THE SOFTIE’S DREAM.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXIII, Issue 5456, 21 September 1878, Page 4 (Supplement)

THE SOFTIE’S DREAM.

(From Chambers's Journal.) In Two Chapters.—Chapter X. In the fertile valley of the river Suck, just, where some years ago such consternation was created'by a portion of the Bog of Allen showlug an inclination to settle for good, there stood many years since a farm house of rather a better class than- any of the inlinedlato neighborhood, or indeed in any of tbe adjacent villages; The house stood a little off the high-road from Castlerea to Lougblinn, and few people who passed failed to observe its ’.veil-to-do, comfortable appearance and “smug” haggard (steading). Its occupier, Owen Kearney, was a very hard-working sober man, who not only minded his own business, but let his neighbors' affaire alone. Xle was never in arrears with bis rent, had his turf cut a year in advance, and got his crops down first and in earliest; so that it was not without some reason that people said he was the most comfortable farmer in the village of Glenmadda. Added to being the most industrious, Owen Kearney was (what few tenant farmers in the West of Ireland were 'thirty years ago) something of a speculator. He did not tie his savings up in an old stocking and hide it in the thatch of the barn or cow-house, as the majority of his neighbors who had any savings usually did ; but despite the repeated warnings of Shaun Alore Alorris, the philosopher and wiseacre of the village, invested in new and improved farming implements and in horses, of which he was not unjustly considered the best judge in the County Roscommou. As he did all his business when he was perfectly sober, he seldom had any cause to complain of his bargain; and the ‘ luck-penny,' instead of spending in the public-house, he made a rule of giving to the priest for the poor of the parish. Not being in the habit of gossiping either about his own or his neighbors’ affairs, no one could form any correct idea of how rich Owen Kearney really was; but it was generally known that he kept his money at the bank, as on fair and market days he went into that building with his pockets well filled and came out with them empty, and mounting his cob, rode home quietly, long before the fun or the faction fights commenced. Not so, however, the younger of his two sons, Larry, a wild restless lad of seventeen, on whom neither the precept nor example of his father and brother seemed to have the least influence. Alartin, the eldest, was steady and thoughtful like his father ; but Larry, with his boisterous laugh and ready joke, dancing blue eyes and flaxen hair, never spent a minute in thinking during his life. While he worked, which was not often, he was ns good as two, his father used to say ; and “ when he took his divarsion he was the divil at it,” Alartin used to add good-naturedly. Innumerable were the scrapes Larry got into, and miraculous were the methods by which he managed to extricate himself. There was not a wake, wedding, or christening for miles round that he was not to to be found at. No merry-making or fare was complete without him ; and it was almost a proverb that Larry Kearney was the last to sit down wherever there was a dance, and the first to shake a shillelah wherever there was a shindy. Of course he was his mother’s favorite ; such boys invariably are. . She shut her eyes to his faults, supplied him with money without any questions, and being a very religious woman, or what in that part of Ireland is termed a vuteen, she atoned for all his short-comings. There was anther member of Owen Kearney’s family as full of fun and mischief in her way as Larry ; this was Dora Costello, the farmer’s orphan niece. Little Dora, everybody called her, because, when she lost her own father and mother, and went to live with her uncle and aunt, she was a little toddling thing of three years old. At the time this story tells of she was a fine girl of seventeen, tali, finely formed, and as graceful as a willow. A fine specimen of an Irish peasant girl was Dora Costello, with her red-and white-complexion, merry changeable hazel eyes, and rich, reddish auburn hair. There was not a farmer’s daughter within many a mile who could scutch or spin as much flax of an evening, nor one who could better milk a cow or make a roll of butter. Bright, intelligent, and good-tempered, with a tongue as ready as her hungers, and a sense of humor as rich as her brogue, Dora was a general favorite, and as a natural consequence had numerous admirers. Being by nature somewhat of a coquette, she managed to play them off one against another with an ease and grace which a London belle might have envied, keeping good friends with all, and giving none the slightest preference. But when it came to a question of marriage, it was a different thing altogether. Dora declared she was very happy with her uncle and aunt, and unceremoniously refused all the eligible young men in her own and the next village, declaring of each in turn that she would ‘as soon marry Barney Athieague.’ Long ago, in almost every Irish village there was to be found hanging about the farm house some poor half-witted creature, called in one place an onsha, in others an omadthaun, and in the County Roscommon a softie. They were boys without any knowledge of who their parents had been, cast as children on the charity of some village, from which they usually took their names, as Johnnie Loughlinn, and Barney Athieague. How Barney came to make his way to Glenmadda no one knew, but one day when about ten years old he was seen following a hunt. Stumbling over a loose stone, he sprained his ancle, and was thrown on the protection of the villagers. A glance at the lad’s motley appearance and vacant face was sufficient to show what he was ; and as in most parts of Ireland, as in Germany, there exists amongst the peasantry a sort of superstitions regard for silly people, poor Barney found food and shelter, now from one, now from another, as indeed the softies invariably did ; in return for which they ran on errands and looked after the pigs and poultry, aud were always at baud in an imergenoy. As a rule, the softie looked a great deal bigger fool than he really was. He contrived to live and he fed, clothed and lodged, without working. He made himself a home everywhere, was generally treated very well, and never by any chance treated badly. He knew everybody’s business (for curiosity was one of his virtues or vices), and with the special advantage that people thought he knew nothing at all. ’ All sorts of matters were discussed freely round the hearth in his presence, he meantime staring into the fire, sucking his fingers, or rollin" on the floor with the dog, no more heeded than that animal; yet all the while drinking in the conversation, and with a sort of crooked wisdom treasuring it up. Animal tastes and instincts were generally the most marked in tbe softie; at a rule, he was greedy, selfish, and uncleanly in his habits, violent in his antipathies, yet with a capacity for attaching himself with a strong dog-like fidelity and affection to a friend.

Such was Barney Athleague—perhaps a trifle better and more intelligent than the generality of his class ; and there was no place in the village where ho spent so much of his time, or was so well treated, as at Owen Kearney's ; first, because they were naturally kind people; and next, Mrs. Kearney's religious feelings made her especially good to tho poor and friendless ; and their was no person in the whole world whom the softie cared so much about as Dora. Wherever sho went, Barney was not far behind. He Was always ready to do anything in the world she asked him, no matter how wearisome or hazardous. When she was a child, he climbed the highest trees to get her.birds’ nests, tumbled like a spaniel into the river to get her lilies, and walked miles and miles to recover a pet kid of hers which had gone astray. As he grew older, ho carried her cans when she went milking, fed her poultry, and in short waited on her and followed her about like a lapdog. It was great fun to the * boys’ who used to assemble in the farmer's kitchen of a winter’s evening to toll stories and gossip, to see Barney fly into a passion if any one he did not like touched Dora, or even put his hand upon her dress. One of the persons the poor softie most cordially detested was Barry Kearney ; perhaps because this young man was too fond of teasing him, or else too much given to sitting beside Dora. How or whatever the cause, the poor fool hated him; but with, a prudence which one would have hardly expected In a softie, he kept his opinions to himself, and watched his enemy like a lynx. Not once or twice he saw tho young man descend from the loft where be slept with Luke the ‘ help,’ after the family were sound asleep, and opening the door, steal noiselessly from the house ; and after much consideration, Barney at last made up his mind to follow him and learn his destination, nothing doubting that it was the village public-house or ahtheen, or the forge, which was often a haunt for the idlers to play cards and get tipsy in. But Larry took tho very opposite direction from what the softie imagined. Crossing two or three fields, he skirted a plantation of ash, on the other side of which was a, rath or forth, said to be haunted, am) the resort of " the good people." The place was very generally avoided after nightfall ; and'Barney's courage was beginning to fail him, when Larry was joined by three or four other young men, which revived bis spirits, and. nerved turn to follow silently and cautiously si) a eat,

On rounding the hill he saw there were tween thirty and forty persons assembled in a field, and after a few minutes one of them advanced to meet Larry. Tbe softie, on seeing the man approach, concealed himself behind the ferns and brambles all his curiosity aroused, and strained his ears to catch the conversation; but the men spoke so indistinctly that he could not distinguish a word till after a little while they drew nearer to his cover. “Look here, Larry,” said one, drawing something which gleamed in the moonlight from a eave or hollow in the hill-side, within arm’s length of Barney’s crouching form. “Look, me boy, there’s twoscore pike-heads lying snug enough in there.’ “Good captain,” Larry'replied, with his merry laugh, “an’ there’s two-score ‘boys' ready to handle them,” “Yes ; but we want more,” the captain said, as he replaced the weapon in the cave, and carefully drew the thick grass ferns, and blackberry bushes over it. “ Did you speak e’er a word to Martin 1” Larry laughed again. “ Sorra a word, captain ; an’ if ‘ Molly’ herself was to go an’ ax him, ho wouldn’t join us,” he said ; “ an’ bedad, maybe he would inform 1" he added merrily—and the men moved away. “Ha, ha!” Barney said to himself as he crept from his hiding-place, and made his way back to the farmhouse ; “ that’s where Larry goes. And who’s Molly, who’s Molly? I’ll ask Miss Dora to-morrow who’s Molly and with this reflection he crept into bed and went to sleep. Chapter 11.

“ Father, I think I’d like to join the volunteers,” said Martin Kearney one day, about a month after the above event; “the country is in a bad way, an’ it’s time for them that love peace and quietness to spake up.” “ True for you, Alartin; an’ if I was younger I'd do the same thing,” Owen Kearney said, looking up from the newspaper, in which he was reading an account of the anest of several of the rebels known in 184- as the Molly Maguires, from their having first met in the house of a woman of that name. “It’s bad for the boys that went with the ‘ Mollies/” “ Will you join with me, Larry 2” Martin asked. But he shook his head as he replied somewhat hastily: “ Not I, faith ; the ‘ boys' never did anything to me.” “ An’ I’m not going to do anything to them,’ answered Martin quietly. “ Only I think it’s right for us to show that we’re honest Roscommon boys, an’ have nothing to do with the villains who go round the country at night frightening women an’ children, an' murdering poor innocent cattle, not to mention shootin" their next-door neighbor from behind a hedge, without a reason. I'd liever be a sheep-stealer than a Molly Maguire ; an’ to show I have no dealings with them, I’ll go tomorrow to Boyle an’ list in the Volunteers." Larry used every argument to prevent his brother going to Boyle as he said, but without any avail; and early the next morning Alartin started to do what numbers of the better class of farmers' sons in the vicinity of the small towns had already done. About twelve o’clock on the night that Martin left his home, Owen Kearney and his wife were startled out of their sleep by the softie rushing into their room screaming wildly that he had a dream.

“An’ what was it, Barney!” asked Mrs. Kearney, kindly. “D»n't be frightened now; but tell me.”

“ Arrah, ma’am,” he sobbed, “ I dreamed I saw Martin ; and two men with their faces blackened rode up to him on the plains of Boyle, and shot him. Oh, wiira, wirra, one of them was Larry!” , Poor Mrs. Kearney fell to wringing her hands, and sobbing wildly at the extraordinary dream of the poor fool; while her husband rushed to his son’s room in the hope of finding Larry; but his bed was empty, as was that of Luke the servant. Full of terrible forebodings, the farmer began to question Barney more particularly as to his dream; but he could only repeat again and again that two men fired at Martin on the plains of Boyle; one of them was Larry, tbe other was Luke; this he maintained with a persistency which it was almost impossible to doubt. No one thought of returning to bed ; and while they were consulting as to what was best to be done, the softie again uttered a wild shriek, and rolled over on the floor, as a bullet entered the kitchen window and lodged in the opposite wall, followed by another, which whizzed past Owen Kearney’s bead. “The Lord have mercy upon us!” he exclaimed, crossing himself devoutly. “ Where will it end 2” And he held his wife, who was almost insensible from the fright, close in his arms. At that instant a bright light illuminated the whole kitchen; and in a moment the truth flashed across his brain —his steading was in flames. Not daring to open his door to look out, he tried to, think what was best to be done; for perhaps the house over his head was blazing too, or would be in a few minutes. Casting a hasty glance round, he lifted his wife in his arms, meaning to carry her to the front of the house aud out of sight of the flames; when a violent knocking, at the door startled him, and he recognised his_ niece's voice demanding admittance. Hastily unbarring it, he saw her accompanied by a party of soldiers, who, when they found no lives had been taken, set to work bravely to protect the property which was yet untouched by the fire. But there was little left for them to do. The cattle had been hamstrung, the horses stolen, and a light brand placed in every stack of oats and the thatch of ever outhouse. Tbe work of devastation has been done only too well.

« They’re taken, uncle—them that set the haggard a-flre,” said Dora as soon as she was able to speak. “I brought the soldiers to the house ; and,” she added, “ one of the villians said he had finished off Owen Kearney. Thank God, it is not true !” and she threw herself into his arms.

“Yes; “I heard him,” said one of the soldier ;’ and wo’ve sent him to safer lodgings than we took him from. It seems, Hr. Kearney ,• that your niece was returning home from a visit to a neighbor’s, when she heard two men whispering in the lane at the end of the meadow. As they were in front, and she didn't like their looks, she kept behind and heard them say that there were two gone to Boyle to look out for the Volunteer, and that they were going to do for old Kearney and his wife, ‘string’ the cattle and fire the haggard. Like a sensible girl, she tamed round quietly and ran as quick as she could towards Castierea. By good luck she met us half-way; and though we were going on another errand, we turned back at once with her, and netted the rascals who did this pretty piece of business.—l sent six men on towards Boyle, to see if they could learn anything of the villains that followed your son,” added the sergeant. “ Where’s Larry, uncle 2” asked Dora, after she had tried ineffectually to console her aunt. “ Why isn’t he here ?” “You're all I have now, itlanna,” Kearney said, pressing her to his breast. “Martinis gone, and Larry is gone. Well, well, God is good.” “Miss Dora, Miss Dora !” cried Barney Athleague faintly, “ come here a minute." In the general confusion, every one had forgotten the poor softie, who lay on the floor quite insensible. “What is it, Barney? Are ye hurt?” inquired Dora, bending over him. “ Not much; only my back is had, and I can’t lift my legs. Tell your uncle Owen Kearney that Martin isn’t dead. He’s lyin’ on tho settle in a shebeen with his hand on his side calling, Dora 1” I see him—sure I soe him ; and Larry an’ Luke is took ; the sogers is bringing them to Boaoommon. Oh wirra, wirra !”

“ Shure the poor creature is frightened to death’s door,” said Owen Kearney, trying to induce Barney to get up and drink a little water ; but the mug fell out of tho farmer’s hands in dismay and horror, for he found the poor softie was bathed in blood. “ He’s shot, he's shot!” he exclaimed; and one of the soldiers drew near and examined the wound. “There’s a bullet in his back,” the man said ; “and bell never eat another bit of the world’s bread. And may God forgot the man that forgot ho was an omadthaun.” Poor Barney never spoke again. Nothing cruid have saved his life. But his dream was literally true. At the very moment ho awoke screaming. Martin Kearney was fired at by bis brother Lary and his father’s servant; at the hour he mentioned were the murderers taken ; and Martin himself was taken into a shebeen, as he said, and laid upon a settle in the kitchen, where he called untiringly for his cousin Dora.

Such was the Softie’s dream ; and such sad stories as that above related are a part and parcel of every Irish rebellion. Martin Kearney did not die; and Larry pleaded guilty, declaring that ho was forced to attempt his brother’s life both by solemn oath of obedience and by lot; at the same time confessing ail he knew of tho strength and doings of the Mollies, assuring his judges that he joined them in ignorance, and now thought of them only with horror and regret. Therefore, in consideration of his youth, repentance, and valuable information ho gave with regard to the rebels, his life was spared, and he was instead sentenced to twenty-one years’ penal Servitude 5 while

his companion, Luke Murphy, was hanged. It would have been almost a kindness to Larry to have been permitted to share the same fate. Before two years he died of a broken heart. Owen Kearney's house was not burned ; but after his sou’s transportation, nothin".could induce him to live in it. He therefore sold his furniture and such of his stock as the cruelty and violence of the Alollies spared, aud went to end his days amongst his wife’s relations in the County Galway., Dora and Alartin were married, and after some time emigrated, and spent the remainder of their days in comfort and happiness, clouded only by the memory of how much pleasanter it would have been if they could have settled down in the old farm house dear to them both, to he a comfort to their father and mother in their old age, and at last to sleep beside them ia Glenmadda churchyard. The stock of one of the wealthiest gentlemen in the County Roscommon now graze where Owen Kearney’s bouse once stood. Not a trace of his family remains in the Green Isle. Their tragical history ia almost forgotten ; but amongst the gossips and old women the softie’s dream is still remembered.