When Peter Fagan applied to me, a few days since, to read for him a letter, from his cousin, Eyley Murphy, of Ballyconnel, in the county of Cavan, he was so insufferably filthy, that I gave him a quarter of a dollar, to be spent in sacrificing to the graces, that is, in taking a warm bath. While he was absent, I examined the letter; and found it to be a very interesting account of the execution of Fagan’s fourth cousin, Rory Mullowny, for murder. As I thought its publication might be of importance here, at this time, I obtained Mr. Fagan’s permission to place it before the community. I was, at first, disposed to correct the spelling, and give it rather more of an English complexion, but have, upon the whole, decided to publish it, as it is. Fagan tells me, that Eyley Murphy was the daughter of the hedge school-master, at Ballyconnel. The letter is written in a fair hand, and directed, “For Misther Pether Fagan, these—Boston, Capital of Amerriky.”
Ballyconnel, Cavan, March 19, 1849.—Fagan dear, bad news and thrue for ye it is; Rory Mullowny, your own blood cousin o’ the forth remove, by the mither’s side, was pit up yestreen for the murther o’ Tooley O’Shane, and there was niver a felly o’ all that’s been hung in Ballyconnel, with sich respictable attindance. The widdy Magee pit the divle into both the poor fellies, no more nor a waak arter the birril o’ her forth husband, and so she kipt a flarting wid the one and the tither, till she flarted um out o’ the warld this away.
Poor Rory—what a swaat boy he was—jist sax foot and fore inches in his brogans—och, my God! it’s myself that wush’d I’d bin pit up along wid im. But he’s claan gane now; whin we was childer togither how we used to gather the pirriwincles by the brook, and chase the fire-flaughts in the pasture o’ a June evening—och my God—Pether—Pether—but there’s no use waaping anyhow, so I’ll be telling ye the shtory.
Poor Mullowny was found guilty o’ what they call sircumstanshul ividunce. A spaach it was he made whin the cussid sherry was pittin im up, and he swore he died more innisent o’ the crime nor the mither o’ God, and he called God to witness what he sed. Himself it was that was rather hasty onyhow, in makin a confission to father Brian Bogle o’ this very murther, and some other small mathers, a rape or too, may be, and sich like.
But the socyety that’s agin pittin a body up—God bliss their sowls—they perswaded im to spaak at the gallows, and till the paaple how it was, and they rit im a spaach, in wich he toult ’em a body’s last wull was the only wull that was gud in the law, and sure it was a poor body’s last words and dyin spaach that was gud anunder the tree. And whin he had dun, the cursed divelsbird o’ a sherry, wid a hart as coult as bog mud, swung im off in a minnit. It was himsilf was spaakin; and I jist pit my apurn to my face to wipe aff the saut wather, whin I heerd a shreek and a howl, louder and wilder nor ten thousand keenas at a birril, whin I lookd up and saw poor, daar Mullowny a swingin in the air. The like o’ that yersilf niver saad, Pether Fagan, nor the mither that brot ye into this world o’ care and confushon. The wimmin scraamed loud enuff to friten the little childer claan away in Ballymahon. The min swung their shillalies owr their heds. Father Brian Bogle was crossing himself, and a stone hurld by Jimmy Fitzgerald at the infarnal sherry, knocked father Bogle’s taath down his throte. By the same token ye see, they was pit in for im the dee afore at considerable cost. Father Brian fell back, head foremost, ye see, on top o’ Molly Mahoney’s little bit table o’ refrishments, and twas the wark o’ a minnit.
Molly, who jist afore was wall to do in the warld, was a brukken marchant, immadiately, all claan gane; tumblers o’ whiskey, cakes, custards, and cookies was all knocked in the shape o’ bit o’chalk; and all the pennies she had took since bick o’dee—for more nor ten thousan was on the spot to see poor Rory pit up afore dee—was scattered and clutched up, by hunders o’ little childher that was playing prop and chuck farding anunder the gallus. A jug o’ buthermilk was capsized ower the widdy Magee’s bran new dress, that was made for the hanging precesely, and ruinated it pretty considerably intirely. It was not myself that pittied the hussy—she to be there, as naar to the gallus as she could squaze hersel, and the very cause o’ the dith o’ poor Rory, and Tooley O’Shane into the bargin.
Och, Fagan, niver ye see was the likes o’ it in Ballyconnel afore. Whin the sherry was for cuttin the alter and littin the corps o’ poor, daar Mullowny down into the shell, that was all riddy below, the Mullownys swore they would have the body, for a riglar birrill, and a wake, and a keena, ye see—and the O’Shanes swore it should go to the risirictioners, to be made into a menotomy. Then for it, it was—sich a cursin and swaring and howling—sich a swingin o’ shillalies, sich a crackin o’ pates, sich callin upon Jasus and the blissid mither, sich a scramin o’ wimmin and childer, niver was herd afore in county Cavan. The sherry he gat on Molly Mahoney’s little table to read the ryot act, and whin he opunt his mouth Phelim Macfarland flung a rottun egg atwaan his taath preceesly, and brot im to a spaady conclushon.
Poor Rory’s vinrable oult mither was carried aff and murthered in the side o’ the hid, wid a stone mint for the sherry, o’ which she recovered diricly. They tried to kaap her quiet in her shanty, but she took on so gravous, that they let her attind the pittin up—poor ould sowl—she sed she had attinded the last moments o’ her good man, and both her childer, Patrick and Pether, whin they wur pit up the same way, and it was not the like o’ her to hart poor daar Rory’s faalings onyhow.
Dolly Macabe was saved by a myrrikle, ye see. She took out wid her her siven childer, leading little Phelim by the hand, wid her babe at the brist, and hersilf in a familiar way into the bargin. She was knocked ower and trampled under the faat o’ the fellies as was yellin and fitin, and stunted out o’ her raason intirely. Only jist think o’ it, Fagan daar, when she kim too, not one o’ the childher was hart in the laast, nor Dolly naather; and the first thing she asked wos, whose was the two swaat babes, lyin together, and they toult her they war her own. Ye see, Patrick O’Shane and some more trod upon Dolly Macabe and hastened matters a leetle, and she was delivered o’ twins, widout knowin anything about it. They gied her a glass o’ whiskey, and O’Flaherty, the baker, pit the swaat babes in his brid cart, and Dolly, who priffird walking, wint home as well as could be expected. All the Macabes have ixcillint constitushons, and make no moor o’ sich thrifles, than nothing at all.
But its for tellin the petiklars I’m writin. As I toult ye, twas about the widdy Magee. Rory toult more nor fifty, for a waak afore, that he’d have Tooley’s hart’s blood. When Tooley was found, it was ston ded he was, and his hed was bate all to paces, and Rory was o’ tap o’ im houltin im by the throte, wid a shillaly nigh by, covered wid blud, and the blood was rinnin out o’ his eyes, and nose, and aars. Lawyer McGammon definded Rory, the poor unfortunit crathur, and he frankly admitted, that it was onlocky for him to be found jist that away, but he toult the jewry, that as he hoped for salvashun, Rory was an innysunt man, and he belaaved the foreman as guilty nor he. He brot half Ballyconnel to prove that Tooley was liable to blaad fraly at the nose, and was apt to have a rush o’ blood to the hed, and he compared Rory to the good Summeritan, and sed he was there by the marest axidunt in the warld, and was tryin to stop the flow o’ blud by houltin Tooley by the throte.