University of Virginia Library

TH' OULD MASTER

I

It mayn't be so much of a place whin ye reckon by land—Inish Fay—
Just a thrifle o' fields and a bog like; but if ye considher the say,
Sure we've lashins an' lavins o' that, spreadin' out and away like a floor
To Ratheen at the end of our bay, that's as far as ye'll look from your door,
An' that far ye'd scarce look in a week to the west, where there isn't, I'm tould,
One dhry step 'twixt yer fut an' the States; sartin 'tis the long waves do come rowled
Same as if they'd set out from the back o' beyant an' was thryin' how each
Could swell up to the sizeablest bigness afore it lapt o'er on the beach.
Ay, we've plenty enough o' the say, an' good luck to't; I don't understand
How the folk keep continted at all that be settled far up on the land,
Out o' reach o' the tides; 'tis like livin' wid never a chance to be spied,
And what use is one's life widout chances? Ye've always a chance wid the tide;
For ye never can tell what 'twill take in its head to sthrew round on the shore;
Maybe dhrift-wood, or grand bits o' boards, that comes handy for splicin' an oar;
Or a crab skytin' back o'er the shine o' the wet— sure, whatever ye've found,
It's a sort o' diversion thim whiles when ye're starvin' an' sthreelin' around.

II

I'd be noways denyin' the say's done ill turns on us now and agin;
But our bit of an Inish, begorrah, I'll stan' by thro' thick an' thro' thin,
For the pleasant ould times we've had on it is more than I'll ever forget,
And except for th' ould master's misfortins, belike we'd be havin' thim yet.
There was none lived continteder; he in the Big House that's screened from the wind
Up the hollow, an' ourselves by the shore wid the bank lanin' over behind,
An' the say washin' up to the doors, an' the sod runnin' down to our boats,
Where along o' the weed-dhrifts an' shells there'd be grazin' most whiles for the goats;
And our pratie-dhrills yonder—ochone, not the heart-scalds they've been to us since,
For it's bare-fut th' ould master'd ha' walked ere he'd ask for a poor body's pince,
If so happen—an' ready enough 'tis to happen— a bad saison came.
He was that sort, and young Misther Denis, God rest of his soul, was the same.

III

Yet 'twas just be the raison of him, Misther Denis, the throuble began.
For afore ye'd believe he shot up from a slip of a boy to a man;
Not his match in the counthry, sez we; an' th' ould master he thought that the lad
Bet creation, because, ye percaive, it was all o' the childher he had,
An' the misthress had died on thim both. So 'twas rael bad luck to befall
When young master tuk into his head to be off and away from us all,
An' to make of his fortin in 'Sthralia. Och, sure he'd one made fit an' fine,
But some money they owned, I've heard said, had got all swallied up in a mine,
An' that gave him the notion; an' thin there's the world young chaps fancy to see.
So th' ould master was fairly disthracted, an' couldn't abide the idee.
And he done all he could to pervint of his goin' an' coax him to stay,
For he got him the natest half-decker that ever was sailed in our bay,
An' for huntin' a mare that 'ud frighten the Saints wid the leps that she'd lep,
A grand baste—but no ha'porth o' use; Misther Denis he wouldn't be kep',
An' the sorra a thing good or bad 'ud persuade him to bide here contint,
For he'd clane set his heart upon goin'. An' so one fine mornin' he wint.

IV

And we missed him, faith, little an' big, but th ould master he missed him the worst,
It's a full ten year oulder he looked from that day. Howsomedever, at first
We thried puttin' the best face we could on the matter, an' talkin'a dale
Of how soon he'd be wid us agin; an' thin letters 'ud come by the mail
Wid discripshins of all Misther Denis was seein' an' doin' out there,
An' that cheered him up finely; an' whiles he'd step down where the most of us were,
When we'd sit on the pier afther work, an' 'ud read us out bits of his news
From Austhraly; an' thin we'd get gabbin' together like say-gulls an' mews
Whin they're fishin' an' fightin', of all Misther Denis 'ud do out of han'
Once he come home as rich as a Jew; the good stock that he'd put on the lan',
An' the fields he'd be dhrainin'; bedad, we'd the whole of it settled an' planned,
To the names o' the cows, an' which side o' the yard the new cart-shed 'ud stand.
Why, one night young Pat Byrne an' Joe Murphy they set to an' boxed up an' down
About which o' thim both'd get the job to look afther the greyhounds he'd own—
For we knew Misther Denis 'd be sartin to keep an odd few in the place—
An' th' ould master seemed rael diverted, an' gave thim a shillin' apiece.

V

But thin, it was maybe a couple o' twelve- months from whin he set out,
We began to misdoubt some bad luck, till at last we done worse than misdoubt,
For the throuble crep' closer each day; so I've watched a fog dhrift up the shore
Wipin' out one by one every field glintin' green in the sun just before.
An'to my mind that throuble's the worst, whin the time keeps jog-throttin' along,
An' because nothin' happens at all, ye get certiner somethin's gone wrong.
For if grief's to befall ye, I'd liefer 'twould lape on ye suddint when laste
Ye expect, an' grip hould o' your heart like some nathural sort o' wild baste,
Than come slitherin' by like a snake, an' be prickin' your fut wid its sting
That 'ill send the death crawlin' in could thro' your limbs. But 'twas just such a thing
Wid the young master's letters. For, first time one missed, all we said was the post
Had delayed it belike; an' next mail-day we said one might aisy be lost
Comin' that far; an' time an' agin we'd be sayin': ‘Och, musha, if aught
Would ha' happint him, some one'd ha' wrote fast enough wid the news’; but we thought
It was quare. Till at last we were dhruv to believe that he'd surely been tuk
Wid some fever, or met wid a hurt, and be thravellin' far off, be bad luck,
And had died all alone, wid the sorra a friend to be sendin' home word;
Or what else was the raison that year afther year tale nor tidings we heard?

VI

But it come cruel hard on th' ould master, for, livin' so lonesome an' quite,
He'd got naught to be takin' his mind off the throuble by day or by night.
An' he wouldn't let on he thought bad o' the matter; an' yet all the same,
He'd be off wid himself in the boat to the town every mornin' that came,
Like enough wid no chance in the world o' the mail bein' in, as he knew;
But he'd set Widdy Doyle at the office a-sortin' the letter-bags thro',
An' stan' watchin' as if one 'ud make all the differ 'twixt Heaven and Hell;
An' it never was Heaven; for always there'd be the same story to tell:
‘No, there's nought for your Honor this day.’ An' he stopped himself goin' at last,
And 'ud send the boys over, but, och, ere ye'd think they'd ha' fairly got past
Inish Greine, half ways back, he'd be thrampin' the pier lookin' out for the boat,
In a down-pour, mayhap, wid the win' fit to blusther the nap off his coat;
An' 'twas: ‘Sorra a thing for your Honor.’— Ochone, every sowl in the place
Would be heart-vexed to see him creep home be himself wid that news in his face.

VII

VIII

An' the last time he ever come down on the beach was a dhreary wild day
In the could heart o' March, whin the win' keeps a keen like a dog gone asthray,
An' the sun 'ill let on to be shinin' wid no taste of heat in it yet,
An' the world seems swep' empty an' waitin' for somethin' it never 'ill get.
So th' ould master come mopin' along where me boat was heeled up on the sands,
An' sat down wid his hands on the top of his stick, an' his chin on his hands;
Och, it's feeble, an' fretted, an' lonesome he looked as he stared o'er the gleam
O' the say; an' sez he to me: ‘Connor, I'm thinkin” th' ould Inish 'ill seem
Quare enough whin there's ne'er an O'Neil on't, an' we afther ownin' it all
For these hundrids o' years.’ An': ‘Yer Honor,’ sez,I, ‘that's not like to befall
In these hundrids o' years comin' by.’ But sez he wid a shake of his head:
‘Troth, 'twill happen as soon as I quit; for since he—they've no hope but he's dead—
To the sorra an O'Neil Inish Fay's bound to go; 'tis me uncle's son's son,
That lives over the wather. He'd plenty, he'd plenty—an' I'd but the one.
Little news I've e'er heard o' thim all, an' that little no good. I misdoubt
He'll be playin' the Divil's game here, an' be turnin' me poor people out:
Sure ye'll mind Misther Denis 'd ha' ne'er thried that trade? He would go, man, would go—
But in troth it's hard lines on yous all.’ An' sez I to meself: ‘It is so;
It's hard lines ne'er to know from one day to the other who'll be ownin' ye next,
Whether folks that be kind-like an' wait or a grabbin' ould naygur that's vext
Till he's got the thatch burnt o'er your head, an' the walls battered down round your hearth;
'Tis the same as if God an' the Divil tuk turns to be ownin' the earth’;
So thinks I to meself. But, och musha, who'd go to be sayin' a word
Might disthress the poor master thim times? And sez I: ‘Wid the help o' the Lord,
Div'l a sowl save your Honor's own self'll get the chance to be thratin” us hard
For this great while. An' happen your Honor'd step round now by Gallaher's yard,
For his pigs is a sight to behold.’ An' sez he: ‘Well, to-morrow I might—
But to-day—it's 'most time I turned home.’ The Saints shield him, 'twas clear as the light
That he hadn't the heart to be carin' for aught 'neath the sun, here or there.
An' he off wid him home to his big empty house; an' to-morrow came ne'er.

IX

Howsomedever, afore very long, oft enough one 'ud say to oneself
'Twas belike better luck afther all that th' ould master was laid on the shelf,
Than to have him about and around gettin' plagued wid the quareness o' things;
For the saisons that come bet the worsest of all the wet summers an' springs
In the lenth o' me life. Och bad cess to the could an' the snow an' the win',
Wid the storms an' the mists an' the polthogues o' rain the week out an' week in,
An' the oats bet to bruss wid the hail, an' the bastes starved or dyin' outright,
Until afther the thundher in June, all the praties were sthruck wid the blight,
As ye couldn't misdoubt if ye wint thro' the fields. But th' ould master, ye see,
Keepin' close in the house all that while, 'cause he said he'd the gout in his knee—
Tho” 'twas liker the grief at his heart—he'd no notion what ruin was in't;
An' so, liefer than have him annoyed, it's the greatest ould lies we'd invint.
For we tould him the harvest and all was as fine as a farmer could wish;
An' o' times when the most we could do was to sort him a sizeable dish
O' sound praties to serve wid his dinner, we'd say that but seldom afore
Such a crop had been dug on the Inish; an', certin, that lie was no more
Than the truth; for 'twas worse than the worst. But one mornin' he tuk to declare
He was sure that the blight was about, for he'd noticed the scent on the air;
An' we thought he'd find out on us thin; but we swore it was merely a heap
Of haulms rottin'; and afther that day we'd the sinse to be careful to keep
A big bonfire o' rubbish alight, if the win' was that way, close at hand,
So he'd smell on'y smoke; an', the praise be to goodness, we chated him grand.
And ourselves would be boilin' the weed, off the rocks, that's the quare ugly thrash,
All the boilin' in wather an' fire'll make no more than a bitter bad brash;
Just to keep o' the sowl in your body, where every one keeps it that can,
Tho' 't might aisy lodge better outside, if we knew but the lie o' the lan'.
Thin the summer dhreeped off into autumn, the same as a soaked sod o' turf
Smoulders black ere it flickers a flame; an' the storms came wid say-waves an' surf
Ragin' wild up the beach; an' the nights long an' dark, an' the days cold and dhrear,
An' we thinkin' besides that th' ould master 'ud scarcely last out the ould year.
Och, I never remimbered whin things on the Inish seemed lookin' so black,
For 'twas ugly the winter 'ud be, wid a cruel hungry spring at its back.

X

But far on in the last of October, the news that come suddint one morn
Nearly dhruv us deminted wid joy; 'twas too good to be true we'd ha' sworn,
On'y somehow the Divil himself scarce seemed divil enough to go plot
Such a thrick on th' ould master as that; if he would, he deserves all he's got.
'Twas a letter, no less, from young master him- self, wrote the next day but one
From where else on the earth save ould Dublin, in reach 'twixt two shines o' the sun;
And ourselves had made sure we might thravel the world, an' his grave all we'd find
At its farthest—'twas grand. An' the letter explained how he'd made up his mind
That th' ould master was gone. For some folk comin' sthraight from this counthry, they said,
Havin' hould of the story's wrong end, that O'Neil o' the Inish was dead—
Inish Fay—no mistake could be in it at all at all —every one knew.
An' thin poor Misther Denis got desprit, not doubtin' the throuble was true;
For it happint the sweetheart he had wint an' died on him too, an' he thought
All his life was disthroyed, an' the rest just a rubbish that mattered for nought.
So he joined wid a party explorin' some big lonely hills afther gould,
An' they sted there I dunno how long, till the fortins they made was untould;
But whin once he got back among people, by chance the first thing he heard tell
Was how folks home from Connaught were sayin' his father was livin' an' well.
An' wid that he slipt into a boat that by luck was just puttin' to say,
Never waitin' to write by the wires. An' belike he'd be here the next day.

XI

XII

Just a still misty day wid no shadow or shine was that same Holy Eve;
Not a breath on the smooth o' the say, on'y now an' agin a soft heave
Swellin' up here an' there, as ye'll see in a sheet spread to blaich by the hedge,
That keeps risin' an' fallin' as oft as a breeze creeps in under the edge.
Yet, as still as it was, we well knew that thim heaves was a sure sign o' win'
On its way; an' we all were a-wishin' the boat 'ud make haste an' come in;
But we watched an' we wished till nigh sunset, an' never the sound of a pull,
Till at last, dhrifted in from the west, came the fog like a fleece o' sheep's wool
Sthreeled down low on the wather, an' hidin' away whatsoever it passed
In its sthreelin'; and all of a minute, out some- where behind it, a blast
Lep' up howlin' an' rushin' an' flustherin' thro' it, an' dhrivin' it on,
Till afore we knew rightly 'twas comin', it's every- thin' else seemed clane gone.
For your eyes was 'most blinded wid spray, an' the win' deaved your ears wid its roar,
Not a step could ye look past the foam that seethed white to your fut on the shore;
Sure ye couldn't ha' tould but the Inish was left in the wide world alone,
Just set down be itself in the midst of a mist and a great dhreary moan.

XIII

An' the thought of us each was the boat; och, however 'd she stand it at all,
If she'd started an hour or two back, an' been caught in the thick o' that squall?
Sure it's lost she was, barrin' by luck it so chanced she'd run under the lee
O'Point Bertragh or Inish Lonane; an' 'twas liker the crathurs 'ud be
Crossin' yonder the open, wid never a shelter, but waves far an' wide
Rowlin' one on the other till ye'd seem at the fut of a mad mountain-side.
An' the best we could hope was they'd seen that the weather'd be turnin' out quare,
An' might, happen, ha' settled they wouldn't come over, but bide where they were.
Yet, begorrah! 'twould be the quare weather en- tirely, as some of us said,
That 'ud put Misther Denis off aught that he'd fairly tuk into his head.
Thin Tim Duigan sez: ‘Arrah, lads, whisht! afther sailin' thro' oceans o' say,
Don't tell me he's naught better to do than get dhrowned in our dhrop of a bay.'’
An' the words were scarce out of his mouth, whin hard by, thro'a dhrift o' the haze,
The ould boat we beheld sthrivin' on in the storm —och the yell we did raise!
An' it's little we yelled for, bedad! for, next instant, there under our eyes,
Not a couple o' perch from the pier-end, th' ould baste she must take an' capsize.

XIV

Och! small blame to thim all if we'd never seen sight of a one o' thim more,
Wid the waves thumpin' thuds where they fell, like the butt-ends o' beams on a door;
An' the black hollows whirlin' between, an' the dhrift flyin' over thim thick,
'S if the Divil had melted down Hell, an' was stirrin' it up wid a stick.
But it happint the wave that they met wid was flounderin' sthraight to the strand,
An' just swep' thim up nate on its way, till it set thim down safe where the sand
Isn't wet twice a twelvemonth, no hurt on thim all, on'y dhrippin' an' dazed.
And one come to his feet nigh me door, where that mornin' me heifer had grazed.
An', bedad! 'twas himself, Misther Denis, stood blinkin' an' shakin' the wet
From his hair: ‘Hullo, Connor!’ sez he, ‘is it you, man?’ He'd never forget
One he'd known. But I'd hardly got hould of his hand, an' was wishin' him joy,
Whin, worse luck, he looked round an' he spied Widdy Sullivan's imp of a boy,
That a wave had tuk off of his feet, an' was floatin' away from the beach,
And he screechin' an' sthretchin' his arms to be saved, but no help was in reach.
An' as soon as the young master he seen it, he caught his hand out o' me own:
‘Now, stand clear, man,’ sez he, ‘would ye have me be lavin' the lad there to dhrown?’
An' wid that he throd knee-deep in foam-swirls. Ochone! but he gev us the slip,
Runnin' sheer down the black throat o' Death, an' he just afther 'scapin' its grip.
For the wild says come flappin' an' boomin' an' smotherin' o'er him, an' back
In the lap o' their ragin' they swep' him as light as a wisp o' brown wrack.
An' they poundin' the rocks like sledge-hammers, an' clatterin' the shingle like chains;
Ne'er the live sowl they'd let from their hould till they'd choked him or bet out his brains,
Sure an' certin. And in swung a wave wid its welthers o' wather that lept
Wid the roar of a lion as it come, an' hissed low like a snake as it crept
To its edge, where it tossed thim, the both o' thim. Och! an' the little spalpeen
Misther Denis had gript be the collar, he jumped up the first thing we seen,
While young master lay still—not a stir—he was stunned wid a crack on the head—
Just a flutter o' life at his heart—but it's kilt he was, kilt on us dead.

XV

An' so that was the end of it all. An' the sorrowful end tubbe sure,
Whin our luck was turned back into throuble no power in creation could cure.
There he lay, 'twixt the sod an' the foam, wid the spray flingin' sparkles in the sun,
For the storm had throoped off in a hurry, contint wid what mischief was done,
An' the last o' the day in the west from a chink o' clear gold on the rim
Sent low rays slantin' red o'er the fall o' the say to the white face of him
That was still as the image asleep o' the lad we'd remimbered so long;
Never oulder a day in those years. An' ourselves standin' round in a throng
Kep' a clack like the gulls overhead that were flickerin' the light wid their wings,
And as much wit in one as the other. Och! sure there's no grief but it brings
Friends to thravel its road. For while yet we were feelin' his hands stiff'nin' could,
An' were sayin' the fine winsome lad, an' the heart- break it was to behould,
Comes ould Peggy, the housekeeper, throttin' to say that th' ould master had woke,
And had sent her to thry was there news. News? It seemed like the Divil's own joke.
An' what ailed him to wake? He'd a right to ha' slep', wid that news at his door,
Till the world's end. ‘Is't news ye'd be afther?’ sez Mick. ‘Ay, there's news here galore;
But it's news that I wouldn't be tellin' while e'er I've a tongue in me head;
I'd as lief stick a knife in his heart, an' he lyin' asleep on his bed.’
An' sez Gallaher: ‘Musha, what need to be tellin' him yet? Better send
For his Riverence beyant that consoles ye whin throuble's past hopin' to mend.
An' till thin there might some one step up an' let on nothing'd happint below,
To contint him.’ An' we all thought the same, an' yet no one was wishful to go;
For we feared he might somehow get hould o' the truth. Then me brother, sez he:
‘Sure here's Pat, it's colloguin' a dale wid th' ould master he is’—manin' me—
‘He's the man to be sendin'; forby he'll tell lies be the dozen as fast
As a dog throts, will Pat.’ So they talked till they had me persuaded at last;
And I thrapesed off up to the House. God for- give me, each step that I wint,
I was schemin' the quarest onthruths I could throuble me mind to invint.

XVI

But I tould him the sorra a one, as ye'll see; 'twas no doin' o' mine.
For whin into his room I was come, that seemed dark, passin' out o' the shine
O' the sunset just glimmerin' around yet, th' ould master laned up where he lay
Afther takin' a bit of a rest on the bed, for the most o' that day
He'd been creepin' about to get everythin' readied up dacint 'gin e'er
The young master was home. Goodness help him, it's time he'd enough an' to spare;
No more need to be hurryin' for that than for Doomsday, if on'y he'd guessed—
I was sayin', whin I'd knocked at his door, an' slipped in to decaive him me best,
It's beyant an' forby me his eyes kep' on gazin' an' shinin'; I thought
Mayhap some one was follyin' behind me, but whin I looked round I seen nought,
Ne'er a sowl save meself, that I dunna believe he tuk heed on at all.
An' sez he: ‘Och, thin, Denis, me lad, so ye're here? Why, the step in the hall
Sounded strange-like; and I to be listenin', an' never to think it was you.
But, in troth, till ye stood in me sight, I'd no aisier believe me luck true
Than if sthraight ye were come from the Dead. For the time, lad, wint wonderful slow,
An' it seems like the lenth o' me life since ye left us this great while ago;
An' sure only to look down a long lenth o' time sthrikes the could to your heart,
Let alone whin the days sthretch away, each like each, an' nought keeps thim apart
Save the nights, when ye sleep scarce enough for a dhrame that as soon as ye wake
Sets ye grievin'. Thim whiles there's no end to the notions an ould body'll take—
And I larned, livin' lonesome, 'twas ould I had grown. If I tould ye the half
O' what all I was vexed wid supposin' an' dhreadin', ye couldn't but laugh.
On'y one thing I've settled, no laughin' about it, but certin an' sure:
I'll not lose ye that long, lad, agin, for it's more than me mind can endure.
True enough, ye're but young in your life, and it's best maybe's waitin' unknown
Worlds away from our bit of an Inish; all's one, ye'll ne'er quit it alone,
For there's plenty no younger than me must be rovin' as ould as they are—
It's together we'll go, you and I, lad, next time that ye're thravellin' so far.
Ay, together,’ sez he. An' wid that come two wails o' the wind, an' between
Sthruck a cry that was wailed by no win'; 'twas the girls below raisin' a keen;
But he laned his head back lookin' plased an' con- tint; an' they kep' keenin' on.
They were keenin' for more than they meant all the while, for th' ould master was gone.

XVII

So I'd sorra a hand in the matter meself, I may truly declare.
'Twas th' Almighty's own notion that night to decaive him, if decaivin' it were.
So whatever misfortins th' ould master experienced, I hould in a way
He'd the bettermost sort o' bad luck—an' that's somethin'—because ye may say
His worst throuble as good as ne'er chanced him; ne'er come to his hearin' or sight,
And a hurt that ye feel unbeknownst, as the sayin' is, is apt to be light.
An' bedad he's well out of it all; it's ourselves have the raison to grieve
While the say meets the shore for what happint this Inish that black Holy Eve.
But I'll whisht; for I'm thinkin' when things have determined to run to the bad,
There's no use in discoorsin' an' frettin' save on'y to dhrive yourself mad;
Since the storms, or the blight, or the rint comes agin one wherever one goes,
Till one takes the last turnin'. An' thin if it's true, as some people suppose,
Better luck follows thim that are lavin' than thim that are bidin' behind—
Sure it's off ye'll slip one o' these days, an' what need to be throublin' your mind?