Lha Dhu; Or, The Dark Day by William Carleton
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William Carleton >> Lha Dhu; Or, The Dark Day
LHA DHU;
OR, THE DARK DAY.
By William Carleton
There is no country in the world whose scenery is more sweetly
diversified, or more delicately shaded away into that exquisite variety
of surface which presents us with those wavy outlines of beauty that
softly melt into each other, than is that of our own green island. Alas!
how many deep valleys, wild glens, green meadows, and pleasant hamlets,
lie scattered over the bosom of a country, peopled by inhabitants who
are equally moved by the impulses of mirth and sorrow; each valley, and
glen, and pleasant hamlet marked by some tearful remembrance of humble
calamity of which the world never hears. How little do its proud
nobility know of the fair and still beauty which marks the unbroken
silence of its most delightful retreats, or of the unassuming records
of love or sorrow, which pass down through a single generation, and
are soon lost in the rapid stream of life. We do not love to
remember sorrow, but its traces, notwithstanding, are always the most
uneffaceable, and, what is strange as true, its mournful imprint remains
ever the longest upon the heart that is most mirthful. We talk not now
of the hollow echo, like mirth, which comes from thousands only because
the soul is wanting. No; but we say that as the diamond is found in the
darkness of the mine, as the lightning shoots with most vivid flashes
from the gloomiest cloud, so does mirthfulness frequently proceed from
a heart susceptible of the deepest melancholy. Many and true are the
simple tales of Irish life which could prove this. Many a fair laughing
girl who has danced in happiness, light as a mote in the sunbeam, has
been suddenly left in darkness, bowed down in youth and beauty to the
grave, and though the little circle of which she was the centre may have
been disturbed by her untimely life, yet in brief space, except to a few
yearning and stricken hearts who could not forget her who was once their
pride and hope, her Memory has passed away like a solitary bird, viewed
as it goes over us, and followed wistfully, by the eye, until by degrees
it lessens and lessens--becomes dim--then fades into a speck, and
ultimately melts into the blue distance of heaven. One such a "simple
annal," brought about by the inscrutable hand that guides the destinies
of life, we are now about to present to our readers. Were it the mere
creation of our fancy, it might receive many of those embellishments at
our hand with which we scruple not to adorn the shadowy idealities of
fiction.
It is, however, one of those distressing realities so often produced
by the indulgence of vehement passion, that we are compelled by the
melancholy severity of its truth to give the details of, not, alas, as
we could have wished them to happen, but simply as they occurred.
The village of _Ballydhas_ was situated in the bosom of as sweet a
valley as ever gladdened the eye and the heart of a man to look upon.
Contentment, peace, and prosperity, walked step by step with its happy
inhabitants. The people were marked by a pastoral simplicity of manners,
such as is still to be found in some of the remote and secluded hamlets
of Ireland. The vale was green and shelving, having its cornfields,
its pasturage, and its patches of fir, poplar, and mountain-ash
intermingled, and creeping up on each side in wild but quiet beauty to
the very mountain tops that enclosed it. At the head of the glen reposed
a small clear sheet of water, as calm and unruffled as the village
itself. By this sweet lake was fed the pure stream which murmured down
between the banks, here and there opened, and occasionally covered by
hazel, black-thorn, or birches. As it approached the village the scenery
about it became more soft and tranquil. The banks spread away into
meadows flower-spangled and green; the fields became richer; the corn
waved to the soft breezes of summer; the noon-day smoke of the dinner
fires rose up, and was gently borne away to the more wide-spread scene
of grandeur and cultivation that lay in the champaign country below it.
On each side of the glen were masses of rock and precipices, just large
enough to give sufficient wildness and picturesque beauty to a view
which in itself was calm and serene. In the distance about a mile to the
north, stood out a bold but storm-vexed headland, that heaved back the
mighty swell of the Atlantic, of which a glimpse could be caught from
an eminence above the village. Nothing indeed could be finer than the
booming fury of the giant billows, as they shivered themselves into
spray, and thundered around the gloomy caverns of the headland,
especially when contrasted with the calm sense of peace and security
which reposed upon the neat white village in the glen.
How sweet of a summer Sabbath morning to sit upon the brow of this
delightful valley, and contemplate in the light dreams of a happy heart
its humble images of all that is pure, and peaceful, and soothing in
life; the little bustle of preparation for the cheerful but solemn
duties of the day; the glad voices of bright-faced boys and girls,
eager to get on their Sunday clothes; the busy stirring about of each
tucked-up matron, washing, and combing, and pinning her joyous little
ones; and the contented father now dressed, placidly smoking his
after-breakfast pipe, looking upon their little cares, and their
struggles for precedence in being decked out with their humble finery;
now rebuking an elder boy for his impatience and want of consideration
in not allowing his juniors to get first dressed, and again soothing a
younger one until his turn came.
"Barney, troth you ought to have more sinse, avick, than to be
quarrellin' wid poor Jemmy about gettin' an you. Don't you know he's
but a child, an' must of coorse get his little things an before you,
espishially as this is the first Sunday of the crathur's new jacket an'
throwsers. Blood alive, Barney, be manly, and don't make comparishment
wid a _pasitah_ (child). I hope you've got off your lesson in the
catechiz this mornin', and that you wont have to hang down your head wid
the blush of shame among the _bouchaleens_ (little boys) in the chapel
to-day. Go 'way, avick, and rehearse it, an' whin your mother finishes
him, and Dick, and little Mary, she'll have yourself as clane as a new
sixpence."
Then came the moment when the neat and well-dressed groups issued out
of their happy homes, and sought in cheerful companionship with those
of different creeds, their respective places of worship; for, gentle
reader, the inhabitants of Ballydhas were, in point of religion, some
Protestant, some Roman Catholic, and others Presbyterian. Many a time
have we seen them proceed together in peace and friendship along the
same road, until they separated either to church, to meeting, or to
chapel; and again return on their way home, in a spirit equally cordial
and kind. The demon of political discord and religious rancor had not
come among them. Each class in the parish worshipped God after its own
manner. All were happy, and industrious, and independent, for they had
not then been taught that they were slaves and natural enemies groaning
under the penal yoke of oppression.
Their fairs and markets were equally peaceful. Neither faction-fight nor
party-fight ever stained the streets with blood. The whoop of strife was
never raised by neighbor against neighbor, nor the coat trailed, or the
caubeen thrown up into the air to challenge an opposite faction. There
was, in truth, none of all this. The people were moral and educated.
Religion they attended with that decorous sense of decency which always
results from a sincere perception of its obligations and influence.
Yet were they not without their sports and rustic amusements. Where
the bitterness of malignity is absent, cheerfulness has full play, and
candor, ever open and benevolent, is the exponent of mirth and good
will. Though their fairs and markets were undisturbed by the savage
violence of mutual conflict, yet were they enlivened by the harmless
pastimes which throw the charm of uncorrupted life over the human heart
and the innocent scenes from which it draws in its amusements. Life is
harsh enough, and we are no friends to those who would freeze its genial
current by the gloomy chill of ascetic severity.
Within about two miles of Ballydhas stood the market town of the parish.
It also bore the traces of peace and happiness. Around it lay a rich
fertile country, studded with warm homesteads, waving fields, and
residences of a higher rank, at once elegant and fashionable. The gentry
were not, it is true, of the highest class; but in lieu of that they
were kind, considerate, and what was before all, resident. If an
accidental complaint happened to be preferred by one man against
another, they generally were qualified by a knowledge of their
characters to administer justice between them, without the risk of being
misled by misrepresentation. This prevented many complaints founded
in malice or party-spirit, and consequently reduced litigation to
an examination of the very few cases in which actual injury had been
sustained.
Many a fair day have we witnessed in this quiet and thriving market
town. And it is sweet to us--yes, intensely sweet to leave, for a
moment, the hollow and slippery pathways of artificial life--of that
unfeeling, unholy and loathsome selfishness of heart, and soul, and
countenance, which marks as with a brand of infamy, the fictions of
fashionable and metropolitan society, where every person and profession
you meet, is a lie or a libel to be guarded against. Yes, it is pleasant
to us to leave all this, and to go back in imagination to a fair day in
the town of Balaghmore. Like an annual festival, it stole upon us with
many yearning wish, that time, at least for a month before, should be
annihilated. And when the fair morning came, what a drifting tide of
people, cows, sheep, horses, and pigs, passed on in the eager tumult
of business, before our eyes. The comfortable farmer in his best gray
frize; the young man in spruce corduroy breeches, home-made blue coat,
and bran new hat; the tidy maiden with neat bunch of yarn, spun by her
own fingers, giving sufficient proof to her bachelor that a young woman
of industrious habits uniformly makes the best wife for a poor man.
Various, indeed, were the classes that, in multitudinous groups, drifted
towards the fair green. The spruce, well-mounted horse-jockey, with
bottle-green coat closely buttoned, tight buckskin inexpressibles,
long-lashed hunting-whip, and top-boots; the drover on his plump hack,
pacing slowly after his fat beeves; the gentleman farmer, trundling
along in his gig, or trotting smartly on a bit of half-blood. Here go
a family group, the children with new hats and ruffles, grandfather a
little behind, with the hand of an own pet boy or a girl in his;
observe the joy of their faces; what complacent happiness on the ruddy
countenance of the healthy old man. The parents are also happy, but
betray the unconscious anxiety of those who love their children, and
are sensible of the serious duties inseparable from their condition;
the four little ones know not the cares of affection, and, consequently,
their looks are full of delight, eagerness, and curiosity. What a tide
of bewildered interrogatories does the fifth urchin pour upon the ear of
the old grandfather, who is foolish enough to stop the whole group,
in order to relate the precocious pertinency of some particular query.
There goes a snug farmer, his wife, and good-looking daughters, seated
upon a farm-car that is trussed with straw, covered by a blue quilt. We
will wager that some "good woman" has somewhere about the premises a few
cakes of hard griddle-wheat, to eat when they get hungry, with a glass
of punch, and, it may be, a good slice or two of excellent hung beef or
bacon. But now they approach town, and the stream thickens. There go the
beggars, mendicants, and impostors, showing a degree of agility rather
impracticable with their respective maladies, grievous and deplorable as
they all, of course, are; and toiling vehemently after them, hops "Bill
i' the Bowl," pitching himself along in a copper-fastened dish, with a
small stool or _creepie_ supporting each hand. But now the whole sweep
of the town and fair-green open to us; tents, and standings, and tables,
and roasting and boiling are all about us; for the _spoileen_ fires are
in operation, and many a fat sheep will be cut up, as well for those
who have never tasted mutton before, as for hundreds who eat rather
from hunger than curiosity. Heavens! what an astounding multitude of
discordant noises all blend into one hoarse, deep, drowsy body of sound,
for which we can find no suitable term. Cows lowing, sheep bleating,
pigs grunting, horses neighing, men shouting, women screaming, fiddlers
playing, pipes squeeling, youngsters, dancing, hammering up of standings
and tents, thumping of restive or lazy animals, the show-man's drum, the
lottery-man's speech, the ballad-singer's squall, all come upon us; and
lastly, the unheeded sweep of the death-bell, as it tells with sullen
tongues that some poor mortal has for ever departed from the cares and
amusements, the trade and traffic, of this transitory life.
About twelve o'clock the fair-tide is full; for that is the time in
which the greatest interchange of property, and the most vigorous
transactions of business, with all accompanying bustle and activity,
take place. For an hour or two this continues. About three o'clock the
tide is evidently on the ebb; business begins to slacken, and those
who have their transactions brought to a close, meet their families and
friends at the place of rendezvous--always a public house. It is now,
indeed, when the heat and burden of the day have passed, and refreshment
becomes both grateful and necessary, that the people fall into distinct
groups for the purpose of social enjoyment. If two young folk have been
for some time "_coortin_" one another, "the bachelor," which in Ireland
means a suitor, generally contrives to bring his friends and those of,
his sweetheart together. The very fact of their accepting the "thrate,"
on either side, or both, is a good omen, and considered tantamount to
a mutual consent of their respective connections. This, however, is not
always so; for it often happens that a match is broken off after many
a friendly compotation has been held "upon the head of it," which means
upon that subject. Let the reader stand with us for a few minutes, and
we will point out to him one or two groups who have met for the purpose
of settling a marriage. Do you see that tall _sthreel_ of a fellow,
who slings awkwardly along, for which reason he is nicknamed by his
acquaintances "a sling-poke"? Observe the lazy grotesque repose of his
three-featured face, for more it does not present, viz.--mouth, eyes,
and nose. His long legs are without calves, and he is in-kneed; yet the
fellow has such taste, that in order to show his shape he must needs
wear breeches! Look at his coat, which was made for him about five years
ago, when he was but "a slip of a boy." The thin collar only reaches
to the upper part of his shoulder; and as he is what is called
"crane-necked," of course the distance between his hat and the collar
is incredible. The arms of the said coat are set so far in, that they
appear almost to meet behind; but, on the other hand, two naked bones,
each about six inches in length, project from the cuffs, which come not
far below his elbows. The coat itself is what is called a jerkin; and
as the buttons behind are half-way up his back, it is a matter of course
that the tail, which runs rapidly to a point, is ludicrously scanty.
Now, that youth, who is probably under no sense of gratitude to the
graces, has put his "co-medher" on the prettiest girl, with one or
two exceptions, in the whole parish. The miserable pitch-fork, the
longitudinal rake--we speak now in a hay-making sense--has contrived
to oust half a dozen of the handsomest and best-looking fellows in the
parish. How he has done this is a mystery to his acquaintances; but
it is none to us--we know him. The kraken has a tongue dripping with
honey--one that would smooth a newly-picked millstone. There they go,
each of them laughing and cheerful, except himself; yet the fellow,
though conscious of his own influence, enters the public-house as if
he were going on the forlorn hope, or trailing his straggling limbs to
confide his last wishes to the ear of the sheriff or hangman. He is,
however, an Irishman at heart, though little indeed of the national
bearing is visible in his deportment.
Here again comes a second group. Keep your eye on that good-humored,
ruddy-faced young man, compact and vigorous, who is evidently the wag of
his party. Observe his tight-titling, comfortable frize, neat brogues,
and breeches, on the knees of which are two double knots of silk ribbon.
See with what a smart, decisive air he wears his hat--"jauntily," as
Leigh Hunt would say--upon one side of his head. That fellow has a high
character for gallantry, and is allowed to be "the very sorrow among
the girls"--"a Brinoge," "wid an eye that 'ud steal cold praties off
a dresser." He is now leading in a girl, handsome no doubt, but who,
nevertheless, does not possess sixpence, or sixpence worth for her
portion. Not so the sword-fish we have pointed out to you a while ago,
the tail of whose short coat lay as closely to him as that of a crab.
The cassoway has secured a girl who, in point of wealth and dower, will
be the making of him. However, you know the secret, Solomon says that
a soft answer turneth away wrath; but what will not a soft question do,
when put to a pretty girl, where there is no wrath?
Here comes another party, fewer in point of number than those we have
shown you; a young man, a middle-aged woman, and her two daughters--one
grown,the other only about fifteen. Who is--ah!--it is not necessary to
inquire. Alley Bawn Murray! Gentle reader bow with heartfelt respect to
humble beauty and virtue! She is that widow's daughter, the pride of the
parish, and the beloved of all who can appreciate goodness, affection,
and filial piety. The child accompanying them is her sister, and that
fine, manly, well-built, handsome youth is even now pledged to the
modest and beautiful girl. He is the son of a wealthy farmer, some time
dead; but in purity, in truth, and an humble sense of religion, their
hearts are each rich and each equal.
Alas! alas! that it should be so! but we cannot control the inscrutable
designs of Heaven. The spirit of our narrative must change, and our tale
can henceforth breathe nothing but what is as mournful as it is true.
There they pass into that public-house, true-hearted and attached;
unconscious, too, poor things, of the almost present calamity that
is soon to wither that noble boy and his beautiful betrothed. Their
history, up to the period of their entering the public-house, is very
brief and simple. Felix O'Donnell was the son of a farmer, as we have
said, sufficiently extensive and industrious to be wealthy, without
possessing any of the vulgar pride which rude independence frequently
engrafts upon the ignorant and narrow-hearted. His family consisted of
two sons and a daughter--Maura, the last-named, being the eldest, and
Felix by several years the junior of his brother Hugh. Between the two
brothers there was in many things a marked contrast of character, whilst
in others there might be said to exist a striking similarity. Hugh was
a dark-brown, fiery man when opposed, though in general quiet and
inoffensive. His passions blazed out with fury for a moment, and only
for a moment; for no sooner had he been borne by their vehemence
into the commission of an error, that he became quickly alive to
the promptings of a heart naturally affectionate and kind. In money
transactions he had the character of being a hard man; yet were there
many in the parish who could declare that they found him liberal and
considerate. The truth was, that he estimated money at more than its
just value, without absolutely giving up his heart to its influence.
When a young man, though in good circumstances, he looked cautiously
about him, less for the best or the handsomest wife than the largest
dower. In the speculation, so far as it was pecuniary, he succeeded; but
his domestic peace was overshadowed by the gloom of his own character,
and not unfrequently disturbed by the violent temper of a wife who
united herself to him with an indifferent heart. He was, in short, a man
more respected than loved; one of whom it was often said, "Well, well,
he's a decent man, nabours--a little hard or so about money, but for all
that there's worse. Sure we all have our failin's. There's one thing in
him any how, that if he offinds a man he's sorry for it: ay, an' when he
does chance to do a good turn, sorra a word ever any one hears about it
from his own lips. To be sure there's a great deal of the nager in him
no doubt, an' in troth he didn't take afther his own father for that.
Devil a dacenter man than ould Felix O'Donnell ever broke bread."
His brother Felix, in all that was amiable and affectionate, strongly
resembled him; but there the resemblance terminated Felix was subject to
none of his gloomy moods or violent outbursts of temper. He was
manly, liberal, and cheerful--valued money at its proper estimate,
and frequently declared, that in the choice of a wife he would never
sacrifice his happiness to acquire it.
"I have enough of my own," he would say; "and when I meet the woman that
my heart chooses, whether she has fortune or not, that's the girl that I
will bring to share it, if she can love me."
Felix and his sister both, resided together; for after his father's
death he succeeded to the inheritance that had been designed for him.
Maura O'Donnell was in that state of life in which we feel it extremely
difficult to determine whether a female is hopeless or not upon the
subject of marriage. Her humors had begun to ferment and to clear off
into that thin vinegar serum which engenders the exquisite perception of
human error, and the equally keen touch with which it is reproved. Time,
in fact, had begun to crimp her face, and the vinegar to sparkle in her
eye with that fiery gleam which is so easily lit up at five and thirty.
Still she loved Felix, whose good-humor constituted him a butt for the
irascible sallies of a temper more nearly allied to his brother Hugh's
than his own. He was her younger brother, too, of whom she was justly
proud; and she knew that Felix, in spite of the pungency of her frequent
reproofs, loved her deeply, as was evident by the many instances of his
considerate attention in bringing her home presents of dress, and in
contributing, as far as lay in his power, to her comfort.
The world, indeed, is too much in the habit of drawing distorted
inferences from the transient feuds that occasionally appear in domestic
life. It would be hard to find a family in which they do not sometimes
occur; and when noticed by strangers, it is both uncharitable and unjust
to conclude that there is an absence of domestic affection in the hearts
of those who, after all, prove no more than that they are subject to
the errors and passions of human nature, like their fellow creatures.
No sister, for instance, ever loved another with stronger affection than
poor Maura did her brother Felix, notwithstanding the repeated scoldings
which, for very trivial causes, he experienced at her tongue. Woe,
keen and scathing, be to those who dared, in her presence to utter an
insinuation against him.
"If she abused him, she only did it for his good, and because she loved
him; an' good right she had to love him, for a better brother never
breathed the breath of life. Wasn't he a mere boy, only one-and-twenty
years come next Lammas; and surely it stood to reason that he wanted
sometimes to be checked and scolded too. He had neither father or mother
to guide him, poor boy; and who would guide him, and advise him too, if
his own sister wouldn't do it? Only one-and-twenty, and six feet in his
shoes; but no _punhial_, no cabbage upon two pot-sticks, like some she
knew, that were ready enough to give boy a harsh word when they ought to
look nearer home, and--may-be--but she said nothing--as God forbid that
she'd make or meddle with any neighbor's character; but still, may-be,
they'd find enough to blame at home, if they'd open their eyes to their
own failings, as well as they do to the failings of their neighbors."
Another circumstance also strongly characteristic of the woman's heart,
was evinced in the high and vigorous tone she assumed towards Hugh,
whenever, in any of his dark moods, he happened to take Felix to task.
These fierce encounters, however, never occurred in Felix's presence;
for she thought that to take his part then, would remove, in a great
degree, the 'vantage ground on which she stood with reference to
himself. Difficult, indeed, was the part she found herself compelled
to play on those delicate occasions. She could not, as a moralist and
disciplinarian, proverbially strict, seem in any degree to countenance
the charges brought by Hugh against Felix; nor, on the other hand, was
it without a command of temper and heroic self-denial, rarely attained,
that she was able to keep, her indignation against Hugh pent up within
decorous and plausible limits. During the remonstrance of the latter,
she usually pushed the charges against Felix into the notorious failings
of Hugh himself, and this she did in a tone of irony so dry and cutting,
that Hugh was almost in every case, as willing to abandon the attack as
he had been to begin it.