Chapter XXXI…

Chapter XXXI

It was still very early. The generality of the inhabitants were not yet up, and Winny sighed at the long sad day which was before her. She had first made her father tell her how the ruffians had served him, and after hearing the particulars she detailed everything which had befallen herself. She described the battle at the bridge, as well as her sobs would permit her, from the moment that Lennon sprang up from behind the battlement to their rescue until the fatal arrival of the police, as she called it, upon the approach of whom "that demon fired his pistol at my poor Emon as close as I am to you, father."

"Well, well; Winny, don't lave the blame upon the police; he would have fired at Lennon whether they cum up or not, for Emon never would have let go his holt."

"True enough, father. I do not lay it upon them at all. Emon would have clung to his horse for miles if he had not shot him down."

"Beside, Jamesy says the police has him fast enough. Isn't that a mercy at all events, Winny?"

"It is only the mercy of revenge, father, God forgive me for the thought. The law will call it justice."

"And a just revenge is all fair an' right, Winny. He had no pity on an innocent boy, an' why should you have pity on a guilty villain?"

"Pity! No, father, I have no pity for him. But I wish I did not feel so vengeful."

"But how did the police hear of it, Winny, or find out which way they went; an' what brought Jamesy Doyle up with them?"

"We must ask Jamesy himself about that, father," she said; and she desired Biddy to call him in, for he was with Bully-dhu.

Jamesy was soon in attendance again, and they made him sit down, for with all his pluck he looked weary and fatigued. They then asked him to tell everything, from the moment he first heard the men smashing the door.

Jamesy Doyle's description of the whole thing was short and decisive, told in his own graphic style, with many "begorras," in spite of Winny's remonstrances.

"Begorra, Miss Winny, I tould Bully-dhu what they were up to, an' I let him in at the hall doore, an' {246} when I seen him tumble the fust man he met, and stick in his windpipe without so much as a growl, I knew there was one man wouldn't lave that easy, any way; an' I med off for the polis as fast as my legs and feet could carry me."

"And how did--how--did--poor Emon hear of it?" sighed Winny.

"Arra blur-an-ages, Miss Winny, didn't I cut across by Shanvilla, an' tould him every haporth? Why, miss, he'd murdher me af I let him lie there dhramin', an' they carrin' you off, Miss Winny."

"Oh, Jamesy, why did you not go straight for the police, and never mind Emon-a-knock?" she said.

"Ah! Winny dear," said her father, "remember that there was nearly half-an-hour's battle at the bridge before the police came up; and had your persecutor that half-hour's law, where and what would you be now?"

"I did not care. I would have fought my battle alone against twenty Tom Murdocks. They might have ill-used me, and then murdered me, but what of that? Emon-a-knock would live, perhaps to avenge me; but now--now--oh, father, father! I wish he had murdered me along with Emon. But, God forgive me, indeed I am very sinful; I forgot you, father dear. Here, Biddy, get the kettle boiling; we all want a cup of tea;" and she put her handkerchief to her swimming eyes.

Jamesy had thrown himself in his clothes on some empty sacks in a corner of the kitchen, saying, "Miss Winny, I'm tired enough to sleep anywhere, an' I'll lie down here."

"Hadn't you better go to your own bed in the barn, Jamesy, where you can take off your clothes? I am sure you would be more comfortable."

"No, Miss Winny, I'm sure I would not. Beside, the policeman tuck--" Jamesy stopped himself. "What the mischief have I been saying?" thought he.

"The policeman took what, Jamesy?" said Winny.

"He tuck the key, miss. He said no one should g'win there till he cum back."

"Oh, very well, Jamesy; lie down, and let me throw this quilt over you. But, God's mercy, if here is not a pool of blood! I wonder what brought it here? Oh, am I doomed to sec nothing but blood--blood? What is this, Jamesy, do you know?"

"I do, miss. It was Bully-dhu that cut one of the men when they cum in; and no cure for him, Miss Winny!"

"Why, he must have cut him severely, James; the whole floor is covered with blood."

"Cut him, is it? Begorra, Miss Winny, he kilt him out-an-out. I may as well tell you the thruth at wanst."

"For heaven's sake, you do not mean to say that he actually killed him, Jamesy?"

"That's just what I do mane. Miss Winny, an' I may as well tell you, for Mr. Cotter will be here by-an-bye with the coroner and a jury to hould an inquest. Isn't he lyin' there abroad in the barn as stiff as a crowbar, an' as ugly as if he was bespoke, miss? Didn't I help Mr. Cotter to carry him out, or rather to dhrag him? for begorra he was as heavy as if he was made of lead!"

"Fie, fie, James, you should not talk that way of any poor fellow-being--for shame!"

"An' a bad fellow-bein' he was, to cum here to carry you away. Miss Winny, an' maybe to murdher you in the mountain, or maybe worse. My blessin' on you, Bully-dhu!"

Winny was shocked at the cool manner in which Jamesy spoke of such a frightful occurrence. She was afraid she would never make a Christian of him.

Cotter and a comrade soon returned and took charge of the body until the coroner should arrive. They had served summonses upon twelve or fourteen of the most respectable neighbors--good men and true. They had ascertained that the deceased was a man named John Fahy, from the {247} county of Cavan, a reputed Ribbonman. The cart had belonged to him, but of course there was no name upon it. The news of the whole affair had already spread like fire the moment the people began to get about; and two brothers of Fahy's arrived to claim the body before the inquest was over.

Jamesy Doyle was the principal witness "before the fact." His evidence was like himself all over. Having been sworn by the coroner, he did not think that sufficient, but began his statement with another oath of his own--the reader knows by this time what it was. The coroner checked him, and reminded him that he was already on his solemn oath, and that light swearing of that kind was very unseemly, and could not be permitted. He advised him to be cautions.

Jamesy had sense enough to take his advice, although he seldom took Winny's upon the same subject.

"When first I heerd the rookawn I got up, an' dhrew on my clothes, an' cum round the corner of the house. I seen three men stannin' at the doore, an' I heerd wan of 'em ordher it to be bruck in. I knew there was but two women an' wan ould man, the masther, in the house, an' I knew there was no use in goin' in to be murdhered, an' that I could be of more use a great dale outside. Bully-dhu was roarin' like a lion in the back yard, an' couldn't get out. I knew Bully was well able for wan of 'em, any way, if not for two, an' I let him out an' brought him to the hall-doore. The minit ever I let him out iv the yard he was as silent as the grave, an' I knew what that meant. Well, I brought him to the doore, an' pointed to the deceased, for he was the first man I seen in from me. Well, without with your lave or by your lave, Bully had him tumbled on the floore, an' his four big teeth stuck in his windpipe. 'That'll do,' says I, 'as far as wan of ye goes, any way;' an' I med off for the police. I wasn' much out about Bully, your worship, for the man never left that antil Mr. Cotter an' I helped him out into the barn."

Cotter was then examined. His evidence was "that he had found the deceased lying dead on the kitchen floor; that the dog on entering lay down at his head and put his paw upon his breast, as if pointing out what he had done." That was all he knew about it.

The doctor was then examined--surgeon, perhaps, we should call him on this occasion--and swore "that he had carefully examined the deceased; that he had been choked; and that the wounds in the throat indicated that they had been inflicted by the teeth of a large, powerful dog; no cat nor other animal known in this country could have done it."

This closed the evidence. The coroner made a short charge to the jury, and the verdict was "that the deceased, John Fahy, as they believed him to be, had come by his death by being suffocated and choked by a large black dog called Bully-dhu, belonging to one Edward Cavana, of Rathcash, in the parish, etc., etc.; but that inasmuch as he, the said deceased, was in the act of committing a felony at the time, for which, if convicted in a court of law, he would have forfeited his life, they would not recommend the dog to be destroyed."

The coroner said "he thought this was a very elaborate verdict upon so simple a case; and disagreed with the jury upon the latter part of the verdict. The dog could not have known that, and it was evident he was a ferocious animal, and he thought he ought to be destroyed."

"He did know it, your honor," vociferated Jamesy Doyle. "Didn't I tell him, and wasn't it I pointed out the deceased to him, and tould him to hould him? If it was th' ould masther or myself kilt him, you couldn't say a haporth to aidher of us, let alone the dog."

If this was not logic for the coroner, it was for the jury, who refused to change their verdict. But the {248} tack to the verdict, exonerating poor Bully-dhu, was almost unnecessary, where he had such a friend in court as Jamesy Doyle; for he, anticipating some such attempt, had provided for poor Bully's safety. His first act after Cotter had left in the morning was to get a chum of his, who lived not for off, to take the dog in his collar and strap to an uncle's son, a first cousin of his, about seven miles away, to tell him what had happened, and to take care of the dog until the thing "blew over," and that "Miss Winny would never forget it to him."

Billy Brennan delivered the dog and the message safely; "he'd do more nor that for Miss Winny;" or for that matter for the dog himself, for they were great play-fellows in the dry grass of a summer's day. Now it was a strange fact, and deserves to be recorded for the curious in such things, that although Bully-dhu had never seen Jamesy's cousin in his life, and that although he was a surly, distant dog to strangers, he took up with young Barny Foley the moment he saw him. He never stirred from his side, and did not appear inclined to leave the place.

Before the inquest had closed its proceedings the two brothers of the deceased man adverted to had arrived to take away the dead body. It was well for poor Bully-dhu, after all, that Jamesy had been so thoughtful, although it was quite another source of danger he had apprehended. The two Fahys searched high and low for the dog, one of them armed secretly with a loaded pistol, but both openly with huge crab-tree sticks to beat his brains out, in spite of coroner, magistrate, police, or jury. But they searched in vain. They offered Jamesy, not knowing the stuff he was made of, a pound-note "to show them where the big black dog was." His answer, though mute, was just like him. He put his left thumb to the tip of his nose, his right thumb to the little finger of the left hand, and began to play the bagpipes in the air with his fingers.

They pressed it upon him and he got vexed.

"Begorra," said be, "af ye cum here to-night after midnight to take Miss Winny away, I'll show him to you, an' maybe it wouldn't be worth the coroner's while to go home."

"He may stay where he is, for that matther," said one of the brothers. "He'll have work enough tomorrow or next day at Shanvilla;" and they turned away.

"Ay, and the hangman from the county of Cavan will have something to do soon afther," shouted Jamesy after them, who was never at a loss for an answer. He had the last word here, and it was a sore one.

As the brothers Fahy failed in their search for Bully, they had nothing further that they dare vent their grief and indignation upon. It was no use in bemoaning the matter there amongst unsympathizing strangers; so they fetched the cart to the barn-door and laid the corpse into it, covering it with a white sheet which they had brought for the purpose.

"Will I lind you a hand, boys?" said Jamesy, as they were struggling with the weight of the dead man at the barn-door.

The scowl he got from one of the brothers would have discomfited a boy less plucky or self-possessed than Jamesy Doyle; but he had not said it in irony. No one there appeared inclined to give any help, and Jamesy actually did get under the corpse, and "helped him into the cart," as he said himself.

The unfortunate men then left, walking one at each side of their dead brother. And who is there, except perhaps Jamesy Doyle, who would not pity them as they rumbled their melancholy way down the boreen to the road?

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Chapter XXXII

About two hours later in the day "the chief" arrived to "visit the scene," as he was bound to do before he made his report.

He was received courteously and with respect by Winny Cavana, who showed him into the parlor. He considerately began by regretting the unfortunate and melancholy occurrence which had taken place; but of course added, the satisfaction it was to him, indeed that it must be to every one, that the perpetrators had been secured, particularly the principal mover in the sad event.

Winny made no remark, and "the chief" then requested her to state in detail what had occurred from the time the men broke into the house until the shot was fired which wounded the man. She seemed at first disinclined to do so; but upon that gentleman explaining that she would be required to do so on her oath, when the magistrate called to take her information, she merely sighed, and said:

"I suppose so; indeed I do not see why I should not."

She then gave him a plain and succinct account as far as their conduct to herself was concerned, and referred him to her father and the servants for the share they had taken toward them.

He then obtained from old Cavana, Biddy Murtagh, and Jamesy Doyle what they knew of the transaction; and thus fully primed and loaded for his report, he left, telling Winny Cavana "the stipendiary magistrate had left home the day before, but that he would be back the next day; and she might expect an official visit from him, as he would make arrangements with him that she should not be brought from her home, when no doubt the prisoners would be remanded for the doctor's report of the wounded man."

The morning after "the chief" had been at Rathcash house, Winny Cavana, almost immediately after breakfast, told Jamesy Doyle to get ready and come with her to Shanvilla. She was anxious to ascertain from personal knowledge how poor Emon was going on. She was distracted with the contradictory reports which Biddy Murtagh brought in from time to time from the passers-by upon the road. Winny had little, if any, hope at all that Edward Lennon would survive. She had been assured by Father Farrell, in whose truth and experience she placed the greatest confidence, that it was impossible, although he might linger for a few days. The doctor, too, had pronounced the same solemn doom. Her thoughts as she hastened toward Shanvilla were full of awe and determination. She had spent the night, the entire night, for she had never closed an eye, in laying down a broad short map of her future life, and it was already engraven on her mind. She had been clever in drawing such things at the school where she had him been educated, and her thoughts now took that form.

Her poor father while he lived; herself before and after his death; the Lennons one and all; Kate Mulvey, Phil M'Dermott, Jamesy Doyle, Biddy Murtagh, and Bully-dhu were the only spots marked upon the map; but they were conspicuous, like the capital towns of counties. There was but one river on the map, and it could be traced by Winny's tears. It was the great river of "the Past," and rose in the distant mountains of her memory which hemmed in this map of her fancy. It flowed first round old Ned and the Lennons, who were bounded by Winny on the north, south, east, and west. It passed by Kate Mulvey and Phil M'Dermott, and thence passing by Jamesy Doyle, Biddy Murtagh, and Bully-dhu, it emptied itself into the Irish ocean of Winny's affectionate heart.

Winny knew that she would meet Father Farrell at Emon's bedside; he scarcely ever left it; and she knew {250} that he would not deceive her as to his real state. She knew, too, that he would not refuse her a sincere Christian advice and counsel upon the sudden resolve which had taken possession of her heart.

Father Farrell saw her coming from Emon's window, and went to meet her at the door. They stood in the kitchen alone. The poor father and mother had been kept out of Emon's room by the priest, and were bewailing their fate in their own room.

"I am glad you are come, Winny, dear," said he. "The poor fellow has not ceased to speak of you and pray for you from the first, when he does transgress his orders not to speak at all."

"How is he, oh, how is he, Father Farrell?"

"Stronger just now, but dying, Winny Cavana. Let nothing tempt you to deceive yourself. He has been so much stronger for the last hour or so that I was just going to send my gig for yon. He said it would soothe his death-bed, which he knows he is on, Winny, to see you and have your blessing."

"He shall have my blessing, and I shall claim every right to give it to him. Father Farrell," she added, solemnly, but with a full, untrembling tone, "will you marry me to Edward Lennon?"

The priest almost staggered back from her for a moment.

"Yes, Father Farrell, you have heard aright, and I solemnly and sincerely repeat the question. Listen: You must know that never on this earth will I wed any other. I shall devote myself and the greater portion of any wealth I may possess to the church for charitable purposes after Edward Lennon, my future husband--future here and hereafter--is dead. I wish to call him husband by that precious right which death will so soon rob me of. Even so, Father Farrell; give me that right, short though it be. It will enable me legally to provide for his honest, stout-hearted father and his broken-hearted mother, without the lying lips of slander doubting the motive. Oh, Father Farrell, it is the only consolation left me now to hope for, or in your power to bestow."

The priest was struck dumb. Her eyes, her breath, pleaded almost more than her words.

Father Farrell sat down upon a form.

"Winny Cavana," he said, "do not press me--that is, I mean, do not hurry me. The matter admits of serious consideration, and may not be altogether so unreasonable or extraordinary as it might at first appear. But I say that it requires consideration. Walk abroad for a few minutes and let me think."

"No, father. You may remain here for a few minutes and think. Let me go in and see my poor Emon."

"Yes, yes, you shall; but I must go in along with you, Winny. I can come out again if I find that more consideration is necessary."

Winny saw that she had gained her point. They then entered the room, and Emon cast such a look of gratitude and love upon Winny as calmed every doubt upon the priest's mind, for he was afraid that Emon himself would object, and that the scene would injure him.

Winny was soon at Emon's side, with his hand clasped in hers.

"You are come, Winny dear, to bid me a final good-by--in this world," he murmured. "God bless you for your goodness and your love for me!"

"I am come, Emon dear, to fulfil that love in the presence of heaven, and with Father Farrell's sanction--am I not, Father Farrell?"

"I never doubted it, Winny dear."

"And you shall not doubt it now. You shall die declaring it. Emon-- Emon, my own Emon-a-knock, I am come to claim the promise you gave me to make me your wife."

"Great God, Winny I are you mad?--she not mad. Father Farrell?"

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"No, Emon dear, she really is not mad. She will devote herself and her whole future life to charity and the love of a better world than this. She can do that not only as well, but better, in some respects, as your widow than otherwise. I have considered the matter, and I cannot see that there are any just reasons to deny her request."

"Then I shall die happy, though it be this very night. But oh, Winny, Winny, think of what you are about; time will soften your grief, and you may yet be happy with ano--"

"Stop, Emon dear--not another word; for here, before heaven and Father Farrell, I swear never shall I marry any one in this world but you. Here, Father Farrell, begin; here is a ring you gave me yourself, Emon, and although not a wedding-ring it will do very well--we will make one of it."

Father Farrell then brought in Emon's father and mother, and married Winny Cavana to the dying man.

She stooped down and kissed his pallid lips. Big drops of sweat burst out upon his forehead, and Father Farrell saw that the last moment was at hand. Winny held his hand between both hers, and said, "Emon, you are now mine--mine by divine right, and I resign you to the Lord." And she looked up to heaven through the roof, while the big tears rolled down her pale cheeks.

"Winny," said Emon, in a solemn but distinct voice, "I now die happy. For this I have lived, and for this I die. I cannot count on even hours now; my moments are numbered. I feel death trembling round my heart. But you have calmed its approach, Winny dear. Your love and devotion at a moment like this is the happiest pang that softens my passage to the grave. I can now claim a right to what you promised me as a favor--my portion of your space in Rathcash chapel-yard. God bless you, Winny dear!--Good-by--my--wife!"

Yes, Emon had lived and had died for the love of her who was now his widow.

As Emon had ceased to speak, a bright smile broke over his whole countenance, and he rendered his last sigh into the safe-keeping of his guardian angel, until the last great day.

Winny knew that he was dead, though his breath had passed so gently forth that he might have been only falling asleep. She continued to hold his hand, and to gaze upon his still features, while Father Farrell's lips moved in silent prayer, more for the living than the dead.

"Come, Winny," he at last said, "you cannot remain here just at present. Come along with me, and I will bring you in my gig to your father's house, where I will tell him all myself."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Father Farrell," she said, turning resignedly with him. "Tell poor Pat Lennon what has happened; their pity for me as a companion in their grief may help to soften their own. Tell him, of course, Father Farrell, that I shall take all the arrangements of the funeral upon myself--God help them and me!"

As they came from the dead man's room they met Pat Lennon in the kitchen, and Winny, throwing her arms round his neck, caught the big salt tears which were rolling down his face upon her quivering lips.

"I have a right to call you father now," she exclaimed. "You have lost a son, but I will be your daughter," and she kissed him again and again.

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Chapter XXXIII

On their way to Rathcash, Winny in the first instance told the priest that "of course her poor husband should be buried in Rathcash chapel-yard, and, as a matter in which she could not interfere, by Father Roche." Here she stopped, but the kind-hearted priest took her up at once.

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"Of course, my dear child," he said, "that will be quite right. Indeed, Winny, I should not wish to be the person so soon to add that sad ceremony to the still sadder one I was engaged in to-day."

"Before God or man, Father Farrell, you will never have cause to regret that act. It was my own choosing after deliberate consideration, and I was best judge of my own feelings. I can be happy now. I never could be happy if it were otherwise."

"God grant it, my love," said the priest.

"But still, Father Farrell," she continued, "I have something more for you to do for me. Will you not, like a good man, take all the arrangement of the funeral upon yourself? I will pay every penny of the expenses, and let them not be niggardly. Thank God, Father Farrell, I can do so now without reproach."

The kind, sympathizing priest engaged to do everything which was requisite in the most approved of manner. The more he reflected upon what he had done, the less fault he had to find with himself. There was a calm, resigned tone about all that Winny now said very different from what he might have anticipated from his knowledge of her temper and disposition, had the fatal moment taken place when the shot was fired, or even subsequently before she became Edward Lennon's wife. Bitter revenge, he thought, would have seized her soul toward the man who had deprived her of all hope or source of happiness in this world. Now the only time she trusted her tongue to speak of him was an exclamation--"May God forgive him!"

They soon arrived at Rathcash house, where Father Farrell paid a long visit to old Ned Cavana. His kindness quite gained upon the old man, and, before he left, he acquainted him with the facts of his daughter's position and the death of her husband.

The old man sat silent for some time after the truth had been made known to him. Winny stood hoping for a look of encouragement and forgiveness; but the old man gave it not. At length, with that impatience habitual to her disposition, she rushed into his arms and wept upon his breast.

"Oh, father!" she exclaimed, "I could never be the wife of any man living after poor Emon's death in defence of my life; ay, more than my life, of my honor."

"But oh, Winny, Winny! to sacrifice yourself for a man so near the grave! There was no hope for him, I heerd."

"None, father. I was aware of that. Had there been, I should have waited patiently. I told Father Farrell here my plans, and the same thing as swore that I would not alter them. He will now tell them to you, father dear; and I shall lie down for a couple of hours, for indeed I want rest of both body and mind."

She then kissed her father again and again, and blessed him, or rather she prayed God to do so, and went to her room.

Father Farrell then explained all Winny's views to her distracted father, observing, as he had been enjoined to do, the tenderest love and respect for the old man; taking nothing "for granted;" but at the same time showing the utmost confidence that all matters would still be arranged for his daughter in the same manner he had often explained to her to be his intention. "One step she was determined on," Father Farrell said; "and that was to join a religious sisterhood of charity in the north. Nothing should ever tempt her to marry."

"I'll sell this place at wance," said old Ned. "It's not a month since I had a rattlin' bid for it; but my landlord--and he's member for the county, you know--tould me with his own lips, that if ever I had a mind to part with it, he'd give me a hundred pounds more for it than any one else."

"That was Winny's wish, Ned; and that you should remove with her to the north, where she would settle you comfortably, and where she could {253} see you almost every day in the week."

"Almost," repeated old Ned, sorrowfully.

"Well, perhaps every day, Ned, for that matter."

"Well, Father Farrell, I would not wish to stay here any longer afther what has happened. I'll sell the place out an' out at wance. I have nothing to do but to write to my landlord. I could not bear to be lookin' across at Mick Murdock's afther what tuck place. I think my poor Winny is right; an' that it was the Lord put it all into her head. Athen, Father Farrell, maybe it was yourself laid it down for the little girl?"

"No, Ned; she laid it all down for me. I was going to reason with her at first, but she put her hand upon my mouth, and told me to stop; that nothing should alter her plans. I considered her words, Ned, for a while, and I gave in; not on account of her determination, but because I thought she was right. And I think so still; even to the marrying of Emon on his death-bed."

"Indeed, Father Farrell, you have aised my mind. Glory be to God that guided her!"

"Amen," said the priest.

Father Farrell had now in the kindest manner dealt with old Ned Cavana, according to Winny's wishes and instructions; so that it was an easy matter for Winny herself on that evening, when she had joined her father after a refreshing sleep, to explain more in detail her intentions as regarded herself, and her wishes as regarded her friends--those capitals of counties which were marked on the map of her imagination.

Old Ned was like a child in her hands; and no mother ever handled her first-born babe more fondly than Winny dealt with her poor old father.

"Ducks an' dhrakes iv it, Winny asthore; ducks an' dhrakes iv it, Winny dear! Isn't it all your own; what do I want with it, mavrone, but to see you happy? an' haven't you laid out a plan for both yourself an' myself that can't be bet, Winny mavoureen?"

The old man was perfectly satisfied with the map, and studied it so well that he had it by heart before he went to bed, and could have told you the boundaries of all Winny's wishes to the breadth of a hair, as he kissed her for the last time that night.

I will spare the reader a detail of the melancholy cortège of poor Emon-a-knock's funeral, which proceeded from Shanvilla to Rathcash chapel-yard the day but one after.

Winny had expressed a wish to attend it, but had yielded to the joint advice of Father Farrell and Father Roche to resist the impulse.

Emon-a-knock had been well and truly loved in life, and was now sincerely regretted in death. Father Farrell, at the head of the procession, was met by Father Roche bare-headed at the chapel-gate of Rathcash, and the melancholy ceremony was performed amidst the silent grief of the immense crowd around. Poor Emon's last wish was complied with, and he now occupied his last resting-place with the Cavanas of Rathcash.

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Chapter XXXIV

It was still about an hour after noon when Winny beheld from the parlor window at which she stood a very exciting cavalcade upon the road, slowly approaching the house. At once she became acquainted with the whole concern. "The chief" had fore-warned her that she might expect a visit from the magistrate the moment he returned; and her intelligence at once recognized the addition of the police and prisoners some distance in rear of the car.

Winny's heart beat quick and high as she saw them draw nigh and turn up the lane. It would be mock heroism to say that it did not. She knew {254} that Tom Murdock, the murderer of her husband, must be one of the prisoners, but she did not know why they were bringing him there--for the police had now made the turn. She thought the magistrate might have spared her that fresh excitement--that renewal of her hate. But the magistrate was one of those who had anticipated the law by his sense of justice and his practice. He was one who gave every one of his majesty's subjects fair play, and it was therefore his habit to have the accused face to face with the accuser when informations were taken and read.

Poor Winny was rather fluttered and disturbed when they entered, notwithstanding "the chief" had considerately prepared her for the visit. She did not lose her self-possession, however, so much as to forget the respect and courtesy due to gentlemen, beside being officers of the law. She asked them down into the parlor, and requested of them to be seated. They accepted her civility in silence, seeing enough in her manner to show them that she was greatly distressed, and required a little time to compose herself'. She was, however, the first to speak.

"I suppose, gentlemen, you are come respecting this sad affair. I told this gentleman here all I knew about it yesterday."

"Yes, but matters are still worse today, although there was no hope even then that they would be better. Of course it will relieve you so far at once to tell you that we are aware of the position in which you now stand toward the deceased."

"Yes, sir. It was with a wish that the world might know it I took the step I did. I had Father Farrell's approval of it, and my own parish-priest's as well; but subsequently--"

"My good girl, we did not come here to question the propriety or otherwise of either your actions or your motives. Nor do I for one hesitate to say that I believe both to have been unexceptionable. But it will be necessary that you should make an information upon oath as to what took place from the first moment the men came to the door, until the shot was fired by which Edward Lennon came by his death."

"I suppose, sir, you must have much better evidence than mine as to the firing of the shot. I can only swear to the fact of two men having tied me up and carried me away on a cart, and that there was a third man on horseback with a mask upon his face; that when we came to Boher bridge, the deceased Edward Lennon and his father came to our rescue; that there was a long and distracting struggle at the bridge, which lasted with very doubtful hopes of success for my deliverance until Jamesy Doyle, our servant-boy, came up with the police; that the man on horseback with the mask, whom I verily believe to have been Thomas Murdock, turned to fly; that the deceased Edward Lennon fastened in his horse's bridle to prevent him; that a deadly struggle ensued between them, and that the man on horseback fired at the deceased, who fell, I may say, dead on the road. The sight left my eyes, sir, and except that we brought the dying man home on the cart, I know no more about it of my own knowledge, sir."

"A very plain, straightforward, honest story as I ever heard," said the magistrate. "But it will be necessary for you, when upon your oath, to state whether you know, that is, whether you recognized, the man on horseback at time."

"I could not recognize his features, sir, on account of the mask he wore; but I did recognize his voice as that of Tom Murdock, and I know his figure and general appearance."

"That will do now, Mrs. Lennon. I shall only trouble you to repeat slowly and distinctly what you have already said, so that I can write it down."

The magistrate then unlocked his leather writing-case, took out the necessary forms for informations, and was {255} not long embodying what Winny had to say in premier shape.

He then went through the same form with old Ned, with Biddy Murtagh, and with Jamesy Doyle.

When the magistrate had all the informations taken and arranged, he directed Sergeant Driscoll to bring in the prisoners, that he might read them over and swear the several informants in their presence. Winny became very nervous and fidgety, and would have left the room, but the magistrate assured her that it was absolutely necessary that she should remain, at least while her own informations were being read. He would read them first, and she might then retire. He regretted very much that it was necessary, but he would not detain her more than a couple of minutes at most.

Tom Murdock and the other prisoner were then brought in; and Winny having identified the other man, her informations were read in a loud, distinct voice by the magistrate, and she acknowledged herself bound, etc, etc.

"You may now retire, Mrs. Lennon," said the magistrate; and she hastened to leave the room.

Tom Murdock stood near the door out of which she must pass, his hands crossed below his breast in consequence of the handcuffs. He knew that there was no chance of escape, no hope of an alteration or mitigation of his doom in this world. Everything was too plain against him. There were several witnesses to his deed of death, and the damning words by which it was accompanied, and he knew that the rope must be his end. Well, he had purchased his revenge, and he was willing to pay for it. He determined, therefore, to put on the bravado, and glut that revenge upon his still surviving victim.

"Emon-a-knock is dead. Miss Cavana," said he, as Winny would have passed him to the door, her eyes fastened on the ground; "but not buried yet", he added, with a sardonic smile. "I wish I were free of these manacles, that I might follow his remains to Shanvilla chapel-yard."

"You would go wrong," she calmly reply. "He is indeed dead, but not buried yet. But he is my dead husband, and will lie with the Cavanas in the chapel-yard of Rathcash, and rise again with them; and I would rather be possessed of the inheritance of the six feet of grass upon his grave than be mistress of Rathcash, and Rathcashmore to boot. Where will you be buried, Tom Murdock? Within the precincts of--the jail? To rise with-but no! I shall not condemn beyond the grave; may God forgive you! I cannot."

Even Tom Murdock's stony heart was moved. "Winny Cavana, do you think God can?" he said, turning toward her; but she had passed out of the door.

The magistrate then read the informations of the other witnesses, while Tom Murdock and the other prisoner, stood apparently listening, though they heard not a word.

Jamesy Doyle's informations were word for word characteristic of himself. He insisted upon having the flash of lightning inserted therein, as an undoubted fact, "if ever he saw one knock a man down in his life."

The magistrate and "the chief" had then some conversation with old Ned and Winny, who had returned at their request to the parlor. It was of a general character, but still respecting the melancholy occurrence, or indeed occurrences, the magistrate said, for he had heard of the death of the man who had been killed by the "watch-dog." Ere they left they took Jamesy aside upon this subject, as the only person who knew anything of this part of the business, and the magistrate requested him to state distinctly what he knew of the transaction.

Jamesy was distinct enough, as the reader will believe, from the specimens he has already had of his style of communicating facts.

"Tell me, my good boy," said the magistrate, "did you set the dog at {256} the deceased?" laying a strong emphasis on the word.

"Beghorra, your honor, Bully-dhu didn't want any settin' at all. The minnit he seen the man inside in the kitchen, he stuck in his thrapple at wanst. I knew he'd hould him till I come back, an' I med off for the police."

"Are you aware, my young champion, that if you set the dog at the deceased you would be guilty of manslaughter at least, if not murder?"

"Of murdher, is id? Oh, tare anages, what's this for? Begorra, af that be law it isn't justice. Didn't they tie th' ould masther neck an' heels? Didn't they tie Miss Winny and carry her off to murdher her, or maybe worse? Didn't they tie Biddy Murtagh? and wouldn't they ha' tied me af they could get hoult of me? an' would you want Bully-dhu to sit on his boss, lookin' on at all that, your honor?"

"That may be all true, Jamesy, but I do not think the law would exonerate you, for all that, if you set the dog at the deceased man."

"Well, begorra, I pointed at the man, your honor; but I tell you Bully-dhu wanted no settin' at him at all; af he did I'd have given it to him; and I think the law would onerate me for that same. See here now, your honor. Af th' ould masther had a double-barrel gun, an' shot the two men as dead as mutton that was goin' to tie him up, wouldn't the law be well plaised wid him? and if I had a pistol, an' shot every man iv 'em, wouldn't your honor make a chief iv me at least, instead of sending me to jail? and why wouldn't Bully-dhu, who had on'y a pair of double-barrel tusks, do his part an' help us? I'm feedin' an' taichin' that dog, your honor, since he was a whelp, an' he never disappointed me yet--there now!"

There was certainly natural logic in all this, which the magistrate, with all his experience of the law, found it difficult to contradict. A notion had come into his head at one time that if Jamesy Doyle had set the dog at John Fahy, he might be guilty of his death, notwithstanding the said John Fahy had been committing a felony at the time. But there was no proof that he had set the dog at the man beyond his own admission, and the question had not been raised. Jamesy was willing to avow his responsibility, as far as it went, in the most open and candid manner, and not only that, but to justify it, which he had indeed done in a most extraordinary, clever manner. Then what had been his conduct all through? Had it not been that of a courageous, faithful boy, who had risked his own life in obstructing the escape of the murderer? and was he not the most material witness they had--the only one who had never lost sight of the man who had shot Edward Lennon, until he himself had secured him for the police? "No, no," reflected the magistrate; "it would be absurd to hold Jamesy Doyle liable for anything, but the most qualified approbation of his conduct from first to last."

"Well, Jamesy," said he, out of these thoughts, "we will take your own opinion in favor of yourself for the present. There is no doubt of your being forthcoming at the next assizes?"

"Begorra, your honor, I'll stick to the ould masther and Miss Winny, an' I don't think they're likely to lave this."

"That will do, Jamesy. Come, Mr.----, I think we have taken up almost enough of these poor people's time. We may be going."

A word or two about old Mick Murdock ere we close this chapter, as the reader, not having seen or heard of him for some days, will no doubt be curious to know what he had been doing, and how he comported himself during so trying and exciting a scene.

During the period which Tom had spent in the obscure little public-house {257} upon the mountain road in the county Cavan, his own report that, he had gone to the north had done him no service; for the addition which he had tacked to it, about "going to get married to a rich young lady," was not believed by a single person for whose deception it had been spread abroad. That sort of thing had been so often repeated without fulfilment that people reversed the cry of the wolf upon the subject.

There was nothing now for it with those to whom Tom was indebted but to go to his father, in hopes of some arrangement being made to even secure them in their money. Several bills of exchange--some overdue, and some not yet at maturity--with his name across them, were brought to old Mick for sums varying from ten to fifteen and twenty pounds. Old Mick quietly pronounced them one and all to be forgeries. Tom and he had had some very sharp words before he went away. He had called the poor old man a "----old niggard" to his face, and he heard the words "cannot lost very long," as Tom slapped the door behind him.

Old Mick would have only fretted at all this had his son returned in a reasonable time to his home, and, as usual, made promises of amendment, or had even written to him. It was the first time that ever a forged acceptance had been presented to him for payment, and Tom's prolonged absence without any preconcerted object to account for it weighed heavily upon the old man's heart as to his son's real character. Tom was all this time, as the reader is aware, planning a bold stroke to secure Winny Cavana's fortune to pay off these forgeries. But we have seen with what a miserable result.

It was impossible to hide the glaring fact of Tom Murdock's apprehension and committal to jail upon the dreadful charge of murder from his father. It rang from one end of the parish to the other. But instead of rushing to meet his son, clapping his hands, and exclaiming, "Oh! wiristhrue, wiristhrue! what's this for?" poor old Mick was completely prostrated by the news; and there he lay in his bed, unable to move hand or foot from the poignancy of his grief and disgrace.

If Tom Murdock has broken his poor old father's heart, and he never rises from that bed, it is only another item in his great account.

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Chapter XXXV

The reader will recollect that the incidents recorded in the two last chapters took place toward the latter end of June. We will, therefore, have time, before the assizes come on, to let him know how far Winny's fancy map was perfected.

For herself, then, first. She had determined to become a member of a convent in the north of Ireland, giving up the world with all its vanities--she knew nothing of its pomps--and devoting her time, her talents, and whatever money she might finally possess, to religious and charitable purposes. She had not delayed long after the magistrate and "the chief" had left, and she had experienced a refreshing sleep, in taking her father into her confidence to the fullest extent of her intuitions, not only as regarded herself, but with respect to those friends whom she had set down upon the map to be provided for.

"Father," she said, continuing a conversation, "there is no use in your moving such a thing to me. It is no matter at what time you project it for me; my mind is made up beyond even the consideration of the question. I will never marry. Do not, like a dear good father that you have ever been, move it to me any more."

"Indeed, Winny, I could not add a word more than I have already sed; an' if that fails to bring you round, {258} share I'm dumb, Winny asthore. God's will be done! I'm dumb."

"It is his will I am seeking, father. What matter if we are the last of the Cavanas, as you say? Beside, my children would not be Cavanas; recollect that, father."

"I know that, Winny jewel; but they'd be of th' ould stock all the same. Their grandfather would be a Cavana, if he lived to see them."

"Be thankful for what you have, father dear. There never was a large clan of a name but some one of them brought grief to it."

"Ay, Winny asthore; but there is always wan that makes up for it by their superior goodness. Look at me that never had but the wan, an' wasn't she, an' isn't she, a threasure to me all the days of my life? Look at that, Winny."

"And there is your next-door neighbor, father, never had but the one, and instead of a treasure, has he not been a curse? Look you at that, father."

Old Ned was silent for some moments, and Winny did not wish to interrupt his thoughts. She hoped he was coming quite round to her way of thinking with respect to her never "getting married;" and she was right.

"Well, Winny asthore," he said, after a pause, "shure you're doin' a good turn for your sowl hereafther at any rate; an' I'll be led an' sed by your own sinse of goodness in the matther. For myself, Winny, wheresomever you go I'll go, where I'll see you sometimes--as often as you can, Winny. Be my time long or short, I know that you will never see me worse, if not betther nor what I always was. But it isn't aisy to lave this place, Winny asthore, where I'm livin' since I was the hoith of your knee with your grandfather an' your grandmother--God rest their sowls! There isn't a pebble in the long walk in the garden, nor a pavin'-stone in the yard, that I couldn't place upon paper forenent you there this minnit, and tell you the color of them every wan. There's scarcely a blade of grass in the pasthure-fields that I couldn't remember where it grows in my dhrames. There isn't a furze-blossom in the big ditch but what I'd know it out iv the bud it cum from. There isn't a thrush nor a blackbird about the place but what I know themselves an' their whistles as well as I know your own song from Biddy Murtagh's or Jamesy Doyle's. Not a robin-redbreast in the garden, Winny, that doesn't know me as well as I know you; an' I could tell you the difference between the very chaffinches--I could, Winny, I could."

"I know all that, father dear, and I know it will not be easy to break up all them happy thoughts in your mind. But then you know, father dear, I could not stop here looking across at the house where that man lived. God help me, father, I do not know what to do!"

Poor old Ned saw that she was distressed, and was sorry he had drawn such a picture of his former happiness at Rathcash. The recollection of these little matters had run upon his tongue, but it was not with any intention of using them as an argument to change Winny's plans.

"Winny," he said, "I didn't mane to fret you; shure I know what you say is all thrue. I could not stop here myself no more nor what you could, Winny, afther what has happened. Dear me, Winny jewel, how soon you seen through that fellow, an' how glad I am that you didn't give in to me! But now, Winny asthore, let us quit talking of him, and listen to what I have to say to you. 'Tis just this. My landlord, who you know is member for the county, tould me any time I had a mind to sell my intherest in Rathcash, that he'd give me a hundred pounds more for it than any one else. I'll write to him tomorrow, plaise God, about it. You know Jerry Carty? Well, he is afther offerin' me seven hundred {259} pounds into my fist for my good-will of the place. As good luck would have it, I did not put any price upon it when my landlord spoke to me about sellin' it. I can tell him now that I have a mind to sell it, an' I won't hide the raison aidher. I can let him know what Carty is willin' to give me for it, an' he's sure to give me eight hundred pounds. You know, Winny, that your six hundred pounds is in the bank b'arin' intherest for you, an' what you don't dhraw is added to it every half year. But that's naidher here nor there, Winny, for it will be all your own the very moment this place is sould, an', as I sed before, you may make ducks and dhrakes iv it. Shure I know, Winny, that'll you never see me want for a haporth while I last, be it long or short. But, Winny dear, let us live in the wan house; that's all I ax, mavourneen macree."

"That will be about fourteen hundred pounds in all, father."

"A thrifle more nor that, I think, Winny. Maybe you did not know how much or how little it was, when you laid it out the way you tould me."

"No, not exactly, father; but I knew I must have been very much within the mark; I took care of that."

"Go over it again for me, Winny dear, af it wouldn't be too much throuble."

"Not in the least, father. You know I took Kate Mulvey first, and determined to settle three hundred pounds upon her for a fortune against 'she meets with some young man,' as the song says. And I believe, father, Phil M'Dermott, the whitesmith, will be about the man. He is very fond of Kate, but he would not marry any woman until he had saved enough of money to set up a house comfortly and decently upon. Three hundred pounds fortune with Kate will set them up in good style, and I shall see the best friend I ever had happy. Then, father, there are the Lennons, my poor dear husband's parents, whom I shall next consider. Pat Lennon, poor Emon's father, risked his life most manfully in my defence. Were it not for his resolute attack upon the two men with the cart, and the obstruction he gave them, they would have carried me through the pass long before the police and Jamesy Doyle came up; and the probability is that you would never have seen your poor Winny again. I purpose purchasing the good-will of that little farm and house from which the Murphys are about to emigrate, and settle a small gratuity upon them during their lives."

"Annuity, I suppose you mane, Winny; but it's no matther. How much will that take, Winny?"

"About two hundred pounds, father, including the--what is it you call it, father?'

"Annuity, Winny, annuity; I didn't think you were so--"

"Annuity," she repeated before he had got the other word out, and he was glad afterward.

"Well, Winny, that's only five hundred out of somethin' over six."

"Then I'll give Biddy Murtagh a hundred pounds, and she must live as cook and house-maid with Kate; and I'll lodge twenty pounds in the savings-bank for Jamesy Doyle. Perhaps I owe him more than the whole of them put together."

"That will be the first duck, Winny."

"How is that, father?'

"Why, it's well beyant the six hundred, Winny, which was all you were goin' upon at first; but you may now begin with whatever we get by the sale of Rathcash."

"Well, father, I would only wish to suggest the distribution of that, for you know I have no call to it, and God grant that it may be a long day until I have."

"Faix, an' Winny, af that be so, you've left yourself bare enough. But don't be talkin' nonsense, child. What would I want with it? Won't {260} you take care iv me, Winny asthore? an' won't you want the most iv it where you are agoin? an' didn't you tell me already that you'd like me to let you give it to the charities of that religious establishment? Shure, there's no use in my askin' you any more not to go into it."

"None indeed, father, for I am resolved upon it. But you shall live in the town with me, and I can take care of you the same as if I was in the house with you. There shall be nothing that you can want or wish for that you shall not have, and no day that it is possible that I will not see you."

"What more had I here, Winny, except the crops coming round from the seed to the harvest, an' the cattle, an' the grass, an' the birds in the bushes? Dear, oh dear, yes! Hadn't I yourself, Winny asthore, forenent me at breakust, dinner, an' supper; an' warn't you for ever talkin' to me of an evenin', with your stitchin' or your knittin' across your lap; an', Winny jewel, wasn't your light song curling through the yard, an' the house, afore I was up in the mornin'? But now--now--Winny--oh, Winny asthore, mavourneen macree! but your poor old father will miss yourself, no matther how kind your plans may be for his comfort. Shure, the very knowledge that you were asleep in the house with me was a blessin'."

"Father," she said, "God bless you! I will be back with you in a few minutes--do not fret;" and she left him, and shut herself up in her room.

But he did fret; and he was no sooner alone than the big tears burst uncontrollably forth into a pocket-handkerchief, which he continued to sop against his face.

Winny had thrown herself upon her knees at the bedside, and prayed to God to guide her. Her thoughts and prayers were too dignified and holy for tears. But they had made a free course to the pinnacle of the mercy-seat, and she rose with her soul refreshed by the glory which had responded to her cry for guidance.

She returned to her father, a radiant smile of anticipated pleasure playing round her beautiful lips. There was no sign of grief, or even of emotion, on her cheeks.

"Father," she said, "I have been seeking guidance from the Almighty in this matter; and the old saying that 'charity begins at home'--that is moral charity in this instance--has been suggested to my heart. We shall not part, father, even temporarily. Where you live, I shall live. I have been told, father, just now, while upon my knees, that to do all the good I have projected need not oblige me to join as an actual member of any charitable or religious society. No, father, I can carry out all my plans without the necessity of living apart from you; we will therefore, father dear, still live together. But let us remove when this place is sold to B----, where the establishment I have spoken of is situated, and there, with my knitting or my stitching on my lap before you in the evenings, I can carry on all my plans in connection with the institution without being an actual member, which might involve the necessity of my living in the house. But, father dear, I hope you do not disapprove of any of them, or of the distribution of the money, so far as I have laid it out."

It was then quietly and finally arranged between them that as soon as Rathcash was sold, and the stock and furniture disposed of, they would remove to B----, in a northern county. They there intended to take a small house, either in the town or precincts--the latter old Ned preferred--where Winny could join the Sisters of Charity, at least in her acts, if not as a resident member. The money was to be disposed of as Winny had laid out, and legal deeds were to be prepared and perfected; and poor Winny, notwithstanding the sudden cloud which had darkened the blue heaven of her {261} life, was to be as happy as the day was long.

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Chapter XXXVI

Within a month from the scene between Winny and her father described above, Rathcash bad been purchased and paid for. There had been "a great auction" of the stock, crops, and furniture. The house was shut up, the door locked, and the windows bolted. No smoke curled from the brick chimneys through the poplars. No sleek dark-red cows stood swinging their tails and licking their noses, while a fragrant smell of luscious milk rose through the air. No cock crew, no duck quacked, no Turkey gobbled, and no goose gabbled. No dog bayed the moon by night. Bully-dhu was at the flitting. The corn-stands and haggard were naked and cold, and the grass was beginning to grow before the door. The whole place seemed solitary and forlorn, awaiting a new tenant, or whatever plans the proprietor might lay out for its future occupation. Winny and her father had torn themselves from the spot hallowed to the old man by years of uninterrupted happiness, and to the young girl by the memory of a blissful childhood and the first sunshine of the bright hope which is nearest to a woman's heart, until that fatal night when vengeful crime broke in and snapt both spells asunder. Rathcash and Rathcashmore had been a byword in the mouths of young and old for the nine days limited for the wonder of such things.

If the goodness of his only child had broken the heart of one old man from the reflection that her earthly happiness had been hopelessly blighted, and his fond plans and prospects for her crushed for ever, the villany and wickedness of another had not been less certain in a similar result. Old Mick Murdock--ere his son stood before an earthly tribunal to answer for his crimes--had been summoned before the court of heaven.

The assizes came round, "the charge was prepared, the judge was arrayed--a most _ter_rible show." Old Cavana and his daughter were, as a matter of course, summoned by the crown for the prosecution, as were also Pat Lennon, Jamesy Doyle, Biddy Murtagh, and the policemen who had come to the rescue.

Old Ned was the first witness, Winny the second, Jamesy Doyle the third. Then Biddy Murtagh and Pat Lennon, and finally, before the doctor's medical evidence was given, the policemen who came to the rescue, particularly he who had seen the shot fired and the man fall.

This closed the evidence for the Crown. There was no case, there could be no case, for the prisoner, beyond the futile cross-examination of the witnesses, by an able and tormenting counsellor, old Bob B----y, whose experience in this instance was worse than useless.

The reader need hardly follow on to the result. Tom Murdock was convicted and sentenced to death; and ere three weeks had elapsed he had paid the penalty of an ungovernable temper and a revengeful disposition upon the scaffold.

Poor Winny had pleaded hard with the counsel for the crown, and even with the attorney-general himself--who prosecuted in person--that Tom Murdock might be permitted to plead guilty to the abduction, and be sentenced to transportation for life. But the attorney-general, who had all the informations by heart, said that the animus had been manifest all through, from even prior to the hurling-match, which was alluded to by the prisoner himself as he fired the shot, and that he would most certainly arraign the prisoner for the murder. And so he was found guilty; and Winny, with her heart full of plans of peace and charity, was obliged to forge the first link in a chain the {262} succeeding ones of which dragged Tom Murdock to an ignominious grave.

Old Ned and Winny, accompanied by faithful Bully-dhu, had returned to B----, where the old man read and loitered about, watching every figure which approached, hoping to see his angel girl pass on some mission of holy charity, dressed in her black hood and cape.

Accompanied by Bully-dhu, he picked up every occurrence in the street, and compiled them in his memory, to amuse Winny in the evenings, in return for her descriptions of this or that case of distress which she had relieved. Thus they told story about, not very unlike tragedy and farce!

A sufficient time had now elapsed, not only for the deeds to have been perfected, but for the provisions which they set forth to have been carried out. Pat Lennon had already removed to the comfortable cottage upon the snug little farm which had been purchased for him by Winny, and the "annuity" she had settled upon him was bearing interest in the savings-bank at C. O. S.

Phil M'Dermott was one of the best to do men in that side of the country, and his wife (if you can guess who she was) was the nicest and the handsomest he (now that Winny was gone) that you'd meet with in the congregation of the three chapels within four miles of where she lived. Jamesy Doyle had been transferred--head, body, and bones--to the establishment, where he excelled himself in everything which was good and useful and--handy. Many a figary was got from time to time after him in the forge, filed up bright and nice, and if he does not "sorely belie" his abilities and aptitude, he will one day become a "whitesmith" of no mean reputation.

Biddy Murtagh was to have gone as cook and thorough servant to Mrs. M'Dermott; but the hundred pounds which had been lodged to her credit in the bank soon smoothed the way between her and Denis Murrican--a Shanvilla boy, you will guess--who induced her to become cook, but not thorough servant, I hope, to himself; so Kate M'Dermott--how strange it seems not to write 'Kate Mulvey'!--was obliged to get somebody else.

Poor Winny, blighted in her own hopes of this world's happiness, had turned her thoughts to a surer and more abiding source. She had seen her plans for the happiness of those she loved carried out to a success almost beyond her hopes. Her poor old father, getting whiter and whiter as the years rolled on, attained a ripe and good old age, blessed in the fond society of the only being whom he loved on earth. Winny herself found too large a field for individual charity and good to think of joining any society, however estimable, during her father's lifetime, and was emphatically the Sister of Charity in the singular number.

But poor old Ned has long since passed away from this scene of earthly cares, and sleeps in peace in his own chapel-yard, between two tombs. Long as the journey was, Winny had the courage and self-control to come with her father's bier, and see his coffin laid beside that of him who had been so rudely snatched away, and whom she had so devotedly loved. Poor Bully-dhu was at the funeral, and gazed into the fresh-made grave in silent, dying grief. When all was over, and the last green sod slapped down upon the mound, he could nowhere be found. He had suddenly eluded all observation. But ere a week had passed by, he was found dead upon his master's grave, after the whole neighborhood had been terrified by a night of the most dismal howling which was ever heard.

Winny returned to the sphere of her usefulness and hope, where for many years she continued to exercise a course of unselfish charity, which made many a heart sing for joy.

{263}

But she, too, passed away, and was brought home to her last resting-place in Rathcash chapel-yard, where the three tombs are still to be seen. Were she now alive she would yet be a comparatively young woman, not much past sixty-four or sixty-five years of age. But it pleased God, in his inscrutable ways, to remove her from the circle of all her bounty and her love. Had it not been so, this tale would not have yet been written.

------

[ORIGINAL.]

"REQUIEM AETERNAM."

Lo! another pilgrim, weary With his toils, hath reached the goal. And we lift our "Miserere" For the dear departed soul; God of pity and of love! May he reign with thee above!

By the pleasures he surrendered, By the cross so meekly borne. By the heart so early tendered. By each sharp and secret thorn, And by every holy deed-- For our brother's rest we plead!

'Mid the throng who rest contented, Earth to him was but a waste. And the sweets this life presented, Were but wormwood to his taste. Faith had taught him from the first For the fount of life to thirst

Faith, the sun that rose to brighten All his pathway from the font: Then no phantom e'er could frighten, Nor the sword of pain or want: "For," he said, "though pain be strong, Time shall vanquish it ere long."

When he spoke of things eternal, How the transient seemed to fade! And we saw the goods supernal Stand revealed without a shade: "Surely 'twas a spirit spoke," Was the thought his language woke.

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Thought prophetic! now a spirit Speaketh from the world unseen: And the faith we, too, inherit Telleth what the tidings mean: "Friend and stranger! oh, prepare-- Make the wedding garment fair."

Yet our brother's strength was mortal; Bore he naught of earthly taint? Did he pass the guarded portal In the armor of a saint? Lord of holiness! with dread On this awful ground we tread.

He was merciful and tender To the erring and the weak; Therefore will thy pity render Unto him the grace we seek. Whilst we bring to mercy's fount Pledges uttered on the Mount.

He remembered the departed As we now remember him: Bright, and true, and simple-hearted. Till the lamp of life grew dim: Friend was he of youth and age-- Now a child--and now a sage.

If those footsteps unreturning Leave on earth no lasting trace: If no kindred heart be yearning Tearful in his vacant place: If oblivion be his lot Here below, we murmur not; Only let his portion be Evermore, dear Lord, with thee!

MARIE.

Beaver, PA.

------

{265}

From The Dublin University Magazine.

TINTED SKETCHES IN MADEIRA.

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Chapter I

Notwithstanding that Madeira enjoys an imperishable distinction for its matchless scenery, its sunny skies, and its healthful climate, yet the character of its inhabitants seems to have been but little studied, and still less the singular usages and customs which indicate their nationality. Impressed with the idea that to supply some information on these particulars might heighten the interest experienced for the Madeirans as an isolated little community, I have compiled a few pages descriptive of their social and domestic life, intending them, however, merely as supplementary to the valuable information afforded by others.

Passing over the novel and amusing circumstance of landing at Funchal, which has already been so often described, I find myself in a boi-caro, or ox-car, traversing narrow and intricate streets; the murmur of waters and soft strains of instrumental music saluting my ear, while a faint perfumed breeze stirs the curtains of my caro. By some travellers the boi-caro has been likened to the body of a calèche placed on a sledge, but to me it neither had then, nor has it assumed since, any other appearance than that of a four-post bed, curtained with oil-cloth, lined with some bright-colored calico, and having comfortably cushioned seats. It is made of light, strong timber, secured on a frame shod with iron. A pair of fat, sleek oxen are yoked to this odd-looking carriage, while from thongs passed through their horns bits of carved ivory or bone hang on their foreheads to protect them from the influence of Malochio or Evil-eye.

Half an hour brought me to my destination, No.--, Rua San Francisco. This house in its structure resembles the generality of the better class of houses in the island, the sleeping-rooms being sacrificed to the magnificence of the reception-rooms, the vastness of which appears to mock the ordinary wants of daily life. The walls are pure white, lined with prints, paintings, and mirrors; the floors are either covered with oil-cloth or highly polished; and the windows are shaded by lace curtains and Venetian blinds; the furniture is modern, and of English manufacture. I have been thus minute because the interiors of all the superior dwellings have the same general character. I cannot, however, say the same with regard to the tastes and habits of the occupants. The British prince-merchant, with his spirit, his intelligence, and his philanthropy, gives his days to the busy cares of life, and his evenings to the quiet enjoyments of home; while the Madeiran gentleman passes his days in luxurious indolence, and his evenings in crowded rooms. The ladies present an equally strong contrast, and yet, during one short period in each day, their tastes and purposes seem to assimilate: when the brief and beautiful twilight, with its freshness, its odors, and its music, induces even the exclusive English-women to appear in the shaded balcony, and find amusement in the passing scenes.

At this hour the peasantry may be seen returning to their homes in little parties of four or five, each group being accompanied by a musician playing on the national instrument, the machêtes, or guitarette, and singing some plaintive air in which, occasionally, all join. No sooner has one group passed, than the sweet, soft intonations of other songsters are heard {266} approaching. Sometimes two or even more parties will enter the street at the same time, when they at once take up alternate parts, and that with such perfect taste and harmony that when the notes begin to die away in the distance the listener's car is aching with attention. These songs are usually of their own composition, and are improvised for the occasion. They have but few national ballads, and of these the subjects are either the mischief-loving Malochio, or Macham and the unhappy Lady Anna, or the fable of Madeira's having been cast up by the sea covered with magnificent forests of cedar, which afterward, catching fire from a sun-beam, burned for seven years, and then from the heated soil produced the luxuriant vegetation with which it is now clothed.

It must not be supposed, however, that the peasantry are of a melancholy disposition because it is their custom to make choice of plaintive music to time their footsteps when returning at the close of a golden day to their homes by the sea or on the rugged mountain heights. On the contrary, the character of their minds combines all the variety of the scenes amongst which they were nurtured, though the leading trait is a desire for the gay and fanciful, whether in dress or amusement; While they regard neither money nor time in comparison with the gratification of witnessing the numerous ceremonies and pageants which every other day fill the streets with richly-dad trains of ecclesiastics, flashing cavalcades, and troops of youths and maidens in festive wreaths and gay attire. The season of Lent affords them almost daily opportunities for the indulgence of this taste.

At an early hour of the Monday morning in the first week in Lent the ordinary stillness of the town is interrupted by loud and clamorous sounds, such as sometimes assail the ear in a European town, at midnight, when bands of revellers are reeling toward their homes. Laughter, song, instrumental music, and the unsteady tramp of a crowd meet the startled ear, suggesting the idea of the proximity of a disorderly multitude. Opening the window cautiously you look down into the street, and behold bands of men in masks and habited in every variety of strange and ridiculous costume. Some few, however, display both taste and wealth in the choice of their disguises, but the generality of the crowd in their tawdry attire and hideous masks appear to have studied only effectual concealment. For some hours party after party continue to pass through the street, and as they knock loudly at the doors, and even call on the inhabitants by name, you discover that a feeling of impatience to have the shops opened and the ordinary routine of business commenced is common to all, and, if not gratified, may manifest itself in some open act of aggression. Slowly and with evident reluctance the houses are opened, while the curious and amused faces of children and servants may be seen peeping from the trellised balconies down on the noisy crowd. After a time a few men in ordinary costume begin to appear in the street, trying to look unconscious and unsuspicious of any danger, and hurrying forward with the important pre-occupied air of men of business. But neither their courage nor cunning avails them anything. A shower of stale eggs breaking on the stalwart shoulders of one merchant reminds him that the more grave and English-like is his demeanor, the more is he regarded as the proper subject for mirth; while a plate of flour thrown over another would send a dusty miller instead of a dandy flying into some open door for shelter, followed by the derisive laughter of the insolent crowd.

Amazed at such an exhibition of unchecked violence, the stranger inquires the meaning of the scene, and learns that it is merely the customary way of celebrating in Funchal the day known as Shrove Tuesday, the people having from time immemorial {267} enjoyed an established license to indulge on that day in such rude practical jokes as are warranted by the usages of all carnival seasons.

I may here observe that the Madeirans reckon their days from noon to noon, instead of from midnight to midnight, though their impatience for frolic and mischief frequently leads them, as on the present occasion, into the error of beginning the day some hours too soon. When, however, celebrating religious festivals, or on days set apart for fasting and invoking of their patron saints--Nossa Senhora do Monte and Sant Jago Minor--they carefully adhere to the established rule.

As the day advances the crowd becomes bolder, and no one, no matter what his age, rank, or nation, is suffered to pass unmolested. These coarse carnival jests are continued not only through the day but through the night, and until noon the next day, when the firing of cannon from the fort announces the cessation of the privilege of outraging society with impunity. Although, however, practical joking is prohibited from that moment until the next anniversary of the same day, masquerading is allowed from Shrove Tuesday till the week after Easter, the English being the chief, if not the only, objects for raillery and ridicule.

In general the most amicable feelings exist between the Madeirans and all foreigners, yet the lower classes of the natives appear to derive the utmost satisfaction in being openly permitted to caricature the English, and under favor of their privileged disguise to display John's eccentricities and weaknesses in the most ludicrous light, while the jealousy of the authorities prohibits on his part the most distant approach to retaliation.

As the last echo of the warning gun died away amongst the hills, the sun's position in the heavens indicated the hour of noon, and instantly the musical peals of numerous bells came floating to the ear from every direction, while above their sweet harmonious sounds is heard the booming of cannon from the vessels anchored in the roads, and the loud blasts of trumpets from the fort and the barracks. A stranger might be excused for supposing that the people were about to renew the carnival, whereas they were only announcing, in conformity with ecclesiastical law, the commencement of the season of Lent. This was the first day, or Ash Wednesday, though by our manner of computing time it was still the noon of Tuesday. At one o'clock the roar of artillery from the Loo Rock and the shipping was silent, the martial strains ceased, but the bells at short intervals continued to ring out their melodious summons, which was responded to by hundreds of persons in ordinary costume, all moving in the direction of the sé, or cathedral, in the Praca Constitutionel. Mingling with this decorous portion of the crowd were many of the most grotesquely attired masques of the previous day, whose antics and buffoonery, jests and laughter, formed the oddest contrast to the costume and bearing of the others.

Meanwhile, by one of those sudden changes so common in tropical climates, the sky, which a short time before was so blue and serene, began to show signs of a gathering storm. There was an ominous stillness in the atmosphere, the dull leaden color overhead was shedding its gloom everywhere, and I heard voices from the crowd exclaiming, "Hasten forward there, the rain is coming--hasten!" A few big drops just then fell with a plashing sound, and in a second or two afterward down, with a terrific noise, poured the fierce wild rain, coming on the streets with the noise of a waterfall, while on the house-tops it fell with a sharp rattle, as if every drop was a paving-stone.

In a few moments from the commencement of the rain the people had all disappeared, the streets had assumed the appearance of rushing streams, while the three fiumeras traversing the town kept up an {268} unceasing roar, as the swollen waters rushed plunging toward the sea.

Formerly these fiumeras were uninclosed, and consequently after heavy rains the torrents would enlarge their borders, spreading out on every side and encompassing the town, until it assumed the appearance of having been built in the midst of waves and currents. Now, however, walls of strong masonry attest the wisdom and industry of the modern Madeirans, and between these the rivers flow in shallow musical streams in summer, or sweep on in deep, sullen floods during the rainy seasons in spring and autumn. It sometimes, however, happens that, though the rivers can no longer overleap their boundaries to career round pillared edifices and lay bare their foundations, or, sweeping up into their fierce embrace cottages and their inmates, inclosures and their stalled cattle, hurry with them into the blue depths of the bay of Funchal, they still, when increased by these mountain torrents, which on leaving the heights are but whispering streamlets, gathering depth and strength in their descent, will send boulders of many tons weight over the high broad walls, followed by giant trees, planks of timber, and jagged branches, as if from the heaving bosom of the angry waters rocks and withered boughs are flung off with equal ease.

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Chapter II

From the period alluded to in the last chapter, namely, the beginning of Lent, processions and public ceremonies become of such frequent recurrence that I must either pass over a period of some weeks or fill a volume in describing them. Believing the former course to be the wisest, I shall pass on to the fourth Sunday in Lent. From an early hour in the morning every bell-tower had been awakening the echoes with its musical clamor, and every hamlet and village had responded to the summons by sending forth crowds of hardy inhabitants in their best attire, to join the gaily dressed multitudes thronging through the narrow, angular streets of Funchal toward the Praca, in which, as I have said, stands the sé, or cathedral. This building is quaint-looking and massive, proclaiming the liberality, if not the taste, of its founders. It is somewhat more than three centuries old, having been completed in the year 1514, and is only now beginning to assume that mellow and sombre hue which comports so well with the character of such piles. By the hour of noon the Praca presented a sea of human faces. The long seats beneath the shade of trees had been resigned to the children, while the platform in the centre of the square, occupied on ordinary occasions by the military bands, now presented a waving parterre of the smiling and observant faces of peasant girls, who, notwithstanding their proverbial timidity and gentleness, had managed to secure that elevated position. Meantime the balconies were filling fast with the families of the English and German residents, all intent on seeing the remarkable pageant of the day known as the "Passo."

Having obtained a front seat in the balcony of the English reading-room, I had a full view of the animated and picturesque scene beneath, the latter feature being heightened by the striking contrasts exhibited between the costumes of the peasant women and those of the same grade residing in the town. As one looked at the latter it was not difficult to imagine they had just come from Europe with the tail of the fashions. Bonnets, feathers, flowers, ballooned dresses, all were foreign importations; while the women who had come down from those cottages on the heights, which, on looking up at, appear like pensile nests hanging from the crags, wore dresses of masapuja--a mixture of thread and bright wools manufactured by themselves--small shawls woven {269} in bright stripes, and on their heads the graceful looking lenco, or handkerchief, in some showy, becoming color. Others from the fishing villages wore complete suits of blue cloth, of a light texture, even to the head-dress, which was the carapuca, or conical shaped cap, ending in a drooping horn and a golden tassel; while a few wore cotton dresses, and covered their heads with the barrettea, a knitted cap in shape like an elongated bowl, and having a woollen tuft at the top glittering with gold beads. The elder women covered their shoulders with large bright shawls, while the younger wore tightly-fitting bodices, fastened with gold buttons, and over these small capes with pointed collars. All, whether old or young, wore their dresses full, and sufficiently short to display to advantage their small and beautifully formed feet.

In singular contrast with this simplicity of taste in their apparel, is their desire for a profusion of ornaments. Accordingly, you will find adorning the persons of the peasant women of Madeira rings and chains and brooches of intrinsic value and much beauty, such as in other countries people of wealth assume the exclusive right to wear. An instance of this ruling passion came under my notice a short time since, which I may mention here.

Through a long life of toil and poverty a peasant woman had regularly laid by, from her scanty earnings, a small sum weekly. Her neighbors commended her forethought and prudence, not doubting but that the little hoard so persistently gathered was meant to meet the necessities of the days when the feeble hands would forget their cunning. At length the sum amounted to some hundreds of testatoes, or silver five-pences, and then the poor woman's life-secret was discovered. With a step buoyant for her years, and a smile which for a moment brought back the beauty of her youth, she entered a jeweller's shop, and exchanged the contents of her purse for a pair of costly earrings. Had she been remonstrated with, she would have betrayed not only her own but the national feeling on the subject, by saying--"I lose nothing by the indulgence. At any moment I can find a purchaser for real jewelry."

An hour passed, and signs of impatience were becoming visible in the crowd, when the sounds of distant music caused a sudden and deep silence. A feeling of awe seemed to have fallen at once on the multitude, and every bronze-colored face was turned with a reverential expression toward the street by which it was known the procession would enter the Praca. Slowly the music drew near, now reaching us in full strains, then seeming to die away in soft cadences. Meantime the guns from the forts and shipping renewed their firing, and the bells swung out their grandest peal. Curiosity was at its height, when the foremost row of the procession met our view--four men walking abreast, wearing violet-colored silk cassocks, with round capes reaching to the girdles, and holding in their hands wax candles of an enormous size. A long train, habited in the same way, followed these, and then came four ecclesiastics in black silk gowns and Jesuits' caps, bearing aloft a large and gorgeous purple banner, in the centre of which were four letters in gold, "S.Q.P.R," being the initials of a sentence, the translation of which is, "To the Senate and People of Rome."

After this followed another long line of men in violet, and then again four clothed in black, carrying a wax image, large as life, on a platform, meant to represent the garden of Gethsemane. Round the edge were artificial trees about a foot and a half in height, having their foliage and fruit richly gilt. The figure was clothed in a purple robe, and on the brow was a crown of thorns. It was in a kneeling position, and the face was bowed so low you could not distinguish the features, but the attitude {270} gave you the impression that it was making painful attempts to rise, which the weight of the huge cross on the shoulders rendered ineffectual. Another train of candle-bearers followed this, and then, in robes of rich black silk, and having on their shoulders capes of finest lawn trimmed with costly lace, came four priests holding up a gorgeous canopy, having curtains of white silk and silver, which glittered and flashed as the faint breeze, sweet with the perfume of flowers and fruit-trees, dallied amidst the rich folds. From the centre of the canopy was suspended a silver dove, its extended wings overshadowing the head of the bishop, who walked beneath, robed in his most gorgeous sacerdotal habiliments. Between his hands he carried the host, and as he passed along thousands of prostrate forms craved his blessing. Following the canopy were more men with tapers, and dressed in violet silk; then another purple banner of even greater expansion than the first; then a lovely train of little girls dressed to represent angels; then the band playing the Miserere; and lastly a regiment of Portuguese soldiers. As soon as the last of the men in violet had entered the cathedral, the door was closed; the soldiers formed in lines on each side; the band was silent; and, at the command of an officer, all uncovered their heads, and stood in an attitude expressive of deep humiliation. This scene was meant to represent that sorrowful yet glorious one enacted eighteen centuries ago in the judgment hall of Pontius Pilate. The little girls remained outside as well as the soldiery.

The dress of these children was tasteful and picturesque. They wore violet-color velvet dresses, very short and full, and profusely covered with silver spangles; white silk stockings and white satin or kid shoes; rich white and silver wreaths, and bright, filmy, white wings.

For an hour the cathedral door was kept closed, the soldiers remaining all that time with bowed heads, motionless as statues. At length the door was slowly opened, and one of the men wearing violet, having in his hand a long wand, at the end of which appeared a small bright flame, passed out, and proceeded to light up numerous tapers which had been placed on the front of different houses in the Praca. As soon as this was done, a command from an officer caused the men to resume their caps and their upright attitude. Presently the rich, expressive music of a full band was again heard playing the Miserere, and the procession passed out between the glittering and bristling lines, its numbers and its images increased.

Following close after the garden of Gethsemane, there was now an image of the Virgin, attired in an ample purple robe and a long blue veil, worked in silver. The exquisite taste and skill of the Madeiran ladies, exerted upon the richest materials, had given to this figure a lifelike appearance far surpassing that which usually distinguishes other draped statues. Over the clasped hands the velvet seemed rather to droop than lie in folds, while the expression of the attitude, which was that of earnest supplication, as if craving sympathy for some crushing woe, was heightened by the artistic arrangement of the heavy plaits of the robe.

The men who carried this image, and those immediately preceding and following it, wore blue instead of violet cassocks, while the little angels who had brought up the van of the first procession were now clustered about the bearers of the image of the Virgin.

From the cathedral the pageant passed on through the principal streets into the country, the faint peal of the trumpets occasionally coming back to the ear, mingled with the silvery sound of the bells, and the deep boom of the minute-guns. At the foot of the Mount church, however, various changes were effected. The little girls quietly separated themselves from the crowd, and, being watched for by anxious mothers and elder sisters, {271} were carried home. A deputy bishop took the place of his superior beneath the canopy, other men relieved the bearers of the banners and images, and other musicians released those whose attendance had commenced with the dawn. All through the day you could trace their course, only occasionally losing sight of them, and all through the night too, by the light of the cedar-wood torches borne by little boys, in snowy tunics, who had joined the procession at the foot of the mount.

To understand how beautiful was the effect of this, you must look with me on the unique and picturesque town of Funchal, running round the blue waters of the bay, and rising up into the vineyards and groves and gardens clothing the encircling hills. A golden light slumbers over the whole scene, so pure and luminous that we can trace distinctly every feature in the luxuriant landscape. The white houses of the town crowned with terrinhas, or turrets, and having hanging balconies glowing with flowers of rare beauty; the majestic palms expanding their broad and beautiful heads over high garden walls; the feathery banana waving gracefully on sunny slopes, where clumps of the bright pomegranates display their crimson pomp; the shady plane-trees running in rows along the streets; the snowy quintas or villas on the hills, becoming fewer and more scattered toward the summit; the churches and nunneries on higher elevations; and still further up the white cottages of the peasantry, with their vine-trellised porches and their gardens of pears, peaches, and apricots; while above and around all these, forming a sublime amphitheatre as they tower to nearly six thousand feet above the level of the sea, are the Pico Ruivo and Pico Grande. A wreath of purple mist lay that day, as it almost always does, on their topmost peaks, giving now and again glimpses of their picturesque outline, as, like a soft transparent veil, it was folded and unfolded by the breeze roaming over the solitudes of scented broom and heather. Through such scenes, in view of all, moved the long, glittering pageant just described.

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Chapter III

Everywhere the grave declares its victory--in beautiful Madeira as elsewhere. An old servant, whose business it was to cut up fire-wood and carry it into the house, has performed his last earthly duty and finished life's journey. He dwelt with his mother and sister in a cottage at the extremity of the garden; and I was only apprised of the circumstances of his death by hearing loud cries coming up from the shady walks, and the exclamations: "Alas, my son, my son!" and "Oh, my brother!" repeated over and over in accents of uncontrollable grief.

It is customary, as soon as a death occurs in the family of one of the peasant class, for all the survivors to rush forth into the open air, and, with cries and lamentations, to call on the dead by every endearing epithet and implore of them to return once more. The neighbors being thus made acquainted with what has occurred, gather round the mourners, and try to steal away the bitterness of their grief by reminding them that all living shall share the same fate, and that one by one each shall depart in his turn to make his bed in the silent chamber of the grave. By such simple consolations--untaught nature's promptings--they induce the bereaved ones to re-enter the house and prepare the body for interment.

The heat of the climate renders hasty burial necessary in Madeira, and the authorities are strict in enforcing it. From ten to twelve hours is the longest period allowed by law between death and the grave, and the very poor seldom permit even so much time to elapse; they merely wait to ascertain to a certainty that the hand of death has released the imprisoned {272} soul before they wrap up the body and carry it with hurrying feet to "breathless darkness and the narrow house."

In such instances coffins are rarely used, and when they are, they are hired by the hour. The usual way is to roll the body up tightly in a sere cloth, then place it in a "death hammock" (which resembles an unbleached linen sheet, tied at the ends to an iron pole); and hurry with it to an unhonored grave.

A few days subsequent to the death of the old servant, the remains of a little girl were borne past; the sight was so singular I think it worth describing.

Moving slowly and solemnly along the street were a number of men, habited in deep blue home-made cloth, the two foremost of whom carried a light iron bier, on which lay the body of a little girl, whose brief period of life numbered not more than five summers. A robe of soft, clear, snowy muslin enveloped the motionless form like a cloud; on the tiny feet, crossed in rest at last, were white silk stockings and white shoes; and her little hands, which must so lately have found gleeful employment in scattering the fragments of broken toys, were now meekly folded on her bosom over a bouquet of orange blossoms. A heavy wreath of the same flowers, mingled with a few leaves of the allegro campo, encircled her young brow, which, as may be supposed, wore that lovely, calm expression described by poets as the impress of "heaven's signet-ring."

In almost every one of the varied scenes of life orange blossoms are made use of in Madeira, either as types or emblems. Wreaths of them grace the bride's young head, as being emblematical of the beauty and purity of her character; as typical of a grief which shall be ever fresh, chaplets of them crown the pale brows of the dead. On the anniversary of a birth-day they are presented to the aged as an embodiment of the truth that they shall again renew their youth; while the proud triumphal arch is adorned with their snowy bells, as an assurance that the occasion for which it was erected shall be held in ever-enduring remembrance.

The little child on the rude bier, who looked as fair in her death-sleep as these fairest of flowers, was being carried to the cemetery belonging to the resident Roman Catholics, and known as Laranjeira. There a priest was awaiting its arrival. He was standing by the open grave, and when the body was laid at his feet he read over it in Latin a short burial service, placed some grains of dust on the pulseless bosom, and departed. Being carefully wrapped in a sere doth, it was then placed in a shallow grave (according to custom) and lightly covered with three or four inches of earth.

Laranjeira is situated on the west of the town. Passing up the Augustias Hill the stranger sees a large, handsome gate near the empress's hospital; this is the entrance to the graveyard. Inside is a small flower-garden, tastefully laid out and neatly kept, through which you pass to the broad stone steps leading to the fine gravel walk running quite through the cemetery. Another walk, also of considerable width, leads round it, while several narrower ones, shaded by hedges of geraniums, roses, and lavender, are cut through it in different directions. Inclosing the whole is a high wall, studded with monumental tablets, on some of which praise and grief are charactered in deep, newly-cut letters, while from many others time has either obliterated every trace of writing, or the pains and the heat have washed and bleached them into meaningless, cloudy white slabs. There are but few monuments or even tombstones of any pretension, though many of the latter bear English inscriptions. Rows of cypress trees border the centre walk, and almost every grave in the inclosure is overshadowed by a weeping willow.

{273}

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Chapter IV

It was the last week in Lent, and, according to our manner of computing time, it was eleven o'clock A.M. of the day known as "Holy Thursday." Reckoning, however, as the Madeirans do, it was the last hour of that day, and the next would be the first of Good Friday.

An unusual silence had reigned in the town since the first streaks of purple light appeared in the east, as if to render more remarkable the din which at the hour above-named assailed the ears of the inhabitants of Funchal. Strains of military music filled the air, mingled with the tolling of bells and the firing of guns, which found a hundred echoes in the adjoining hills. These sounds were the signals to the people of Madeira that the time was drawing near when the most imposing ceremonial of their religion would be celebrated. With the first trumpet-notes the streets began to fill, every house sending forth its inmates, whether rich or poor, old or young, either to witness or take part in the spectacles of the day. As on all like occasions, the peasantry, in their best attire, poured in with astonishing rapidity; while crowding in with them were ladies in hammocks, clad in robes of rainbow hues, and partially concealed from curious eyes by silken curtains of pink or blue, which were matched in color by the vests of the bearers, and the ribbons with long floating ends adorning their broad-brimmed straw hats; and gentlemen on horseback, whom you at once would recognize as natives by their short stature, their bright vests, neckties, and hat-ribbons, and their profusion of rich, showy ornaments. Quietly making their way on foot through this throng were the English merchants, with their wives and daughters, distinguished from those by whom they were surrounded by an air of severe reserve and a studied simplicity of dress. A few handsome wheeled carriages also appeared on the scene, and one or two of the awkward looking boi-cars. All were taking the same direction, the Praca da Constitutionel, and the common object was to gain admission to the cathedral. At every turn the crowd augmented, and even masquers joined in considerable numbers--but these latter brought neither jest nor laughter with their presence; the ceremonies of the day had subdued even them, causing them to abandon the vacant gaiety appertaining to their attire for a demeanor more fitting the time and occasion.

Arrived at the cathedral, each party, no matter how exalted their rank, encountered a delay in obtaining an entrance. The throng around the door was great, and it was in vain that the soldiers endeavored to keep the general crowd at a distance. Trained as the Madeirans are to habits of deference to both military and ecclesiastical authority, they become, like other people, audacious and headstrong when assembled in large multitudes, and, in spite of both church and state, they now sought an entrance by the exertion of physical force, and some hundreds succeeded.

While, however, the struggle and contention at the door remained unabated, the ceremonial which all were so anxious to witness had been enacted within. To describe it is needless. The hour when the God-man poured forth his soul even unto death is a sad and awful memory familiar to us all. Let us, therefore, look at the scene which the cathedral presents at two o'clock on that day.

The windows are boarded up on the outside, and within are covered with curtains of heavy black cloth. The walls all round are hung with fine stuff of the same color, concealing the paintings and other ornaments, and the altar is hidden behind drapery of black velvet with ghastly-looking borders of silver. Between this gloomy vail and the cancelli, or railings, you see a magnificent catafalque, and on it {274} a coffin covered and lined with rich black velvet. A pale, corpse-like figure, wearing a crown of thorns, lies within, blood flowing from the wounded brow (or appearing to flow) and from the hands which lie outside the winding-sheet of snowy linen. Numerous tapers surround the catafalque, but from some cause they carry such weak, glimmering flames, that a dim, uncertain light pervades the immediate precincts of the altar, leaving the rest of the building in deep shadow. Habited in close-fitting black silk robes, and with heads bowed down as in unspeakable sorrow, several priests stand round the coffin, while fitful wails and sobs from the multitude show that the scene is not without its effect.

An hour passed thus, and was succeeded by a sudden and dismal silence, as if the great heart of the multitude had become exhausted with sorrow, when the melancholy cadences of the Miserere coming down from the huge organ as if rolling from the clouds, awoke up anew the grief of the people, and low cries and half-stifled groans mingled freely with the long-drawn, plaintive notes. Meantime the bishop, habited in his most simple sacerdotal robes, came from the sacristy and stood at the foot of the coffin, while four priests raised it from the catafalque by means of loops of black silk and silver cord. The bishop then moved forward, the dense crowd opening a lane for him as he passed slowly round the church, followed by the four priests carrying the coffin, and by others bearing the dim tapers. As He returned toward the altar the people's sorrow seemed to increase, and every head was stretched forward to catch a last glimpse of the coffin, when just as the procession got within the cancelli a heavy curtain was let fall, shutting in altar, catafalque, and tapers, and leaving the cathedral in utter darkness.

This scene was meant to represent the burial in the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, and while the greater portion of the congregation were weeping aloud, a voice was heard proceeding from the pulpit, and pronouncing that preliminary sentence to a sermon known as the "blessing."

In an instant the sounds of grief were hushed, and the mute audience seemed to suppress their very breathing while they anxiously listened to the words of the preacher.

Spoken in a tongue with which few visitors to the island are acquainted, the discourse took to the ears of strangers the shape of a varied murmur, whose tones and cadences played on the very heart-strings of the auditors, awakening at will feelings of fear, agony, remorse, and repentance. As he proceeded, the passion and pathos of his accents increased, and when he ceased to speak a desolate stillness pervaded the whole multitude. Presently two men entered from a side door bearing dim tapers, and at the same moment the great door leading into the Praca was opened, and the congregation poured like a tide into the open air, while low, soft sighs and murmurs falling on the ear told of feelings of relief which words were powerless to express.

For a moment the throng leaving the church mingled with the multitude without. The solid mass swayed like a troubled sea, and then quietly broke up and scattered widely. Men in trade turned their faces homeward, the business of life being, in their judgment, of more importance than any further participation in the day's proceedings. Elderly men and women of the lower classes sought out those houses and temporary sheds, over the doors of which the four golden letters, "P.V.A.B.," served the same purpose as the less mysterious British announcement of "entertainment for man and horse;" while the young peasants and artisans, forming an immense concourse, went shouting toward the Mount road, leaving the streets leading to the beach free from all obstacles, a circumstance of which the more respectable and even aristocratic {275} portion of the multitude eagerly availed themselves. Mingling with all parties were ragged-looking vendors of curiosities, clamorous old beggars, and younger ones whose brilliant, laughing black eyes contradicted the earnest appeal of the lips.

Should our taste or curiosity lead us to follow the mob to the Mount road we behold one of those singular exhibitions which excite almost to frenzy--a hideous, straw-stuffed figure, or effigy, of Pontius Pilate, tied on the back of a poor, miserable, lean donkey. Amidst the wildest shouts and fiercest turmoil this creature is dragged forward, every one taxing his inventive faculties to discover new indignities, by which to express his feelings of horror and disgust for the original. While the tumultuous throng thus parade through the principal streets of the town, the bay is seen covered by hundreds of boats, people of almost every nation in Europe reclining beneath their awnings as they sweep slowly over the blue waves toward the Loo Rock, or idly glide in front of that well-known point, beneath which on the sands a gallows had been erected in the morning.

Some hours passed, however, and there was no occurrence either to gratify the taste or arouse the attention of the pleasure seekers. The sun was drawing near the verge of the horizon, and the sea, assuming the most intense shades of crimson, gold, and purple, differed only from the magnificent canopy which it mirrored in that it gleamed with a more wondrous splendor, as if a veil of diamonds floated and trembled over its broad expanse. Not alone the sea, however, but the whole landscape was bathed in the rich amber and purple floods of light which on that evening streamed down from the ever changing firmament. The sublime mountains of Pico Ruivo and Pico Grande were crowned with radiance, the graceful hills, with their unnumbered giant flowers, their gardens and vineyards, their rivulets and waterfalls, glowed in the lustrous beams, while the brown sands on the semi-circular beach, reaching from the picturesque basalts of Garajaô to Ponta da Cruz, glittered as if a shower of diamond sparklets had fallen on them.

At length loud and prolonged shouts, mingling with the music of military bands, were heard approaching from the town, and immediately after a riotous and excited crowd, amongst which appeared hundreds of masquers, came pressing forward with extravagant gestures, and driving before them toward the gallows the ill-used donkey and its foul and hideous burthen.

A general movement at once took place among the boats, as the crew of each sought to obtain the most favorable position for witnessing the revolting spectacle of hanging the effigy, which was accomplished with all the appalling ceremonies which might have been deemed necessary, or which the law might have demanded, had the Governor of the Jews been there in person.

The hatred of the exulting mob being at length satiated, the figure was cut down and cast into the sea, calling forth a last volley of execration as it rolled and floundered on the long blue swells, or momentarily sunk out of sight in the troughs, while the ebbing tide carried it out to the deep.

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