“Sorra a word of lie in it. Mickeen Dunn brought word from the town this morning; and he says more betoken that it’s from Dinny M’Daniel to his ould mother.”
“Oh, then, troth I’ll be bound that’s a lie, e’er-a-way: the born vagabond, there wasn’t that much good in him, egg or bird: the idle, worthless ruffian, that was the ruination of every one he kem near: the, the——”
“Softly, Judith, softly; don’t wrong the absent: it is from Dinny M’Daniel to his ould mother, and contains money moreover;” and she then proceeded to tell how the postmistress had desired the poor widow to bring some responsible person that might guarantee her identity, before such a weighty affair was given into her keeping, for who knew what might be inside of it? though a still greater puzzle was to discover by what means the much reprobated Dinny obtained even the price of the letter-paper; and how old Sibby had borrowed a cloak from one, and a “clane cap” from another, and the huxter had harnessed his ass and car to bring her in style, and Corney King the contingent man,[1] that knows all the quality, was going along with her to certify that she was the veritable Mrs Sybilla M’Daniel of Tullybawn; and how she would have for an escort every man, woman, and child in the village that could make a holiday—compliments cheerfully accorded by each and all, to do honour to the America letter, and the individual whose superscription it bore.
Dinny M’Daniel was the widow’s one son, born even in her widowhood, for his father had been killed by the fall of a tree before he had been six months married, and poor Sibby had nothing to lavish her fondness upon but her curly-headed gossoon, who very naturally grew up to be the greatest scapegrace in the parish. He had the most unlucky knack of throwing stones ever possessed by any wight for his sins; not a day passed over his head without a list of damages and disasters being furnished to his poor mother, in the shape of fowls killed and maimed, and children half murdered, or pitchers and occasionally windows made smithereens of; but to do him justice, his breakage in this latter article was not very considerable, there being but few opportunities for practice in Tullybawn. To all these the poor widow had but one reply, “Arrah, what would you have me do?—sorra a bit of harm in him; it’s all element, and what ’ud be the good of batin’ him?” At last the neighbours, utterly worn out by the pertinacity of his misdemeanours, hit upon an expedient to render him harmless for at least half the day, and enjoy that much of their lives in peace, with the ultimate chance of perhaps converting the parish nuisance into a useful character. A quarterly subscription of a penny for each house would just suffice to send Dinny to school to a neighbouring pedagogue, wonderful in the sciences of reading and writing, and, what was a much greater recommendation under the present circumstances, the “divil entirely at the taws.” To him accordingly Dinny was sent, and under his discipline spent some five or six years of comparative harmlessness, during which he mastered the Reading-made-Easy, the Seven Champions, Don Bellianis, and sundry other of those pleasing narratives whereby the pugnacity and gallantry of the Irish character used whilom to be formed, to which acquirement he added in process of time that of writing, or at least making pothooks and hangers, with a symmetry that delighted the heart of poor Sibby. The neighbours began to think better of him; but the “masther” swore he was a prodigy, and openly declared, that if he would but “turn the Vosther,” he’d be fit company for any lady in the land. Thus encouraged, Dinny attempted and succeeded, for he had some talent. But sure enough the turning of the Foster finished him.
It was now high time for Master Dinny to begin to earn his bread, and accordingly his mother sought and obtained for him a place in the garden of a nobleman who resided near the village, and was its landlord: but the dismay of the gossoon himself when this disparaging piece of good fortune was announced to him, was unbounded. He was speechless, and some moments elapsed before he could ejaculate,
“Fwhy, then, tare-an’-ages, mother, is that what you lay out for me, an’ me afther turnin’ the Vosther?”
Sibby expostulated, but in vain; his exploits in “the Vosther” had set him beside himself, and he boldly declared that nothing short of a dacint clerkship would ever satisfy his ambition. A man of one argument was Dinny M’Daniel, and that one he made serve all purposes—“Is it an’ me afther turnin’ the Vosther!”—so that people said it was turn about with him, for the Vosther had turned his brain. Be that as it may, there was one who agreed with Dinny that he could never think too highly of himself, for, like every other scapegrace on record, he had won the goodwill of the prettiest girl in the parish. Nelly Dolan’s friends, however, were both too snug and too prudent to leave her any hope of their acquiescing in her choice, so the lovers were driven to resort to secrecy. Dinny urged her to elope with him, knowing that her kin, when they had no remedy, would give her a fortune to set matters to rights; but she had not as yet reached that pitch of evil courage which would allow her to take such a step, nor, unfortunately, had she the good courage to discontinue such a hopeless connection, or the clandestine proceedings which its existence required. Alas, for poor Nelly! sorrow and shame were the consequence. The bright eyes, that used to pass for a very proverb through the whole barony, grew dim—the rosy cheeks, that more than one ballad-maker had celebrated, grew wan and sallow—and the slim and graceful figure——in a word, Dinny had played the ruffian, and had to fly the country to avoid the murderous indignation of her faction. It was to America he shaped his flight, though how he had obtained the means no one could divine; and now, after the lapse of nearly a year and a half, here was a letter from him to solve all speculations.
What a hubbub the arrival of “an America letter” causes in Ireland over the whole district blessed by its visit! It is quite a public concern—a joint property—being in fact always regarded as a general communication from all the neighbours abroad to all the neighbours at home, and its perusal a matter of intense and agonising interest to all who have a relative even in the degree of thirty-first cousin among the emigrants. Let us take for instance the letter in question, for the cavalcade has returned, and not only is the widow’s cabin full, but the very bawn before her door is crowded, and the door itself completely blocked up with an array of heads, poking forward in the vain attempt to catch a tone of the schoolmaster’s voice as he publishes the contents of the desired epistle, and absolutely smothering it by the uproar of their squabbles, as they endeavour each to obtain a better place.
“Tare-an’-eunties, Tom Bryan, fwhat are you pushing me away for, an’ me wanting to hear fwhat’s become of my own first cousin!”
“Arrah, don’t be talkin’, man—fwhy wouldn’t I thry to get in, an’ half the letther about my sisther-in-law?”