Extracted from Fardorougha the Miser by William Carleton, published by Appletree Press
Fardorougha the Miser
by William Carleton
Chapter One - part 5
"Godforbid, Honor More; but sure it 'ud ill become me to hear my own carrecter–no, no, avourneen," she exclaimed, putting back the glass, "I can't take it this-a-way; it doesn't agree wid me; you must put a grain o' shugar an' a dhrop o' bilin' wather to it. It may do very well hard [unmixed] for the servants, but I'm not used to that."
"I herd that myself afore," observed Nogher, "that she never dhrinks hard whiskey. Well, myself never tasted punch but wanst, an' be goxty its great dhrink. Death alive, Honora More," he continued, in his most insinuating manner, "make us all a sup. Sure, blood alive, this is not a common night, afther what God has sint us; Fardorougha himself would allow you, if he was here; deed, bedad, he as good as promised me he would; an' you know we have the young customer's health to dhrink yet."
"Throth, an' you ought," said the midwife; "the boy says nuttin' but the thruth–it's not a common night; an' if God has given Fardorougha substance, he shouldn't begridge a little, if it was only to show a grateful heart."
"Well, well," said Honora More–which means great Honora, in opposition to her daughter, Fardorougha's wife; this being an epithet adopted for the purpose of contra-distinguishing the members of a family when called by the same name–"Well," said she, "I suppose it's as good. My own heart, dear knows, is not in a thrifle, only I have my doubts about Fardorougha. However, what's done can't be undone; so, once we mix it, he'll be too late to spake if he comes in, any way."
The punch was accordingly mixed, and they were in the act of sitting down to enjoy themselves with more comfort when Fardorougha entered. As before, he was silent and disturbed, neither calm nor stern, but labouring, one would suppose, under strong feelings of a decidedly opposite character. On seeing the punch made, his brow gathered into something like severity: he looked quickly at his mother-in-law, and was about to speak, but pausing a moment, he sat down, and after a little time said in a kind voice–
"It's right, it's right–for his sake, an' on his account, have it; but, Honora, let there be no waste."
"Sure we had to make it for Mrs. Moan whether or not," said his mother-in-law–"she can't drink it hard, poor woman."
Mrs. Moan, who had gone to see her patient, having heard his voice again, made her appearance with the child in her arms, and with all the importance which such a burthen usually bestows upon persons of her calling.
"Here," said she, presenting him the infant, "take a proper look at this fellow. That I may never, if a finer swaddy ever crossed my hands. Throth if you wor dead to-morrow he'd be mistaken for you–your born image–the sorra thing else–eh, alanna–the Lord love my son–faix you've daddy's nose upon you, any how–an' his chin to a turn. Oh thin, Fardorougha, but there's many a couple rowlin' in wealth that 'ud be proud to have the likes of him; an' that must die and let it all go to strangers, or to them that doesn't care about them, 'ceptin' to get grabbin' at what they have, an' that think every day a year that they're above the sod. What! manim-an–kiss your child, man alive. That I may never, but he looks at the darlin' as if it was a sod of turf! Throth you're not worthy of havin' such a bully."
Fardorougha, during this dialogue, held the child in his arms and looked upon it earnestly as before, but without betraying any visible indication of countenance that could enable a spectator to estimate the nature of what passed within him. At length there appeared in his eye a barely perceptible expression of benignity, which, however, soon passed away, and was replaced by a shadow of gloom and anxiety. Nevertheless, in compliance with the commands of the midwife, he kissed its lips, after which the servants all gathered round it, each lavishing upon the little urchin those hyperbolical expressions of flattery, which, after all, most parents are willing to receive as something approximating to Gospel truth.
"Bedad," said Nogher, "that fellow 'ill be the flower of the Donovans, if God spares him–be goxty, I'll engage he'll give the purty girls many a sore heart yet–he'll play the dickens wid 'em or I'm not here–awough! do you hear how the young rogue gives tongue at that; the sorra one o' the shaver but knows what I'm savin'."
Nogher always had an eye to his own comfort, no matter under what circumstances he might be placed. Having received the full glass, he grasped his mater's hand, and in the usual set phrases, to which, however, was ndded, much extempore matter of his own, he drank the baby's health, congratulating the parents in his own blunt way upon this accession to their happiness. The other servants continued to pour out their praises in terms of delight and astonishment at his accomplishments and beauty, each, in imitation of Nogher, concluding with a toast in nearly the same words.
How sweet from other lips is the praise of those we love! Fardorougha, who a moment before looked upon his infant's face with an unmoved countenance, felt incapable of withstanding the flattery of his own servants when uttered in favour of the child. His eye became complacent, and while Nogher held his hand, a slight pressure in return was proof sufficient that his heart beat in accordance with the hopes they expressed of all that the undeveloped future might bestow upon him.
When their little treat was over, the servants withdrew for the night, and Fardorougha himself, still labouring under an excitement so complicated and novel, retired rather to shape his mind to some definite tone of feeling than to seek repose.
How strange is life, and how mysteriously connected is the woe or the weal of a single family with the great mass of human society. We beg the reader to stand with us upon a low, sloping hill, a little to the left of Fardorougha's house, and, after having solemnized his heart by a glance at the starry gospel of the skies, to cast his eye upon the long whitewashed dwelling, as it shines faintly in the visionary distance of a moonlight night. How full of tranquil beauty is the hour, and how deep the silence, except when it is broken by the loud baying of the watch-dog, as he barks in sullen fierceness at his own echo; or perhaps there is nothing heard but the sugh of the mountain river, as with booming sound it rises and falls in the distance, filling the ear of midnight with its wild and continuous melody. Look around and observe the spirit of repose which sleeps on the face of nature, think upon the dream of human life, and of all the inexplicable wonders which are read from day to day in that miraculous page–the heart of man. Neither your eye nor imagination need pass beyond that humble roof before you, in which it is easy to perceive by the lights passing at this unusual hour across the windows, that there is something added either to their joy or to their sorrow. There is the mother, in whose heart was accumulated the unwasted tenderness of years, forgetting all the past in the first intoxicating influence of an unknown ecstasy, and looking to the future with the eager aspirations of affection. There is the husband, too, in whose heart the lank devil of the avaricious–the famine-struck god of the miser, is even now contending with the almost extinguished love which springs up in a father's bosom on the sight of his first-born.
Reader, who can tell whether the entrancing visions of the happy mother, or the gloomy anticipations of her apprehensive husband, are more prophetic of the destiny which is before their child? Many, indeed, and various are the hopes and fears felt under that roof, and deeply will their lights and shadows be blended in the life of the being whose claims are so strong upon their love. There,–for some time past the lights in the window have appeared less frequently, one by one we presume the inmates have gone to repose, not another gleam is visible, the last candle is extinguished, and this humble section of the great family of man is now at rest, with the veil of a dark and fearful future unlifted before them.
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