Reilly led a melancholy life after the departure of the pious bishop. A week, however, had elapsed, and he felt as if it had been half a year. His anxiety, however, either to see or hear from his Cooleen Bawn completely overcame him, and he resolved, at all events, to write to her; in the meantime, how was he to do this? There was no letter-paper in the farmer\'s house, nor any to be procured within miles, and, under these circumstances, he resolved to pay a visit to Mr. Brown. After some trouble he was admitted to the presence of that gentleman, who could scarcely satisfy himself of his identity; but, at length, he felt assured, and asked him into the study.
“My dear Reilly,” said he, “I think you are infatuated. I thought you had been out of the country long before this. Why, in heaven\'s name, do you remain in Ireland, when you know the difficulty of escape? I have had, since I saw you last, two or three domiciliary visits from Whitecraft and his men, who searched my whole house and premises in a spirit of insolence that was, most indelicate and offensive. Hastings and I have sent a memorial to the Lord Lieutenant, signed by some of the most respectable Protestant gentry in the, country, in which we stated his wanton tyranny as well as his oppression of his Majesty\'s subjects—harmless and loyal men, and whom he pursues with unsatiable vengeance, merely because they are Roman Catholics. I certainly do not expect that our memorial will be attended to by this Administration. There is a report, however, that the present Ministry will soon go out, and be succeeded by one more liberal.”
“Well,” replied Reilly, “since I saw you last I have had some narrow escapes; but I think it would be difficult to know me in my present disguise.”
“I grant that,” said Mr. Brown, “but then is there nothing to be apprehended from treachery?”
“I think not,” replied the other. “There is only the farmer and his family, with whom the bishop and I harbored, who are aware of my disguise, and to that number I must now add yourself.”
“Well,” replied Mr. Brown, smiling, “I do not think you have much to apprehend from me.”
“No,” said Reilly, “you have given me too many substantial proofs of your confidence for that. But I wish to write a letter; and I have neither pen, ink, nor paper; will you be good enough to lend me the use of your study for a few minutes, and your writing materials?”
The excellent clergyman immediately conducted him to the study, and placed the materials before him with his own hands, after which he left the room. Reilly then sat down, and penned the following letter to his dear Cooleen Bawn:
“I am now thoroughly disguised, indeed so effectually that my nearest and dearest friends could not know me; nay, I question whether even you yourself would, except by the keen intuition of affection, which is said to penetrate all disguises, unless those of falsehood and hypocrisy. These, however, are disguises I have never worn, nor ever shall wear—either to you or any human being. I had intended to go to the Continent until this storm of persecution might blow over; but on reflection I changed my purpose, for I could not leave you to run the risk of being ensnared in the subtle and treacherous policy of that villain. It is my intention to visit your father\'s house and to see you if I can. You need not, for the sake of my safety, object to this, because no one can know me. The description of my dress, though somewhat undignified, I must give you. In the first place, then, I am, to all outward appearance, as rude-looking a country lout as ever you looked upon. My disguise consists, first, of a pair of brogues embroidered with clouts, or what is vulgarly denominated patches, out of the point of one of which—that of the right foot—nearly half my toe visibly projects. The stockings are coarse Connemaras, with sufficient air-holes, both in feet and legs, to admit the pure atmosphere, and strengthen the muscular system. My small-clothes are corduroys, bought from a hard-working laborer, with a large patch upon each knee. A tailor, however, has promised to get some buttons for them and sew them on. The waistcoat is altogether indescribable; because, as its materials seem to have been rescued, that is, stolen, from all the scarecrows in the country, I am\' unable to come at the first fabric. The coat itself is also beautifully variegated, its patches consisting of all the colors of the rainbow, with two or three dozen that never appeared in that beautiful phenomenon. But what shall I say of the pendiment, or caubeen, which is a perfect gem of its kind? The villain who wore it, I have been told by the person who acted as factor for me in its purchase, was one of the most quarrelsome rascals in Ireland, and seldom went without a black eye or a broken pate. This, I suppose, accounts for the droop in the leaf, which covers the left eye so completely, as well as for the ventilator, which so admirably refreshes the head, and allows the rain to come in so abundantly to cool it. I cannot help reflecting, however, on the fate of those who have nothing better to wear, and of the hard condition which dooms them to it. And now, my beloved Cooleen Bawn, whilst I have thus endeavored to make you smile, I assure you I have exaggerated very little. This dress, you know, is precisely that of a wretched Connaught-man looking for employment. The woman, who will, through our confidant, Lanigan, deliver this to you, is a poor faithful creature, a pensioner of mine, who may be trusted. Appoint through her a day and hour when, as a man seeking for labor, I will stand at the hall-door. I am quite satisfied that neither your father, nor the villain, will know me from Adam. The woman who is to bring this will call on the second day after its delivery, and I shall be guided by whatever message you may send me. On one thing, however, I am determined, which is that if it should cost me my life, I will prevent the meditated marriage between you and him. Sooner than such an event should take place, I would put a pistol to his head and blow his guilty soul into that perdition which awaits it. Don\'t write; let your message be verbal, and destroy this.”
On going to widow Buckley\'s, he learned—after some trouble in identifying himself—that she had several visits from Sir Robert and his men, at all hours, both by night and day. He therefore hastily gave her the necessary instructions how to act, and, above all things, to ask to see Lanigan, and, if possible, to bring some eggs or chickens for sale, which fact, he said, would give a color to her appearance there, and prevent the possibility of any suspicion. Having placed the letter in her keeping, together with some silver to enable her to purchase either the eggs or the chickens, in case she had them not herself, he then returned to the farmer\'s, where he remained quietly and without disturbance of any kind until the third day, when widow Buckley made her appearance. He brought her out to the garden, because in discussing matters connected with his Cooleen Bawn he did not wish that even the farmer\'s family should be auditors—although we may say here that not only were the loves of Willy Reilly and Cooleen Bawn known to the farmer and his family, but also to the whole country, and, indeed, through the medium of ballads, to the greater portion of the kingdom.
“Well, Mrs. Buckley,” said he, “did you see her?”
“Oh, bad scran to you, Mr. Reilly! you\'re the very sarra among the girls when you could persuade that lovely creature to fall in love with you—and you a Catholic, an\' her a Protestant! May I never, if I think there\'s her angil out o\' heaven! Devil an angel I think in it could hould a candle to her for beauty and figure. She only wants the wings, sir—for they say that all the angels have wings; and upon my conscience if she had them I know the man she\'d fly to.”
“But what happened, Mrs. Buckley?”
“Why, I sould some chickens and eggs to the cook, who at wanst knew me, because I had often sould him chickens and eggs before. He came up to the hall-door, and—\'Well, Mrs. Buckley,\' says he, \'what\'s the news?\' \'Be dhe husth,\' says I, \'before I sell you the chickens, let me ax is the Cooleen Bawn at home?\' \'She is,\' says he, lookin\' me sharp and straight in the face; \'do you want her?\' \'I would like to see her,\' says I, \'for a minute or two.\' \'Ay,\' says he, back agin to me, \'you have a message—and you know besides that she never buys chickens; that\'s my business.\' \'But,\' says I, back agin, \'I was tould by him that you were faithful, and could be depinded on.\' \'Ay,\' says he; \'but I thought he had left the counthry.\' \'Troth, then,\' says I, \'he\'s to the fore still, and won\'t lave the counthry till he sees her wanst more, at all events.\' \'Have you a letther?\' \'Betherahin,\' says I, \'could you let me see her; for he tould me to say to her that she is not, to indite letthers to him, for fraid of discovery.\' \'Well,\' says he, \'as the master\'s at home, I\'ll have some difficulty in spakin\' to her. Devil a move she gives but he watches; and we got a new servant the other day, and devil a thing she is but a spy from Sir Robert Whitecraft, and some people say that her master and she forgot the Gospel between them. Indeed I believe that\'s pretty well known; and isn\'t he a horrid villain to send such a vagabone to attend and be about the very woman that he expects to be his own wife?\'”
“Don\'t be so particular in your descriptions, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly. “Did you see the Cooleen Bawn?”
“Look at that,” she replied, opening her hand, and showing him a golden guinea—“don\'t you know by that that I seen her? but you must let me go on my own way. \'Well,\' says Lanigan, the cook, \'I must go and see what I can do.\' He then went upstairs, and contrived to give her a hint, and that was enough. \'The Lord bless us, Mr. Reilly, what won\'t love do? This girl—as Lanigan tould me—that the villain Whitecraft had sent as a spy upon her actions, was desired to go to her wardrobe, to pick out from among her beautiful dresses one that she had promised her as a present some days before. The cook had this from the girl herself, who was the sarra for dress; but, anyhow, while the the spy was tumbling about Cooleen Bawn\'s dresses, the darlin\' herself whipped downstairs, and coming to me says, \'The cook tells me you have a message for me.\' Jist at this moment, and after she had slipped the letter into her bosom, her father turns a corner round the garden, and seeing his daughter, which was a very unusual thing, in conversation with a person like myself, he took the alarm at once. \'How, Helen? who is this you are speaking to\'? No go-between, I hope? Who are you, you blasted old she-whelp?\' \'I am no more a she-whelp than you are.\' \'Then maybe you are a he one in disguise. What brought you here?\' \'Here! I came to sell my eggs and my chickens, as I done for years.\' \'Your eggs and your chickens! curse you, you old Jezebel, did you ever lay the eggs or hatch the chickens? And if you did, why not produce the old cock himself, in proof of the truth of what you say? I\'ll have you searched, though, in spite of your eggs and chickens. Here,\' he said to one of the footmen, who was passing through the hall—\'here, Jones, send up Lanigan, till we see whether he knows this old faggot, who has the assurance to tell me that she lays eggs and hatches chickens.\' When Lanigan came up again, he looked at me as at an old acquaintance, which, in point of fact, we were. \'Why, your honor,\' said he, \'this is a poor, honest creature that has been selling us eggs and chickens for many years.\' \'She wouldn\'t be a go-between, Lanigan—eh? What\'s your name, you old faggot—eh?\' \'My name | is Scrahag, your honor,\' says I, \'one of the Scrahags of Ballycumpiatee—an honest and dacint family, sir; but if your honor would buy the eggs, at any rate, and hatch them yourself,\' says I to him (for she had a large stock of Irish humor), \'you know, sir, you could have the chickens at first cost.\' \'Ha, ha, ha,\' and the squire laughed till he nearly split his sides; \'by —- I\'m hit\'—God pardon me for repeatin\' his oaths. \'Here, Lanigan, bring her down to the kitchen, and give her a fog meal.\' \'I understand you, sir,\' said Lanigan, smiling at him. \'Yes, Lanigan, give her a cargo of the best in the pantry. She\'s a shrewd and comical old blade,\' said he; \'give her a kegful of beef or mutton, or both, and a good swill of ale or porter, or whatever she prefers. Curse me, but I give the old whelp credit for the hit she gave me. Pay her, besides, whatever she asks for her eggs and chickens. Here, you bitter old randle-tree, there are three thirteens for you; and if you will go down to the kitchen with the cook, he will give you a regular skinful.\' The cook, knowing that the Cooleen Bawn wished to send some message back to you, sir, brought me down, and gave me not only plenty to ait and drink, but stuffed the praskeen that I had carried the eggs and chickens in with as much cold meat and bread as it could contain.”
“Well, but did you not see her afterwards? and did she send no message?”
“Only two or three words; the day afther to-morrow, at two o\'clock, come to look for labor, and she will contrive to see you.”
This was enough, and Reilly did not allow his ambassadress to leave him without substantial marks of his bounty also.
When the old squire went to his study, he desired the gardener to be sent for, and when that individual entered, he found his master in a towering passion.
“What is the reason, Malcomson,” said he, “that the garden is in such a shameful state? I declare to God it is scandalous.”
“Ou, your honor,” replied Malcomson, who was a Scotchman, “e\'en because you will not allow me an under gerdener. No one man could manage your gerden, and it canna be managed without some clever chiel, what understands the sceence.”
“The what?”
“The sceence, your honor.”
“Why, confound you, sir, what science is necessary in gardening?”
“I tell your honor that the management of a gerden requires baith skeel and knowledge, and feelosophy.”
“Why, confound you, sir, again, what kind of doctrine is this?”
“It\'s vera true doctrine, sir. You have large and spacious green-hooses, and I wad want some one to assist me wha understands buttany.”
“Buttony—Buttony—why, confound you, sirra, send for a tailor, then, for he understands buttony.”
“I see your honor is detarmined to indulge in a jocular spirit the day. The truth is, your honor, I hae no men to assist me but common laborers, who are athegether ignorant of gerdening; now, if I had a man who could direct the operations—”
“Operations! curse your Scotch impudence, do you think yourself a general?”
“Na, na, sir; but a better man; and I tell ye that I winna remain in your service unless I get an assistant; and I say that, if it were-na for the aid of Miss Folliard, I wouldna been able to keep the green-hoose e\'en in its present state. She has trailed the passionflower wi\' her ain hands until it is nourishing. Then she has a beautiful little plot of forget-me-nots; but, above a\', it wad do your honor\'s heart gude to see the beautiful bed she has of sweet-william and love-lies-bleeding.”
“Ay, ay! love-lies-bleeding; no doubt but she\'ll take care of that. Well, go and get an under-gardener wherever you can, and let my garden be, at all events, such as a stranger can walk through, and such as becomes my name and property. Engage such a person, give him whatever you consider fair wages, and the house-steward will pay him weekly. These are matters ............