Kitabı oku: «Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas», sayfa 15

Then what caballings about the invited; what scrutiny into rank and station, – “what set they were in,” and whom did they visit; with little Star-chamber inquisitions as to character, all breaches of which, it is but fair to state, were most charitably deemed remediable if the party had any pretension to social position; for not only the saint in crape was twice a saint in lawn, but the satin sinner was pardonable where the “washing silk” would have been found guilty without a “recommendation.”

Then there was eternal tuning of the pianoforte, which most perversely insisted on not suiting voices that might have sung duets with a peacock. Quadrilles were practised in empty rooms; and Miss Timmock was actually seen trying to teach Blotter to waltz, – a proceeding, I rejoice to say, that the moral feeling of the household at once suppressed. And then, what a scene of decoration went forward in all the apartments! As in certain benevolent families, whatever is uneatable is always given to the poor, so here, all the artificial flowers unavailable for the toilet were generously bestowed to festoon along the walls, to conceal tin sconces, and to wreathe round rickety chandeliers. Contrivance – that most belauded phenomenon in Nature’s craft – was everywhere. If necessity be the mother of invention, poor gentility is the “stepmother.” Never were made greater efforts, or greater sacrifices incurred, to make Mrs. D. appear like a “West-end” leader of fashion, and to make the establishment itself seem a Holderness House.

As for me, I was the type of a stage servant, – one of those creatures who hand round coffee in the “School for Scandal.” My silk stockings were embroidered with silver, and my showy coat displayed a bouquet that might have filled a vase.

In addition to these personal graces, I had long been head of my department; all the other officials, from the negro knife-cleaner upwards, besides all those begged, borrowed, and, I believe I might add, stolen domestics of other families, being placed under my orders.

Among the many functions committed to me, the drilling of these gentry stood first in difficulty, not only because they were rebellious under control, but because I had actually to invent “the discipline during parade.” One golden rule, however, I had adopted, and never suffered myself to deviate from, viz., to do nothing as it had been done before, – a maxim which relieved me from all the consequences of inexperience. Traditions are fatal things for a radical reformer; and I remembered having heard it remarked how Napoleon himself first sacrificed his dignity by attempting an imitation of the monarchy. By this one precept I ruled and squared all my conduct.

The most refractory of my subordinates was a jackanapes about my own age, who, having once waited on the “young gentlemen” in the cock-pit of a man-of-war, fancied he had acquired very extended views of life. Among other traits of his fashionable experience, he remembered that at a déjeuner given by the officers at Cadiz once, the company, who breakfasted in the gun-room, had all left their hats and cloaks in the midshipman’s berth, receiving each a small piece of card with a number on it, and a similar one being attached to the property, – a process so universal now in our theatres and assemblies that I ask pardon for particularly describing it; but it was a novelty at the time I speak of, and had all the merits of a new discovery.

Smush – this was my deputy’s name – had been so struck with the admirable success of the arrangement that he had actually preserved the pieces of card, and now produced them, black and ragged, from the recesses of his trunk.

“Mr. Cregan” – such was the respectful title by which I was now always addressed – “Mr. Cregan can tell us,” said he, “if this is not the custom at great balls in London.”

“It used to be so, formerly,” said I, with an air of most consummate coolness, as I sat in an arm-chair, regaling myself with a cigar; “the practice you allude to, Smush, did prevail, I admit. But our fashionable laws change; one day it is all ultra-refinement and Sybarite luxury, – the next, they affect a degree of mock simplicity in their manners: anything for novelty! Now, for instance, eating fish with the fingers – ”

“Do they, indeed, go so far?”

“Do they! ay, and fifty things worse. At a race-dinner the same silver cup goes round the table, drunk out of by every one. I have seen strange things in my time.”

“That you must, Mr. Cregan.”

“Latterly,” said I, warming with my subject, and seeing my auditory ready to believe anything, “they began the same system with the soup, and always passed the tureen round, each tasting it as it went. This was an innovation of the Duke of Struttenham’s; but I don’t fancy it will last.”

“And how do they manage about the hats, Mr. Cregan?”

“The last thing, in that way, was what I saw at Lord Mudbrooke’s, at Richmond, where, not to hamper the guests with these foolish bits of card, which they were always losing, the servant in waiting chalked a number on the hat or coat, or whatever it might be, and then marked the same on the gentleman’s back!”

Had it not been for the imposing gravity of my manner, the absurdity of this suggestion had been at once apparent; but I spoke like an oracle, and I impressed my words with the simple gravity of a commonplace truth.

“If you wish to do the very newest thing, Smush, that’s the latest, – quite a fresh touch; and, I ‘ll venture to say, perfectly unknown here. It saves a world of trouble to all parties; and as you brush it off before they leave, it is always another claim for the parting douceur!”

“I’ll do it,” said Smush, eagerly; “they cannot be angry – ”

“Angry! angry at what is done with the very first people in London!” said I, affecting horror at the bare thought. The train was now laid; I had only to wait for its explosion.

At first, I did this with eager impatience for the result; then, as the time drew near, with somewhat of anxiety; and, at last, with downright fear of the consequences. Yet to revoke the order, to confess that I was only hoaxing on so solemn a subject, would have been the downfall of my ascendency forever. What was to be done?

I could imagine but one escape from the difficulty, which was to provide myself with a clothes-brush, and, as my station was at the drawing-room door, to erase the numerals before their wearers entered. In this way I should escape the forfeiture of my credit, and the risk of maintaining it.

I would willingly recall some of the strange incidents of that great occasion, but my mind can only dwell upon one, as, brush in hand, I asked permission to remove some accidental dust, – a leave most graciously accorded, and ascribed to my town-bred habits of attention. At last – it was nigh midnight, and for above an hour the company had received no accession to its ranks; quadrilles had succeeded quadrilles, and the business of the scene went swimmingly on, – all the time-honored events of similar assemblages happening with that rigid regularity which, if evening-parties were managed by steam, and regulated by a fly-wheel, could not proceed with more ordinary routine. “Heads of houses” with bald scalps led out simpering young boarding-school misses, and danced with a noble show of agility, to refute any latent suspicion of coming age. There were the usual number of very old people, who vowed the dancing was only a shuffling walk, not the merry movement they had practised half a century ago; and there were lack-a-daisical young gentlemen, with waistcoats variegated as a hearth-rug, and magnificent breast-pins like miniature pokers, who lounged and lolled about, as though youth were the most embarrassing and wearying infliction mortality was heir to.

There were, besides, all the varieties of the class young lady, as seen in every land where muslin is sold, and white shoes are manufactured. There was the slight young lady, who floated about with her gauzy dress daintily pinched in two; then there was the short and dumpling young lady, who danced with a duck in her gait; and there were a large proportion of the flouncing, flaunting kind, who took the figures of the quadrille by storm, and went at the “right and left” as if they were escaping from a fire; and there was Mrs. Davis herself, in a spangled toque and red shoes, pottering about from place to place, with a terrible eagerness to be agreeable and fashionable at the same time.

It was, I have said, nigh midnight as I stood at the half-open door, watching the animated and amusing scene within, when Mrs. Davis, catching sight of me, and doubtless for the purpose of displaying my specious livery, ordered me to open a window, or close a shutter, or something of like importance. I had scarcely performed the service, when a kind of half titter through the room made me look round, and, to my unspeakable horror, I beheld, in the centre of the room, Town-Major McCan, the most passionate little man in Quebec, making his obeisances to Mrs. Davis, while a circle around were, with handkerchiefs to their mouths, stifling, as they best could, a burst of laughter; since exactly between his shoulders, in marks of about four inches long, stood the numerals “158,” a great flourish underneath proclaiming that the roll had probably concluded, and that this was the “last man.”

Of the major, tradition had already consecrated one exploit; he had once kicked an impertinent tradesman down the great flight of iron stairs which leads from the Upper Town to Diamond Harbor, – a feat, to appreciate which, it is necessary to bear in mind that the stair in question is almost perpendicular, and contains six hundred and forty-eight steps! My very back ached by anticipation as I thought of it; and as I retreated towards the door, it was in a kind of shuffle, feeling like one who had been well thrashed.

“A large party, Mrs. D.; a very brilliant and crowded assembly,” said the major, pulling out his bushy whiskers, and looking importantly around. “Now what number have you here?”

“I cannot even guess, Major; but we have had very few apologies. Could you approximate to our numbers this evening, Mr. Cox?” said she, addressing a spiteful-looking old man who sat eying the company through an opera-glass.

“I have counted one hundred and thirty-four, madam; but the major makes them more numerous still!”

“How do you mean, Cox?” said he, getting fiery red.

“If you’ll look in that glass yonder, which is opposite the mirror, you ‘ll soon see!” wheezed out the old man, maliciously. I did not wait for more; with one spring I descended the first flight; another brought me to the hall; but not before a terrible shout of laughter apprised me that all was discovered. I had just time to open the clock-case and step into it, as Major McCan came thundering downstairs, with his coat on his arm.

A shrill yell from Sambo now told me that one culprit at least was “up” for punishment. “Tell the truth, you d – d piece of carved ebony! who did this?”

“Not me, Massa! not me, Massa! Smush did him!”

Smush was at this instant emerging from the back parlor with a tray of colored fluids for the dancers. With one vigorous kick the major sent the whole flying; and ere the terrified servitor knew what the assault portended, a strong grasp caught him by the throat, and ran him up bang! against the clock-case. Oh, what a terrible moment was that for me! I heard the very gurgling rattle in his throat, like choking, and felt as if when he ceased to breathe that I should expire with him.

“You confess it! you own it, then, you infernal rascal!” said the major, almost hoarse with rage.

“Oh, forgive me, sir! oh, forgive me! It was Mr Cregan, sir, the butler, who told me! Oh dear, I’m – ” What, he couldn’t finish; for the major, in relinquishing his grasp, flung him backwards, and he fell against the stairs.

“So it was Mr. – Cregan, – the – butler, – was it?” said the major, with an emphasis on each word as though he had bitten the syllables. “Well! as sure as my name is Tony McCan, Mr. Cregan shall pay for this! Turn about is fair play; you have marked me, and may I be drummer to the Cape Fencibles if I don’t mark you!” and with this denunciation, uttered in a tone, every accent of which vouched for truth, he took a hat – the first next to him – and issued from the house.

Shivering with terror, – and not without cause, – I waited till Smush had, with Sambo’s aid, carried downstairs the broken fragments; and then, the coast being clear, I stepped from my hiding-place, and opening the hall-door, fled, – ay, ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I crossed the grass terrace in front of the barrack, not heeding the hoarse “Who goes there?” of the sentry; and then, dashing along the battery-wall, hastened down the stairs that lead in successive flights to the filthy “Lower Town,” in whose dingy recesses I well knew that crime or shame could soon find a sanctuary.

CHAPTER XV. AN EMIGRANTS FIRST STEP ON SHORE

If I say that the Lower Town of Quebec is the St. Giles’s of the metropolis, I convey but a very faint notion indeed of that terrible locality. I have seen life in some of its least attractive situations. I am not ignorant of the Liberties of Dublin and the Claddagh of Galway; I have passed more time than I care to mention in the Isle St. Louis of Paris; while the Leopoldstadt of Vienna and the Ghetto of Rome are tolerably familiar to me; but still, for wickedness in its most unwashed state, I give palm to the Lower Town of Quebec.

The population, originally French, became gradually intermixed with emigrants, most of whom came from Ireland, and who, having expended the little means they could scrape together for the voyage, firmly believing that, once landed in America, gold was a “chimera” not worth troubling one’s head about, they were unable to go farther, and either became laborers in the city, or, as the market grew speedily overstocked, sunk down into a state of pauperism, the very counterpart of that they had left on the other side of the ocean. Their turbulence, their drunkenness, the reckless violence of all their habits, at first shocked and then terrified the poor timid Canadians, – of all people the most submissive and yielding, – so that very soon, feeling how impossible it was to maintain co-partnery with such associates, they left the neighborhood, and abandoned the field to the new race. Intermarriages had, however, taken place to a great extent; from which, and the daily intercourse with the natives, a species of language came to be spoken which was currently called French, but which might, certainly with equal propriety, be called Cherokee. Of course this new tongue modified itself with the exigencies of those who spoke it; and as the French ingredient declined, the Milesian preponderated, till at length it became far more Irish than French.

Nothing assists barbarism like a dialect adapted to its own wants. Slang is infinitely more conducive to the propagation of vice than is generally believed; it is the “paper currency” of iniquity, and each man issues as much as he likes. If I wanted an evidence of this fact, I should “call up” the place I am speaking of, where the very jargon at once defied civilization and ignored the “schoolmaster.” The authorities, either regarding the task as too hopeless, or too dangerous, or too troublesome, seemed to slur over the existence of this infamous locality. It is not impossible that they saw with some satisfaction that wickedness had selected its only peculiar and appropriate territory, and that they had left this den of vice, as Yankee farmers are accustomed to leave a spot of tall grass to attract the snakes, by way of preventing them scattering and spreading over a larger surface.

As each emigrant ship arrived, hosts of these idlers of the Lower Town beset the newly landed strangers, and by their voice and accent imposed upon the poor wanderers. The very tones of the old country were a magic the new-comers could not withstand, after weeks of voyaging that seemed like years of travel. Whatever reminded them of the country they had quitted, ay, – strange inconsistency of the human heart! – of the land they had left for very hopelessness, touched their hearts, and moved them to the very tenderest emotions. To trade on this susceptibility became a recognized livelihood; so that the quays were crowded with idle vagabonds who sought out the prey with as much skill as a West-end waiter displays in detecting the rank of a new arrival.

This filthy locality, too, contained all the lodging-houses resorted to by the emigrants, who were easily persuaded to follow their “countryman” wherever he might lead. Here were spent the days – sometimes, unhappily, the weeks – before they could fix upon the part of the country to which they should bend their steps; and here, but too often, were wasted in excess and debauchery the little hoards that had cost years to accumulate, till farther progress became impossible; and the stranger who landed but a few weeks back full of strong hope, sunk down into the degraded condition of those who had been his ruin, – the old story, the dupe become blackleg.

It were well if deceit and falsehood, if heartless treachery and calculating baseness, were all that went forward here. But not so; crimes of every character were rife also, and not an inhabitant of the city, with money or character, would have, for any consideration, put foot within this district after nightfall. The very cries that broke upon the stillness of the night were often heard in the Upper Town; and whenever a shriek of agony arose, or the heartrending cry for help, prudent citizens would close the window, and say, “It is some of the Irish in the Lower Town,” – a comprehensive statement that needed no commentary.

Towards this pleasant locality I now hastened, with a kind of instinctive sense that I had some claims on the sanctuary. It chanced that an emigrant ship which had arrived that evening was just disembarking its passengers; mingling with the throng of which, I entered the filthy and narrow lanes of this Alsatia. The new arrivals were all Irish, and, as usual, were heralded by parties of the resident population, eagerly canvassing them for this or that lodging-house. Had not my own troubles been enough for me, I should have felt interested in the strange contrast between the simple peasant first stepping on a foreign shore, and the shrewd roguery of him who proposed guidance, and who doubtless had himself once been as unsuspecting and artless as those he now cajoled and endeavored to dupe.

I soon saw that single individuals were accounted of little consequence; the claim of the various lodging-houses was as family hotels, perhaps; so that I mixed myself up with a group of some eight or ten, whose voices sounded pleasant, for, in the dark, I had no other indication to suggest a preference.

I was not long in establishing a footing, so far as talking went, with one of this party, – an old, very old man, whose greatest anxiety was to know, first, if “there was any Ingins where we were going,” and, secondly, if I had ever heard of his grandson, Dan Cullinane. The first doubt I solved for him frankly and freely, that an Indian would n’t dare to show his nose where we were walking; and as to the second, I hesitated, promising to refer to “my tablets” when I came to the light, for I thought the name was familiar to me.

“He was a shoemaker by trade,” said the old man, “and a better never left Ireland; he was ‘prentice to ould Finucane in Ennis, and might have done well, if he had n’t the turn for Americay.”

“But he’ll do better here, rely upon it,” said I, inviting some further disclosures; “I’m certain he’s not disappointed with having come out.”

“No, indeed; glory be to God! he’s doing finely; and ‘t was that persuaded my son Joe to sell the little place and come here; and a wonderful long way it is!”

After expending a few generalities on sea voyages in general, with a cursory glance at naval architecture, from Noah’s “square” stern, down to the modern “round” innovation, we again returned to Dan, for whom I already conceived a strong interest.

“And is it far to New Orleans from this?” said the old man, who, I perceived, was struck by the air of sagacity in my discourse.

“New Orleans! why that’s in the States, a thousand miles away!”

“Oh, murther, murther!” cried the old fellow, wringing his hands; “and ain’t we in the States?”

“No,” said I; “this is Canada.”

“Joe, Joe!” cried he, pulling his son by the collar, “listen to this, acushla. Oh, murther, murther! we’re kilt and destroyed intirely!”

“What is it, father?” said a tall, powerfully built man, who spoke in a low but resolute voice; “what ails you?”

“Tell him, darlint, tell him!” said the old man, not able to utter his griefs.

“It seems,” said I, “that you believed yourselves in the States; now, this is not so. This is British America, – Lower Canada.”

“Isn’t it ‘Quaybec’?” said he, standing full in front of me.

“It is Quebec – , but still, that is Canada.”

“And it’s ten thousand miles from Dan!” said the old fellow, whose cries were almost suffocating him.

“Whisht, father, and let me talk,” said the son; “do you know New Orleans?”

“Perfectly. – every street of it,” said I, with an effrontery the darkness aided considerably.

“And how far is’t from here?”

“Something like thirteen or fourteen hundred miles, at a rough guess.”

“Oh, th’ eternal villain! if I had him by the neck!” cried Joe, as he struck the ground a blow with his blackthorn which certainly would not have improved the human face divine; “he towld me they were a few miles asunder, – an easy day’s walk!”

“Who said so?” asked I.

“The chap on Eden Quay, in Dublin, where we took our passage.”

“Don’t be down-hearted, anyway,” said I; “distance is nothing here: we think no more of a hundred miles than you do in Ireland of a walk before breakfast. If it’s any comfort to you, I’m going the same way myself.” This very consolatory assurance, which I learned then for the first time also, did not appear to give the full confidence I expected, for Joe made no answer, but, with head dropped and clasped hands, continued to mutter some words in Irish that, so far as sound went, had not the “clink” of blessings.

“He knows Dan,” said the old man to his son, in a whisper which, low as it was, my quick ears detected.

“What does he know about him?” exclaimed the son, savagely; for the memory of one deception was too strong upon him to make him lightly credulous.

“I knew a very smart young man, – a very promising young fellow indeed, – at New Orleans,” said I, “of the name you speak of, – Dan Cullinane.”

“What part of Ireland did he come from?” asked Joe.

“The man I mean was from Clare, somewhere in the neighborhood of Ennis.”

“That’s it!” said the old man.

“Whisht!” said the son, whose caution was not so easily satisfied; and, turning to me, added, “What was he by trade?”

“He was a shoemaker, and an excellent one, – indeed, I’ve no hesitation in saying, one of the best in New Orleans.”

“What was the street he lived in?”

Here was a puzzler; for, as my reader knows, I was at the end of my information, and had not the slightest knowledge of New Orleans or its localities. The little scrap of newspaper I had picked up on Anticosti was the only thing having any reference to that city I ever possessed in my life. But, true to my theory to let nothing go to loss, I remembered this now, and, with an easy confidence, said, “I cannot recall the street, but it is just as you turn out of the street where the ‘Picayune’ newspaper-office stands.”

“Right! – all right, by the father of Moses!” cried Joe, stretching out a brawny hand, and shaking mine with the cordiality of friendship. Then, stepping forward to where the rest of the party were walking, with two most loquacious guides, he said, “Molly! here’s a boy knows Dan! Biddy! come here, and hear about Dan!”

Two young girls, in long cloth cloaks, turned hastily round, and drew near, as they exclaimed in a breath, “Oh, tell us about Dan, sir!”

“T is betther wait till we ‘re in a house,” said the old man, who was, however greedy for news, not a little desirous of a fire and something to eat. “Sure, you ‘ll come with us, and take yer share of what ‘s going,” said he to me, – an invitation which, ere I could reply to, was reiterated by the whole party.

“Do you know where we’re going here?” asked Joe of me, as we continued our way through mazes of gloomy lanes that grew gradually less and less frequented.

“No,” said I, in a whisper, “but ‘tis best be on our guard here: we are in a bad neighborhood.”

“Well, there’s three boys there,” said he, pointing to his sons, who walked in front, “that will pay for all they get. Will you ax the fellows how far we ‘re to go yet, for they don’t mind me.”

“Are we near this same lodging-house?” said I, bluntly, to the guides, and using French, to show that I was no unfledged arrival from beyond the seas.

“Ah!” cried one, “a gaillard from the battery.”

“Where from, à la gueule de loup, young mounsieur?” said the other, familiarly catching me by the lapel of my coat.

“Because I am not afraid of his teeth,” said I, with an easy effrontery my heart gave a flat lie to.

“Vrai?” said he, with a laugh of horrible meaning.

“Vrai!” repeated I, with a sinking courage, but a very bold voice.

“I wish we were in better company,” whispered I to Joe; “what directions did you give these fellows?”

“To show us the best lodging-house for the night, and that we ‘d pay well for it.”

“Ah!” thought I, “that explains something.”

“Here we are, mounseers,” said one, as, stopping at the door of a two-storied house, he knocked with his knuckles on the panel.

“Nous filions, slick, en suite, here,” said the other, holding out his hand.

“They are going!” whispered I; “they want to be paid, and we are well rid of them.”

“It would be manners to wait and see if they ‘ll let us in,” said Joe, who did not fancy this summary departure, while he fumbled in his pocket for a suitable coin.

“Vite! – quick! – sharp time!” cried one of the fellows, who, as the sound of voices was heard from within, seemed impatient to be off; and so, snatching rather than taking the shilling which still lingered in Joe’s reluctant fingers, he wheeled about and fled, followed rapidly by the other.

“Qui va!” cried a sharp voice from within, as I knocked for the second time on the door-panel with a stone.

“Friends,” said I; “we want a lodging and something to eat.”

The door was at once opened, and, by the light of a lantern, we saw the figure of an old woman, whose eyes, bleared and bloodshot, glared at us fixedly.

“‘Tis a lodgen’ yez want?” said she, in an accent that showed her to be Irish. “And who brought yez here?”

“Two young fellows we met on the quay,” said Joe; “one called the other ‘Tony.’”

“Ay, indeed!” muttered the hag; “I was sure of it: his own son! his own son!”

These words she repeated in a tone of profound sorrow, and for a time seemed quite unmindful of our presence.

“Are we to get in at all?” said the old man, in an accent of impatience.

“What a hurry yer in; and maybe ‘tis wishing yerself out again ye ‘d be, after ye wor in!”

“I think we’d better try somewhere else,” whispered Joe to me; “I don’t like the look of this place.” Before I could reply to this, a loud yell burst forth from the end of the street, accompanied by the tramp of many people, who seemed to move in a kind of regulated step.

“Here they are! Here they come!” cried the old woman; “step in quick, or ye ‘ll be too late!” and she dragged the young girls forward by the cloak into the hall; we followed without further question. Then, placing the lantern on the floor, she drew a heavy chain across the door, and dropped her cloak over the light, saying in a low, tremulous voice, “Them’s the ‘Tapageers!’”

The crowd now came closer, and we perceived that they were singing in chorus a song, of which the air, at least, was Irish.

The barbarous rhyme of one rude verse, as they sung it in passing, still lingers in my memory:

 
“No bloody agint here we see,
Ready to rack, distrain, and saze us;
Whatever we ax, we have it free,
And take at hand, whatever plaze us.
Row, row, row, Will yez show me, now,
The polis that ‘ll dare to face us!”
 

“There they go! ‘tis well ye wor safe!” said the old hag, as the sounds died away, and all became silent in the street without.

“Who or what are they?” said I, my curiosity being stimulated by fear.

“Them ‘s the ‘Tapageers ‘! The chaps that never spared man or woman in their rounds. ‘T is bad enough, the place is; but they make it far worse!”

“Can we stop here for the night?” said Joe, growing impatient at the colloquy.

“And what for wud ye stop here?” asked the crone, as she held up the lantern the better to see him who made the demand.

“We want our supper, and a place to sleep,” said the old man; “and we ‘re able and willin’ to pay for both.”

“‘T is a nice place ye kem for either!” said she; and she leaned back against the wall and laughed with a fiend-like malice that made my blood chill.

“Then I suppose we must go somewhere else,” said Joe. “Come, boys; ‘t is no use losing our time here!”

“God speed you!” said she, preparing to undo the chain that fastened the door. “Ye have bould hearts, any way! There they go! d’ ye hear them?” This was said in a half-whisper, as the wild yells of the “Tapageers” arose without; and soon after, the noise and tumult of a scuffle, – at least we could hear the crashing of sticks, and the shouting of a fray; from which, too, piercing cries for help burst forth.

“What are ye doin’? Are ye mad? Are ye out of your sinses?” cried the hag, as Joe endeavored to wrest open the chain, the secret of which he did not understand.

“They’re murdering some one without there!” said he. “Let me free, or I’ll kick down your old door this minute!”

“Kick away, honey!” said the hag; “as strong men as yourself tried that a’ready; and – d’ye hear? – it’s done now; it ‘s over!” These terrible words were in allusion to a low kind of sobbing sound, which grew fainter and fainter, and then ceased altogether.