He could remember every droll occurrence that had taken place in the parish for at least forty years, and every stirring event of national importance that had taken place in the country during the same period, and along with all this he had, in his young days, set himself the task of acquiring knowledge of events of an earlier period from the people who were old when he was a boy, so that when I state that he could bring us back over the happenings of a couple of hundred years I do not by any means overstep the mark. He often told us that in his young days he had a veritable thirst for old stories and for knowledge of every kind, and he used to make a round of the neighbours' houses night after night to hear the tales the old people told about the "ould times" and the "good people," and of the far-off days in an Ireland that was free. And if the news was conveyed to him that a "poor scholar" was staying at any farmer's house within a radius of seven miles, he used tramp across the country to hear the learned man talk about his travels, and to hear him read out of the books which he carried with him on his journeys.
"From all the goin' about I used to have, an' the way I used to be askin' questions o' the old people, an' the way I used to have the wits worried out o' Master Sweeney o' Kilfane," said Ned to us more than once, "what do you think but some o' the playboys put the nick-name o' 'the poor scholar' on myself, an' every one o' the youngsters used to be jibin' at me about it. I didn't care tuppence as long as I was a gossoon, but it was stickin' so tight to me an' I growin' up a big lad that I gave over my stravagin' a good bit, an' they forgot it after a while. I didn't mind at that time, because the old people were gettin' feeble an' bothered, an' a lot of them dyin' away, too, an' them that came after them didn't care a wisp o' straw for the stories or anythin' only cattle, an' money, an' land. An' signs on it, they're all old men an' women at fifty, with their worryin' over grass land and con-acres, an' calves, an' things you'd think they could bring to the grave with them. God be with the old times! when the people knew somethin' about Ireland, an' had life an' spirit in them, an' weren't always breakin' their necks runnin' after the world, an' never catchin' up with it, like them we see round us every day. Aye! God be with the old times, when it's not backbitin' each other they'd be round the fire at night, or makin' up law cases against each other. I wish it was the old times again!"
I reproduce the above speech of Ned's, which was delivered partly to us and partly to himself many a time when the retrospective mood held possession of him—I reproduce it, I say, to show that Ned M'Grane's outlook on life was neither narrow nor sordid, but that there was in his mind and heart a great deal of the old-world philosophy of life, viz., that it was better to be rich intellectually than materially; that was Ned's firm opinion and belief, and he was never done impressing upon us the foolishness of seeking after wealth and worldly emoluments, and of neglecting at the same time to enrich and beautify the mind with the lore of the years gone by. Whether he was right or wrong I leave to my readers to decide.
There were in the forge, now and then, what I may call "impromptu" evenings—that is, there were times when Ned, reminded of past episodes through hearing some name casually mentioned in our conversation, drew at random from his well-filled storehouse of stories one of the delightfully droll occurrences which he himself remembered to have happened in the neighbourhood long years before, and told it to us while he worked, without calling upon any of the aids, such as a well-filled pipe and a comfortable seat, which he called into requisition when relating one of the longer tales to which he treated us now and then. On such occasions, too, he often gave out riddles to us that set our brains hard at work, and sang for us some of the fine songs he had learned from the old people and from the "poor scholars" in the happy evenings of the past, which he designated the "old times."
I remember one of those impromptu evenings in particular, because I thought, and think so still, that the story he told us about Johnnie Finnegan's "Degree" was as good as I had ever heard. He had just finished singing a favourite song of ours about a young Wexfordman who escaped from the Yeos in '98, and we were bestowing upon him our hearty praise and applause, when an old grumpy farmer from Knockbride, called Johnnie Finnegan, but who was best known by the nick-name of "Johnnie the Doctor," came to the forge door and asked Ned to tighten one of the hind shoes on his mare, as he was afraid 'twould fall off before he should reach home. Ned performed the task, and when he returned to the work which he had in hand before Johnnie appeared upon the scene, some of us asked him the reason why "Johnnie the Doctor" was the name everybody had for Johnnie Finnegan.
"Did I never tell you how Johnnie got his degree?" asked Ned, with a merry twinkle in his eye.
"No, you never told us that, Ned; but now's the time for it," a couple of us answered, and the eager faces of the others signified their whole-hearted approval of our suggestion.
"Troth, you'll hear it, boys, an' welcome," said Ned, as he went on with his work. "An' it doesn't take long in the tellin', though if I told it to you while Johnnie was here you'd see him in a flarin' fine temper an' the dickens a nail I'd ever get the chance o' drivin' in a shoe, or a sock I'd put on a plough for Johnnie again, because you might as well roll him in a heap o' nettles an' his clothes tore, as mention 'Johnnie the Doctor' an' he listenin'.
"The way it was is this. Old Jimmy Finnegan, his father, was as poor as a rat in an empty barn, an' so were all his people before him, but one day—Johnnie was the only child, an' he was no more than nine years old at the time—up comes a postman from Castletown to Jimmy Finnegan's and hands in a letter, an' when they got Master Sweeney up to read it, they found out that it was from a lawyer in America to say that a brother o' Jimmy's—Phil Finnegan—was after dyin'—a rich man—in Boston, an' that he left all his money to Jimmy, an' the letter went on to say that after the cost o' settlin' up the will 'd be took out of it, the legacy'd amount to somethin' like four thousand pounds.
"They could hardly believe the story was true, because they were nearly on the road for rent, but sure enough a cheque came to Jimmy for that whole four thousand pounds in a couple o' months after that. Well, you never saw anythin' in your life like the way Jimmy and the wife made fools o' themselves. They began to try to talk grand, an' dressed themselves up like gentry, an' bought a car like Father Fagan's, an' wouldn't talk to the people that knew them all their lives, an' that often gave them a helpin' hand when they wanted it an' they in debt.