commenced he, "you may remimber that it was on a Friday you took lave of me – last Friday of all – Friday was never a looky day by say or by land: ye see, I didn't go far afore I met with a disappointment, for I met a berrin' comin' right fornenst me – what coud I do but turn back, in dacency, with it? – and, after I'd keen'd about a mile with the mourners, I made bould to ax who was the body that was makin' a blackberry ov himself."
"A blackberry!" interrupted I.
"Yes, yir honor, a blackberry," replied Darby: "do ye know that, let it shoot never so far, it's sure to come back as near as it can to the root of it where it first started; and so arn't we all blackberries? As the priest says on Ash-Wendsday, "Remember, man, you are but dust, and into dust you must return." Now, I've known bigger dusts in their lifetime than they were turned out of afterward, when they took to studyin' astronamy with
'The tops of their toes,
And the tip of their nose,
Turn'd up to the roots of the daisies!'
But, whose berrin' should it be, after all, but ould Jemmy Cullen, the piper's! Ye know Jemmy Cullen, yir honour? him that used to play the organ on the pipes at high-mass durin' Christmas an' Easter. Oh! he was the boy to lilt at a weddin' or a wake! but, pace be width 'im – God rest his sowl! as I said when I saw the scragh put over him for the first time. Well, ye know, yir honor, that oncet upon the same road width them I coudn't do more nor less than wet our clay together; so, after walkin' the corpse three times round the churchyard of Glassin-oge – Were ye ever berried there, sir? – I mane, wud ye like to be berried there, sir?"
"Not just yet," said I.
"Oh, the Lord forbid, sir!" cried Darby. "I didn't mane that, by no manes. God send ye many days, and prosprous ones too! But there's a taste in chusin' a berrin'-ground as well as there is in a drawin'-room," said he, looking around him.
"So there may be," said I; "but that is only the whim or notion of a living man. When he dies, all churchyards are the same to him; he then can have no considerations about the matter."
"That's all very true, sir," replied Darby; "but would ye like to be burnt after the breath was out o' ye?"
"I could have neither liking nor disliking," answered I; "for I should be an insensible mass of matter."
"But mightn't yir ghost, sir, like to see ye were comfortably provided for? I mane yir honor's dead body that's alive an' in good health now, an' long may it continue so!"
"Oh! never mind," said I; "neither you nor I, Darby, know much about those things; so go on with your story."
"Thank ye, sir!" said Darby, and resumed. "I was sayin', sir, as how we went to wet our clay together at the 'Three Jolly Pigeons.' Yir honor knows the 'Three Jolly Pigeons,' facing the ould hawthorn o' Goldsmith, in the village of Auburn hard by here, eh? Sure, an' I've heer'd as much as how they want to take the merits of the whole place to themselves over in England somewhere, as if it couldn't spake plainly for itself that it was bred and born here in ould Ireland ages ago! Isn't the 'Desarted Village' a butiful histhory, masther? Lame Kelly, the poet, says, it bates the world for makin' the heart soft. It's myself that never passes the spot without a tear in my eye, like a widow's pig, as the sayin' is. There's the ruins of the dacent church on the hill all in butiful repair to this hour, and the parson's house, and the schoolmaster Tom Allen's, and the common, and the pond, width the geese upon it still, as if it was only yistherday, an' the ould hawthorn – bad look to their taste that built a stone wall round about it like a jail! What did the blessed tree ever do that it should be put in pound in that manner o' way?"
Gentle shade of Goldsmith! amongst the many tributes to thy immortal genius, receive kindly the simple but honest homage of poor Darby. He may not be able to appreciate thee in all thy varied splendour of moral and intellectual worth; but he has a heart full of benevolence like thine own, and, although a poor Irish serf, has feeling and fancy enough to reverence the spots thou hast consecrated by the thousand-spelled wand of thy muse!
"Darby," said I, "I promised you something on your return (though you did not come back as soon as I expected); there's a guinea for you."
"Augh, thin, may the light of Heaven break yir last sleep!" said Darby; "but isn't it too much, masther?"
"You are welcome to it," said I; "go on with your story."
"Thank ye, sir!" replied he. "Whereabouts was I when I left off?"
"Just where you are now," said I.
"Beggin' yir honor's pardon, I think I was at the 'Three Jolly Pigeons.'"
"Be it so," said I, "go on."
"Well, as I was sayin', when we damp'd the grief a trifle at the sheebeen width a drop of the rale stone turf, I takes up the kish again; but first I put my hand in the straw to see if the dog-een was comfortable, and there he was to be sure, warm an' nice as a new-laid egg: so, wishin' the rest of the company every amusement in life, I set out on my travels agen. Just as I was in the doorway, Ned Coffey, the whisperer, – ye know Ned Coffey, yir honor, that brakes in the wild coults width a charm he's got? Well, anyhow, if he didn't laugh so as if his mother was a horse; but I never minded him, only went on wonderin' to myself what cud av' made him so humoursome at a berrin'. Well, never mind that, I went on beautifully for a time, as good as an hour an' a half, when, all of a suddent, leppin' a ditch, the hayband I had acrass my breast bruk, and let the clieve fall clane in the dirty puddle. 'Oh, hannamandhioul!' says I, 'what'll the masther say to this?' The words were scarce past my lips when a squake that 'ud av' split the ears of a pitcher came out o' the clieve, an' after that a gruntin', such as I never heer'd come from mortal man afore, barrin' it was a pig under a gate!"
"What could it have been?" inquired I, affecting a grave concern; "it was not my dog Squib, surely?"
"Who the nagers else could it be?" said Darby. "Only, after crassing myself three times, and turnin' up the basket wid' my horse, I found he was bewitched into the shape of a porker, as purty a young pig sure enough, about seven weeks ould, as I'd wish to clap eyes on."
"A pig!" exclaimed I. "Why, he returned home that very night in his own shape."
"Well then, see that, now," said Darby, "thuv', for my own part, I think it was all Ned Coffey's doin; but, be that as it may, I was never so frightened in all my born days, for I tuk to my heels, an' was out o' sight in no time, like a haro! tho' I hadn't far to go to be that same, for it was pitch-dark; so, to keep myself company, I began singin'
'The first o' my pranks was in little Rathshane,
Where love, just like whiskey, popp'd into my brain;
For Ally Magoolagh, a nate little sowl,
As tall and as strate as a shaverman's pole!'
'Augh! thin, was she?' says a voice that I cudn't see, tho' 'twas close to my left ear! 'Who's there?' says I. 'Where?' says it, on th' other side. 'Anywhere,' says I, 'to plaze ye;' and wid that I fell into a could sweat, for I began to think it was Mihilmas Eve, an' divil a grain of salt I had about me to keep me from harm! 'Crass o' Christ on us!' says I, 'an' God bless ye!' for I thought it was one of the good people, yir honor! so I made up my mind to get in-doors as soon as I could. But that wasn't so aisy as wishin', for there wasn't a village nearer than five miles, nor a cabin by the way-side. At last I spies a light at a distance in the fields aff the road, and away we set, I and my horse, full gallup. Oh! many's the ditch we cleared without seein'; but still, never
