Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu

by J. Sheridan le Fanu

  It was in vain for me to reason with this man of metres upon the unreasonableness of this despotic and exclusive assertion of copyright. I well remember his answer to me when, among other arguments, I urged the advisability of some care for the permanence of his reputation, as a motive to induce him to consent to have his poems written down, and thus reduced to a palpable and enduring form.

  ‘I often noticed,’ said he, ‘when a mist id be spreadin’, a little brier to look as big, you’d think, as an oak tree; an’ same way, in the dimmness iv the nightfall, I often seen a man tremblin’ and crassin’ himself as if a sperit was before him, at the sight iv a small thorn bush, that he’d leap over with ase if the daylight and sunshine was in it. An’ that’s the rason why I think it id be better for the likes iv me to be remimbered in tradition than to be written in history.’

  Finley has now been dead nearly eleven years, and his fame has not prospered by the tactics which he pursued, for his reputation, so far from being magnified, has been wholly obliterated by the mists of obscurity.

  With no small difficulty, and no inconsiderable manoeuvring, I succeeded in procuring, at an expense of trouble and conscience which you will no doubt think but poorly rewarded, an accurate ‘report’ of one of his most popular recitations. It celebrates one of the many daring exploits of the once famous Phaudhrig Crohoore (in prosaic English, Patrick Connor). I have witnessed powerful effects produced upon large assemblies by Finley’s recitation of this poem which he was wont, upon pressing invitation, to deliver at weddings, wakes, and the like; of course the power of the narrative was greatly enhanced by the fact that many of his auditors had seen and well knew the chief actors in the drama.

  ‘PHAUDHRIG CROHOORE.

  Oh, Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy,

  And he stood six foot eight,

  And his arm was as round as another man’s thigh,

  ’Tis Phaudhrig was great, —

  And his hair was as black as the shadows of night,

  And hung over the scars left by many a fight;

  And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud,

  And his eye like the lightnin’ from under the cloud.

  And all the girls liked him, for he could spake civil,

  And sweet when he chose it, for he was the divil.

  An’ there wasn’t a girl from thirty-five undher,

  Divil a matter how crass, but he could come round her.

  But of all the sweet girls that smiled on him, but one

  Was the girl of his heart, an’ he loved her alone.

  An’ warm as the sun, as the rock firm an’ sure,

  Was the love of the heart of Phaudhrig Crohoore;

  An’ he’d die for one smile from his Kathleen O’Brien,

  For his love, like his hatred, was sthrong as the lion.

  ‘But Michael O’Hanlon loved Kathleen as well

  As he hated Crohoore — an’ that same was like hell.

  But O’Brien liked HIM, for they were the same parties,

  The O’Briens, O’Hanlons, an’ Murphys, and Cartys —

  An’ they all went together an’ hated Crohoore,

  For it’s many the batin’ he gave them before;

  An’ O’Hanlon made up to O’Brien, an’ says he:

  “I’ll marry your daughter, if you’ll give her to me.”

  And the match was made up, an’ when Shrovetide came on,

  The company assimbled three hundred if one:

  There was all the O’Hanlons, an’ Murphys, an’ Cartys,

  An’ the young boys an’ girls av all o’ them parties;

  An’ the O’Briens, av coorse, gathered strong on day,

  An’ the pipers an’ fiddlers were tearin’ away;

  There was roarin’, an’ jumpin’, an’ jiggin’, an’ flingin’,

  An’ jokin’, an’ blessin’, an’ kissin’, an’ singin’,

  An’ they wor all laughin’ — why not, to be sure? —

  How O’Hanlon came inside of Phaudhrig Crohoore.

  An’ they all talked an’ laughed the length of the table,

  Atin’ an’ dhrinkin’ all while they wor able,

  And with pipin’ an’ fiddlin’ an’ roarin’ like tundher,

  Your head you’d think fairly was splittin’ asundher;

  And the priest called out, “Silence, ye blackguards, agin!”

  An’ he took up his prayer-book, just goin’ to begin,

  An’ they all held their tongues from their funnin’ and bawlin’,

  So silent you’d notice the smallest pin fallin’;

  An’ the priest was just beg’nin’ to read, whin the door

  Sprung back to the wall, and in walked Crohoore —

  Oh! Phaudhrig Crohoore was the broth of a boy,

  Ant he stood six foot eight,

  An’ his arm was as round as another man’s thigh,

  ’Tis Phaudhrig was great —

  An’ he walked slowly up, watched by many a bright eye,

  As a black cloud moves on through the stars of the sky,

  An’ none sthrove to stop him, for Phaudhrig was great,

  Till he stood all alone, just apposit the sate

  Where O’Hanlon and Kathleen, his beautiful bride,

  Were sitting so illigant out side by side;

  An’ he gave her one look that her heart almost broke,

  An’ he turned to O’Brien, her father, and spoke,

  An’ his voice, like the thunder, was deep, sthrong, and loud,

  An’ his eye shone like lightnin’ from under the cloud:

  “I didn’t come here like a tame, crawlin’ mouse,

  But I stand like a man in my inimy’s house;

  In the field, on the road, Phaudhrig never knew fear,

  Of his foemen, an’ God knows he scorns it here;

  So lave me at aise, for three minutes or four,

  To spake to the girl I’ll never see more.”

  An’ to Kathleen he turned, and his voice changed its tone,

  For he thought of the days when he called her his own,

  An’ his eye blazed like lightnin’ from under the cloud

  On his false-hearted girl, reproachful and proud,

  An’ says he: “Kathleen bawn, is it thrue what I hear,

  That you marry of your free choice, without threat or fear?

  If so, spake the word, an’ I’ll turn and depart,

  Chated once, and once only by woman’s false heart.”

  Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl dumb,

  An’ she thried hard to spake, but the words wouldn’t come,

  For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her,

  Wint could on her heart as the night wind in winther.

  An’ the tears in her blue eyes stood tremblin’ to flow,

  And pale was her cheek as the moonshine on snow;

  Then the heart of bould Phaudhrig swelled high in its place,

  For he knew, by one look in that beautiful face,

  That though sthrangers an’ foemen their pledged hands might

  sever, Her true heart was his, and his only, for ever.

  An’ he lifted his voice, like the agle’s hoarse call,

  An’ says Phaudhrig, “She’s mine still, in spite of yez all!”

  Then up jumped O’Hanlon, an’ a tall boy was he,

  An’ he looked on bould Phaudhrig as fierce as could be,

  An’ says he, “By the hokey! before you go out,

  Bould Phaudhrig Crohoore, you must fight for a bout.”

  Then Phaudhrig made answer: “I’ll do my endeavour,”

  An’ with one blow he stretched bould O’Hanlon for ever.

  In his arms he took Kathleen, an’ stepped to the door;

  And he leaped on his horse, and flung her before;

  An’ they all were so bother’d, that not a man stirred

  Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard.

  Th
en up they all started, like bees in the swarm,

  An’ they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm,

  An’ they roared, and they ran, and they shouted galore;

  But Kathleen and Phaudhrig they never saw more.

  ‘But them days are gone by, an’ he is no more;

  An’ the green-grass is growin’ o’er Phaudhrig Crohoore,

  For he couldn’t be aisy or quiet at all;

  As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall.

  And he took a good pike — for Phaudhrig was great —

  And he fought, and he died in the year ninetyeight.

  An’ the day that Crohoore in the green field was killed,

  A sthrong boy was sthretched, and a sthrong heart was stilled.’

  It is due to the memory of Finley to say that the foregoing ballad, though bearing throughout a strong resemblance to Sir Walter Scott’s ‘Lochinvar,’ was nevertheless composed long before that spirited production had seen the light.

  JIM SULIVAN’S ADVENTURES IN THE GREAT SNOW.

  Being a Ninth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis

  Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh.

  Jim Sulivan was a dacent, honest boy as you’d find in the seven parishes, an’ he was a beautiful singer, an’ an illegant dancer intirely, an’ a mighty plisant boy in himself; but he had the divil’s bad luck, for he married for love, an ‘av coorse he niver had an asy minute afther.

  Nell Gorman was the girl he fancied, an’ a beautiful slip of a girl she was, jist twinty to the minute when he married her. She was as round an’ as complate in all her shapes as a firkin, you’d think, an’ her two cheeks was as fat an’ as red, it id open your heart to look at them.

  But beauty is not the thing all through, an’ as beautiful as she was she had the divil’s tongue, an’ the divil’s timper, an’ the divil’s behaviour all out; an’ it was impossible for him to be in the house with her for while you’d count tin without havin’ an argymint, an’ as sure as she riz an argymint with him she’d hit him a wipe iv a skillet or whatever lay next to her hand.

  Well, this wasn’t at all plasin’ to Jim Sulivan you may be sure, an’ there was scarce a week that his head wasn’t plasthered up, or his back bint double, or his nose swelled as big as a pittaty, with the vilence iv her timper, an’ his heart was scalded everlastin’ly with her tongue; so he had no pace or quietness in body or soul at all at all, with the way she was goin’ an.

  Well, your honour, one cowld snowin’ evenin’ he kim in afther his day’s work regulatin’ the men in the farm, an’ he sat down very quite by the fire, for he had a scrimmidge with her in the mornin’, an’ all he wanted was an air iv the fire in pace; so divil a word he said but dhrew a stool an’ sat down close to the fire. Well, as soon as the woman saw him,

  ‘Move aff,’ says she, ‘an’ don’t be inthrudin’ an the fire,’ says she.

  Well, he kept never mindin’, an’ didn’t let an’ to hear a word she was sayin’, so she kim over an’ she had a spoon in her hand, an’ she took jist the smallest taste in life iv the boilin’ wather out iv the pot, an’ she dhropped it down an his shins, an’ with that he let a roar you’d think the roof id fly aff iv the house.

  ‘Hould your tongue, you barbarrian,’ says she; ‘you’ll waken the child,’ says she.

  ‘An’ if I done right,’ says he, for the spoonful of boilin’ wather riz him entirely, ‘I’d take yourself,’ says he, ‘an’ I’d stuff you into the pot an the fire, an’ boil you.’ says he, ‘into castor oil,’ says he.

  ‘That’s purty behavour,’ says she; ‘it’s fine usage you’re givin’ me, isn’t it?’ says she, gettin’ wickeder every minute; ‘but before I’m boiled,’ says she, ‘thry how you like THAT,’ says she; an’, sure enough, before he had time to put up his guard, she hot him a rale terrible clink iv the iron spoon acrass the jaw.

  ‘Hould me, some iv ye, or I’ll murdher her,’ says he.

  ‘Will you?’ says she, an’ with that she hot him another tin times as good as the first.

  ‘By jabers,’ says he, slappin’ himself behind, ‘that’s the last salute you’ll ever give me,’ says he; ‘so take my last blessin’,’ says he, ‘you ungovernable baste!’ says he — an’ with that he pulled an his hat an’ walked out iv the door.

  Well, she never minded a word he said, for he used to say the same thing all as one every time she dhrew blood; an’ she had no expectation at all but he’d come back by the time supper id be ready; but faix the story didn’t go quite so simple this time, for while he was walkin’, lonesome enough, down the borheen, with his heart almost broke with the pain, for his shins an’ his jaw was mighty troublesome, av course, with the thratement he got, who did he see but Mick Hanlon, his uncle’s sarvint by, ridin’ down, quite an asy, an the ould black horse, with a halter as long as himself.

  ‘Is that Mr. Soolivan?’ says the by. says he, as soon as he saw him a good bit aff.

  ‘To be sure it is, ye spalpeen, you,’ says Jim, roarin’ out; ‘what do you want wid me this time a-day?’ says he.

  ‘Don’t you know me?’ says the gossoon, ‘it’s Mick Hanlon that’s in it,’ says he.

  ‘Oh, blur an agers, thin, it’s welcome you are, Micky asthore,’ says Jim; ‘how is all wid the man an’ the woman beyant?’ says he.

  ‘Oh!’ says Micky, ‘bad enough,’ says he; ‘the ould man’s jist aff, an’ if you don’t hurry like shot,’ says he, ‘he’ll be in glory before you get there,’ says he.

  ‘It’s jokin’ ye are,’ says Jim, sorrowful enough, for he was mighty partial to his uncle intirely.

  ‘Oh, not in the smallest taste,’ says Micky; ‘the breath was jist out iv him,’ says he, ‘when I left the farm. “An”, says he, “take the ould black horse,” says he, “for he’s shure-footed for the road,” says he, “an’ bring, Jim Soolivan here,” says he, “for I think I’d die asy af I could see him onst,” says he.’

  ‘Well,’ says Jim, ‘will I have time,’ says he, ‘to go back to the house, for it would be a consolation,’ says he, ‘to tell the bad news to the woman?’ says he.

  ‘It’s too late you are already,’ says Micky, ‘so come up behind me, for God’s sake,’ says he, ‘an’ don’t waste time;’ an’ with that he brought the horse up beside the ditch, an’ Jim Soolivan mounted up behind Micky, an’ they rode off; an’ tin good miles it was iv a road, an’ at the other side iv Keeper intirely; an’ it was snowin’ so fast that the ould baste could hardly go an at all at all, an’ the two bys an his back was jist like a snowball all as one, an’ almost fruz an’ smothered at the same time, your honour; an’ they wor both mighty sorrowful intirely, an’ their toes almost dhroppin’ aff wid the could.

  And when Jim got to the farm his uncle was gettin’ an illegantly, an’ he was sittin’ up sthrong an’ warm in the bed, an’ improvin’ every minute, an’ no signs av dyin’ an him at all at all; so he had all his throuble for nothin’.

  But this wasn’t all, for the snow kem so thick that it was impassible to get along the roads at all at all; an’ faix, instead iv gettin’ betther, next mornin’ it was only tin times worse; so Jim had jist to take it asy, an’ stay wid his uncle antil such times as the snow id melt.

  Well, your honour, the evenin’ Jim Soolivan wint away, whin the dark was closin’ in, Nell Gorman, his wife, beginned to get mighty anasy in herself whin she didn’t see him comin’ back at all; an’ she was gettin’ more an’ more frightful in herself every minute till the dark kem an’, an’ divil a taste iv her husband was coming at all at all.

  ‘Oh!’ says she, ‘there’s no use in purtendin’, I know he’s kilt himself; he has committed infantycide an himself,’ says she, ‘like a dissipated bliggard as he always was,’ says she, ‘God rest his soul. Oh, thin, isn’t it me an’ not you, Jim Soolivan, that’s the unforthunate woman,’ says she, ‘for ain’t I cryin’ here, an’ isn’t he in heaven, the bliggard,’ says she. ‘Oh, voh, voh, it’s not at home comfortable wit
h your wife an’ family that you are, Jim Soolivan,’ says she, ‘but in the other world, you aumathaun, in glory wid the saints I hope,’ says she. ‘It’s I that’s the unforthunate famale,’ says she, ‘an’ not yourself, Jim Soolivan,’ says she.

  An’ this way she kep’ an till mornin’, cryin’ and lamintin; an’ wid the first light she called up all the sarvint bys, an’ she tould them to go out an’ to sarch every inch iv ground to find the corpse, ‘for I’m sure,’ says she, ‘it’s not to go hide himself he would,’ says she.

  Well, they went as well as they could, rummagin’ through the snow, antil, at last, what should they come to, sure enough, but the corpse of a poor thravelling man, that fell over the quarry the night before by rason of the snow and some liquor he had, maybe; but, at any rate, he was as dead as a herrin’, an’ his face was knocked all to pieces jist like an over-boiled pitaty, glory be to God; an’ divil a taste iv a nose or a chin, or a hill or a hollow from one end av his face to the other but was all as flat as a pancake. An’ he was about Jim Soolivan’s size, an’ dhressed out exactly the same, wid a ridin’ coat an’ new corderhoys; so they carried him home, an’ they were all as sure as daylight it was Jim Soolivan himself, an’ they were wondhering he’d do sich a dirty turn as to go kill himself for spite.

  Well, your honour, they waked him as well as they could, with what neighbours they could git togither, but by rason iv the snow, there wasn’t enough gothered to make much divarsion; however it was a plisint wake enough, an’ the churchyard an’ the priest bein’ convanient, as soon as the youngsthers had their bit iv fun and divarsion out iv the corpse, they burried it without a great dale iv throuble; an’ about three days afther the berrin, ould Jim Mallowney, from th’other side iv the little hill, her own cousin by the mother’s side — he had a snug bit iv a farm an’ a house close by, by the same token — kem walkin’ in to see how she was in her health, an’ he dhrew a chair, an’ he sot down an’ beginned to convarse her about one thing an’ another, antil he got her quite an’ asy into middlin’ good humour, an’ as soon as he seen it was time: