cup was emptied, showed his feelings plainly enough.

His thirst was appeased, his hunger was forgotten, and he regarded his peasant bene factor with a look of astonishment and brotherly love. The peasant^ and it's time we introduced him to the JACK GOES SKETCHING 7 reader under his real title, which was the euphonious one of Micky Mulvaney — announced his intention "of takin' a small dhrop, as the day was hot," and immediately suited the action to the word, having wished Jack good health, long life, welcome to Ireland, and many other friendly aspirations. "Troth, we have hard times of it lately," he told Jack, as he replaced the jar in the creel and covered it up as before. " Thryin' to dodge the gaugers an' peelers. Sure, an honest man can hardly live at all wut thim. My house is there beyant in the bog, sir, an' if yer hungry yer quite welcome to a bit and sup — such as we can give yeh."

" Is that a house? " asked Jack in surprise, as he looked in the direction indicated by Micky, and saw what appeared to be a little mound in the bog, its top covered with heath like the land around it. "Yes, sir, that's my house," said Micky proudly. "I built that meself, whin I was evicted, about two years ago." " Who evicted you ? " "Faix. who but the major, sir? The little house where I lived, an' the Mulvaneys for ginirations back," said Micky, "was just in view of the major's windees. Whin he brought home a new lady from furrin parts, he ordered it to be thrown to the ground, and not be an eyesore to her ladyship." Jack looked at the evicted man stolidly for a few moments, and then asked : — " Why didn't your landlord build a new house for you, then?" " So he might, sir ; but I was foolish enough to say somethin' about his new misthress that kem to her ears, an' I was ordhered off the estate.

But there's a patch o' bog that was always a common, an' belongs to no landlord, only the Lord in heaven," cried Micky, waxing fiercer. " I built that little dwellin' on id up to his nose," he cried, illustrating his language by placing a determined fist within an inch of Jack's nasal organ. " An' he daren't touch me now ! " " Is there a good view from the top of that mountain ? " asked Jack, as if he had not heard Micky's history. The fact is, Jack's ideas were becoming a little hazy; and a strange sensation in his head made him aware of the fact that Irish poteen, although "mild as milk" at first, becomes very powerful after a few minutes. "Good view, sir? Sorra grander scenery iver yeh laid yer eyes on. The say is just right undher yeh." "The sea?" " Yis, sir. The ocean, at laist. Whin yer on the top iv that mountain, you can nearly see America the other side."

Jack looked at the mountain with the eye of an artist. The sun was now sinking out of view behind its lofty summit, and a sudden idea struck him. "By Jove," he said with unwonted enthusiasm, "wouldn't the sunset on the ocean, taken from the summit of that mountain, make a splendid picture? I'll sketch it, by George ! " and the next moment he was stalking away towards the mountain, regardless of the terrible labour it would entail to climb to the summit. Regardless, too, of the stare of astonishment with which Micky beheld his retreating figure. The latter individual shook his head, and smiled. " He's not used to the poteen, and he took too much. Begorrah, it'll cap him," thought Micky. And Micky was right.

Chapter III

—AND GETS SKETCHED. Jack puffed and blowed, and strained and toiled, and wiped the perspiration from his face, but still kept on. Now jumping from one rock to another— now pulling himself up bodily by clutching at the wiry heather ; he at length got near the summit. And all the time there was a delicious tingling through his body, which the reader may easily account for. Jack himself could account for it too, judging by the exclamation he let fall when he got near the summit, and recovered breath enough to speak. " By Jove, it was delicious stuff! " he ejaculated. "Talk of Champagne, Burgundy. Tokay — they couldn't hold a candle to poteen — glorious, by George!" But it was not the " mountain dew " which provoked the latter enthusiastic epithet. It was the vista of ocean which burst upon his view.

He found himself on the top of a steep cliff. The ocean lay many hundred feet below, and, illumined by the rays of the setting sun, stretched away in endless leagues of golden splendour. Jack sat down on a tuft of soft heath, and arranged his portfolio in ecstasy. He had never before laid eyes on such a magnificent scene. " What a glorious blending of colour ! " he thought, as he gazed sleepily over the ocean. Yes, sleepily ! For lack's long tramp under the broiling sun, and the powerful sopo rific he had partaken of from Micky Mulvaney's jar began to tell upon him now ; and his eyes were closing in spite of his efforts to keep awake. " It is only a painting in oils that would do full justice to such a scene," he muttered. " Still, as I can't do better, I must sketch it. And quickly, too, so that I'll get out of here before night falls."

He sketched for a few minutes in silence, the feeling of drowsiness gradually gaining upon him. He nodded for a moment, and then woke up with a start. " This will never do," he thought savagely, as he observed that his pipe was out, and relit it. " If I were unfortunate enough to fall asleep, I'd get lost in this place. Six o'clock," looking at his watch. "Two hours of daylight yet; plenty of time to finish this sketch, and get out of here." Stubborn Jack ! Mother Nature, plus poteen, was too strong even for you. With the resolve to keep awake yet on his lips, he was off in the land of nod again. No nod ding this time, though, but a real downright sleep. The mellow light of the sun shone upon him, as he lay half buried in the heather, his portfolio open on his knee, his hat tilted to one side, and his pipe, bowl downwards, still between his teeth.

Sleep on, friend Jack, and let us hope that there is nobody on the wild mountain or down on the sea to observe your undignified pose. He must have slept about two hours, for as he awoke and glared around him, for the moment in total forgetful ness of his location, the sun was a big red ball, just dipping below the distant rim of ocean. Jack had been dreaming vivid dreams — the usual concomitant of good poteen. He AND GETS SKETCHED. 11 was at a dinner in London, and — most unusual thing — Queen Victoria herself was the hostess, while the guests were the members of the royal family, the Cabinet, and the greatest London magnates. More unusual still, her Majesty was sipping something which seemed very delicious, judging from the pleased expression on the royal countenance, out of a wooden noggin, such as he had seen used in peasants' houses in Donegal.

Jack looked round the table and saw all the guests hob-a-nobbing with one another in the greatest amity. They were all provided with drinking vessels of the same pattern, which they occasionally handed to her Majesty, to be replenished out of a big jar at her elbow. It was a wonderful sight, and it puzzled Jack not a little. But he was more astonished still when the Prime Minister, who seemed unusually hilarious, rose to his feet and expressed the everlasting gratitude of the English nation to him, Jack Arnold, for having introduced into England a new beverage known as " mountain dew," which knocked all the vintages hitherto known "into a cocked hat " (such was the Prime Minister's felicitous way of expressing it). He then made known the intention of her gracious Majesty to elevate his esteemed friend, Mr. Arnold, to the peerage.

Mr. Arnold was to assume the title of " Lord Poteen," and his motto was to be a counterpart of that of the Prince of Wales — to wit, " Ich Dien " (I serve), with a slight addition, making it, " Ich Dien Poteen ". And in the midst of all these astonishing honours and dignities he awoke. He rubbed his eyes and looked about him in amazement, the events of that wonderful dream still vivid before him. Where were H.M., and H.R.H., and the 0.0. M. ? Twas all but a dream, and he was on the summit of the wildest mountain in wild Donegal. Not a person was in sight; even the jar at the queen's elbow was only " the baseless fabric of a vision ". The sun had set at last, darkness was coming on, and he was almost starved. "There's no use staying here any longer, at all events," he muttered, after having reviewed the situation in his usual stolid way for a few minutes.

" Better return and try to find out the cabin of the man with the jar before night comes on. Deuced sorry, though, that I fell asleep before finishing that sketch," picking up his portfolio, which lay beside him. " Better return to-morrow evening and finish it. Let me see how much I have done. Hello ! By —Jove ! The — deuce ! " Jack's face was a study as he looked at the page which had been blank when he fell asleep. Wonder, horror, incredulous amazement, were blended in that look. And no wonder. For on that page he saw a full-length sketch of himself, as he had lain when asleep. A very well executed sketch it was, and the undignified pose Jack had assumed was delineated to a T. His hat cocked to one side ; his pipe, bowl downwards, between his teeth ; and a grin of exultation upon his face — he must have assumed this at the moment of his exaltation to the peerage — all were there as faithful and life-like as mortal hand and an H. B. pencil could do them.

Jack stood gazing at the sketch until he had muttered " By Jove ! " under his breath about a hundred times, but it brought him no nearer to the solution of the mystery. Then he looked in every direction, but though his range AND GETS SKETCHED. 13 of vision extended for miles around him, not a living thing was in sight on that bare mountain side, though there was no place of possible concealment — unless we except an old he-goat, whom Jack transfixed with his eye, and who returned his bewildered gaze with compound interest.

Chapter IV. Another Mystery

As Jack's gaze wandered from the splendidly executed sketch to the bare, lonely mountain, with its solitary goat, a strange feeling of superstitious awe, of nameless witchery, came over him. He closed the portfolio in the space of a flash of lightning, and started down the mountain. It was simply surprising to see the agility with which he jumped over rocks and soft places, and plunged through the tangled heather, in his wild desire to get away from this scene of mystery and enchantment. He kept up his rapid course for half an hour, and then sat down, panting with ex haustion. A terrible conviction flashed upon his brain. It was now dark, and he had gone astray ! "Though I can hardly be said to have gone astray now," he mused philosophically, "seeing that I've been astray all day. What am I to do now? — that's the question.

If I go on any farther I may drop into a bog-hole or something. If I sit here all night I'll starve. Which is the lesser evil — starvation or drowning? Well, in either case, I'd scarcely see London again, and Dick Waters and the other fellows would ' dish up ' my demise as a Fenian atrocity. I don't care about dying, but I don't want these Irish to be maligned. I'll just sit here six or seven hours until day light comes, and then move, before any mountain spirit (H) takes it into his or her head to sketch me again. Wonder if I've any tobacco left ? " He examined his pouch, and found that he had yet a few pipefuls left. He joyfully replenished the meerschaum and then searched for a match. He had just one. "Ten to one it goes out, because it's the last one," he muttered, striking the match. Puff, puff, puff !

No use ; true to his foreboding, the match went out before the pipe was lit. "There goes my last chance of comfort," he said com placently. " And there wasn't a breeze stirring ! It's really enough to try the temper of any philosopher. Well, for mystery and witchery, commend me to this mountain." "Hello!" was suddenly shouted in close proximity. " Hello yourself," said Jack coolly. His capacity for feeling surprise at anything had been exhausted. " You're one of the genii that boss this mountain, I suppose? " "No, I'm a common mortal, and I suppose you are," returned the voice somewhat sternly. " May I ask what brings you here ? " " My feet, or my misfortune — I don't know which " — said Jack with the utmost nonchalance, though inly wondering who the gruff stranger might be. "What do you want here?" asked the stranger more threateningly.

" I want a match. Have you got one ? " "Yes," said the new-comer, amused in spite of himself, coming closer and handing Jack a box of wax matches. "Thanks," said Jack, striking a match, and observing by its light that the new-comer was a tall, well-built man, wearing a fur cap which came down over his eyes. " It's a fine night, but dark,'' said the stranger as Jack, having lit his pipe, handed back the matches. "It is," said Jack ; "but — pardon me for telling you — I've been made painfully aware of the darkness already. If you could give me some more useful information, such as where I might get a bed, and something to eat " " Before I do," answered the stranger in a significant voice, " I want you to answer me candidly another question. Are you a gauger? " " I may be, without knowing it," said Jack, "as I don't know what a gauger is.

One that gauges, isn't it?" " A gauger is a fellow who is in pursuit of poteen.'' " By Jove ! I'm a gauger so. I've got the first taste of your island beverage this evening, and I'm in pursuit of a second taste now." "Well, you must have it," laughed the stranger. "But I'm not yet quite certain as to your identity. You are an Englishman, I know by your accent ; still you may be a detective or an excise officer." " Well, I'm not quite certain as to your identity either. You may be an escaped criminal or a highwayman, for all I know ; still your information would be nothing the worse if you would direct me to a house. I'm an English tourist, and I don't know where I am, except that I'm somewhere in Donegal." " Well, we're just beside the path," said the stranger, " and I'll go with you to a house where you'll be all right."

Jack expressed his thanks. "Before we start," said the strange man, producing a bottle, " take a swig of this, and keep the remainder, as I can get plenty of it." Jack took a "swig," corked the bottle, and put it into his pocket. His companion then started down the mountain, and Jack followed him as well as he could. They chatted all the way, and Jack came to the conclusion that his companion was one of the better sort ; for, though his speech flavoured highly of the Donegal brogue, his con versational talents were of a high order. When they arrived on the high road, they were already good friends. "By the way," said Jack, "my name is Arnold. What's yours ? " "Outis Nemo," said the other laughing. " That means ' no name,' doesn't it ? Well, all right," said Jack. "Your name's your own property, of course."

"May I ask in return," said Nemo, "what brought you up the mountain to-night ?" "I went up this evening to take some sketches for the London papers," said Jack, "and I fell asleep there." " Sketching ! I'm very fond of it," said the other. " So you fell asleep up there ? Did you sketch anything, then ? " "No," said Jack grimly, "but I myself got " " sketched '' he was going to say, but he checked himself, and said — "lost." " Do you see that light, Mr. Arnold ? That's the house of a Mr. Mahony, a respectable farmer, and you'll get a cead mi/le failthe there." " What's that ! Another Donegal beverage, I suppose ? " " No ; it means a hearty welcome. And now I must be leaving you, but before I do " " Leaving me ! Why, you're not going up the mountain again, are you ? " "Yes; I'm going to my quarters there.

And, as an honourable man, I want you to grant me one request. Never mention to a sinner that you met me to-night." "All right, Mr. Nemo," said Jack, giving him his hand. "I don't know who you are, or what you are, but you have saved my life to-night, or very near it. Good-night ! All I need say is, that for mystery and witchery, that mountain of yours holds the championship." " Good-night," said the stranger, returning Jack's warm pressure. " When you get back to England don't think so hardly of the Irish ' barbarians '." Before Jack could make a reply the mysterious stranger had turned on his heel, and was gone. Jack walked on till he came to a large, well-lighted farm house, and knocked at the door. He was admitted by a middle-aged man, who looked inquiringly at his visitor's strange appearance.