LITMIR.BIZ

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of beggars had assembled to collect the alms usually distributed each morning from the kitchen. Each was provided with an ample canvas bag, worn over the neck by a string, and capable of containing a sufficiency of meal or potatoes, the habitual offering, to support the owner for a couple of days at least. They were all busily engaged in stowing away the provender of various sorts and kinds, as luck, or the preference of the cook, decided, laughing or grumbling over their portions, as it might be, when Sir Archibald M’Nab hurriedly presented himself in the midst of them – an appearance which seemed to create no peculiar satisfaction, if one were to judge from the increased alacrity of their movements, and the evident desire they exhibited to move off.

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      The ODonoghue laughed as he witnessed the discomfiture of the ragged mob, and let down the window-sash to watch the scene.

      “‘Tis going we are; God be good to us!”

      “Ye needn’t be cursing that way,” said an old hag, with a sack on her back, large enough to contain a child.

      “Eyah! the Lord look down on the poor,” said a little fat fellow, with a flannel night-cap and stockings without any feet; “there’s no pity now at all, at all.”

      “The heavens be your bed, any way,” said a hard-featured little woman, with an accent that gave the blessing a very different signification from the mere words.

      “Blessed Joseph! sure it isn’t robbers and thieves we are, that ye need hunt us out of the place.”

      Such were the exclamations on every side, intermingled with an undergrowl of the “Scotch naygur” – “the ould scrape-gut,” and other equally polite and nattering epithets.

      “This is no a place for ye, ye auld beldames and blackguards; awa wi’ ye – awa wi’ ye at once.”

      “Them’s the words ye’ll hear in heaven yet, darlint,” said an old fiend of a woman with one eye, and a mouth garnished by a single tooth. “Them’s the very words St. Peter will spake to yourself.”

      “Begorra, he’ll not be strange in the other place anyhow,” muttered another. “‘Tis there hell meet most of his countrymen.”

      This speech was the signal for a general outburst of laughter.

      “Awa wi ye, ye ragged deevils; ye’r a disgrace to a Christian country.’

      “Throth we wear breeches an us,” said an old fellow on crutches; “and sure I hear that’s more nor they do, in the parts your honour comes from.”

      Sir Archy’s passion boiled over at this new indignity. He stormed and swore, with all the impetuous rage of one beside himself with passion; but the effect on his hearers was totally lost The only notice they took was an occasional exclamation of —

      “There it is now! Oh, blessed father! hear what he says! Oh, holy mother! isn’t he a terrible man?” – comments by no means judiciously adapted to calm his irritation. Meanwhile symptoms of evacuating the territory were sufficiently evident. Cripples were taken on the backs and shoulders of their respective friends; sacks and pouches were slung over the necks. Many a preparatory shake of the rags showed that the wearer was getting ready for the road, when Sir Archy, suddenly checking himself in the full torrent of his wrath, cried out —

      “Bide a wee – stay a minit, ye auld beasties – I hae a word to say to some amang ye.”

      The altered tone of voice in which he spoke seemed at once to have changed the whole current of popular feeling; for now they all chimed in with —

      “Arrah, he’s a good man after all; sure ‘tis only a way he has” – sentiments which increased in fervency as Sir Archibald took a tolerably well-filled purse from his pocket, and drew out some silver into his hand, many exclaiming —

      “‘Tis the kind heart often has the hard word; and sure ye can see in his face he isn’t cruel.’

      “Hear till me,” cried Sir Archy aloud, as he held up a shilling before their wistful eyes, “there’s mony a ane among ye, able to earn siller. Which o’ ye now will step down to Killarney, and tell the docter he’s wanted up here wi a’ despatch? Ye maun go fast and bring him, or send him here to-night; and if ye do, I’ll gie ye this piece o’ siller money when ye come back.”

      A general groan from that class whose age and infirmities placed them out of the reach of competitorship, met this speech, while from the more able section, a not less unequivocal expression of discontent broke forth.

      “Down to Killarney,” cried one; “begorra, I wonder ye didn’t say Kenmare when ye war about it – the devil a less than ten miles it is.”

      “Eyah! I’ll like to see my own four bones going the same road; sorra a house the whole way where there’s a drop of milk or a pratie.”

      “That’s the charity to the poor, I suppose,” said the fat fellow of the night-cap. “‘Tis wishing it I am, the same charity.”

      “We wor to bring the doctor on our back, I hope,” said a cripple in a bowl.

      “Did ever man hear or see the like o’ this?” exclaimed M’Nab, as with uplifted hands he stared in wonderment around him. “One wad na believe it.”

      “True for you, honey,” joined in one of the group. “I’m fifty-three years on the road, and I never heerd of any one askin’ us to do a hand’s turn, afore.”

      “Out of my sight, ye worthless ne’er-do-weels; awa wi ye at once and for ever. I’ll send twenty miles round the country, but I’ll hae a mastiff here, ‘ill worry the first o’ ye that dares to come near the house.”

      “On my conscience, it will push you hard to find a wickeder baste nor yourself.”

      “Begorra, he won’t be uglier any how.”

      And with these comments, and the hearty laughter that followed, the tattered and ragged group defiled out of the yard with all the honours of war, leaving Sir Archy alone, overwhelmed with astonishment and anger.

      A low chuckling laugh, as the sash was closed over head, made him look up, and he just caught a glimpse of O’Donoghue as he retired from the window; for in his amusement at the scene, the old man forgot the sick boy and all about him, and only thought of the ridiculous interview he had witnessed.

      “His ain father – his ain father!” muttered Sir Archy, as with his brows contracted and his hands clasped behind his back, he ruminated in sadness on all he saw. “What brings ye back again, ye lazy scoundrels? How dare ye venture in here again?”

      This not over-courteous interrogatory was addressed to poor Terry the Woods, who, followed by one of Sir Marmaduke’s footmen, had at that instant entered the yard.

      “What for, are ye come, I say? and what’s the flunkie wanting beside ye?”

      Terry stood thunderstruck at the sudden outbreak of temper, and turned at once to the responsible individual, to whom he merely acted as guide, to make a reply.

      “And are ye tramping it too?” said M’Nab, with a sneering accent as he addressed the footman. “Methinks ye might hae a meal’s meat out o’ the goold lace on your hat, and look mair like a decent Christian afterwards. Ye’r out of place maybe.”

      These last words were delivered in an irony, to which a tone of incredulity gave all the sting; and these only were intelligible to the sleek and well-fed individual to whom they were addressed.

      In all likelihood, had he been charged with felony or highway robbery, his self-respect might have sustained his equanimity; any common infraction of the statute-law might have been alleged against him without exciting an undue indignation; but the contemptuous insinuation of being “out of place” – that domestic outlawry, was more than human endurance could stomach; nor was the insult more palatable coming from one he believed to be a servant himself. It was therefore with the true feeling of outraged dignity he replied —

      “Not exactly out of place jest now, friend; though, if they don’t treat you better than your looks show, I’d recommend you trying

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