The Emigrants Of Ahadarra. William Carleton

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      On the second morning after the night described in the last chapter, Bryan M'Mahon had just returned to his father's house from his farm in Ahadarra, for the purpose of accompanying him to an Emigration auction in the neighborhood. The two farms of Carriglass and Ahadarra had been in the family of the M'Mahon's for generations, and were the property of the same landlord. About three years previous to the period of our narrative, Toal M'Mahon, Bryan's uncle, died of an inflammatory attack, leaving to his eldest nephew and favorite the stock farm of Ahadarra. Toal had been a bachelor who lived wildly and extravagantly, and when he died Bryan suceeeded to the farm, then as wild, by the way, and as much neglected as its owner had been, with an arrear of two years' rent upon it. In fact the house and offices had gone nearly to wreck, and when Bryan entered into occupation he found that a large sum of money should be expended in necessary improvements ere the place could assume anything like a decent appearance. As a holding, however, it was reasonable; and we may safely assert that if Toal M'Mahon had been either industrious or careful he might have lived and died a wealthy man upon it. As Ahadarra lay in the mountain district, it necessarily covered a large space; in fact it constituted a townland in itself. The greater portion of it, no doubt, was barren mountain, but then there were about three hundred acres of strong rough land that was either reclaimed or capable of being so. Bryan, who had not only energy and activity, but capital to support both, felt, on becoming master of a separate farm, that peculiar degree of pride which was only natural to a young and enterprising man. He had now a fair opportunity, he thought, of letting his friends see what skill and persevering exertion could do. Accordingly he commenced his improvements in a spirit which at least deserved success. He proceeded upon the best system then known to intelligent agriculturalists, and nothing was left undone that he deemed necessary to work out his purposes. He drained, reclaimed, made fences, roads, and enclosures. Nor did he stop here. We said that the house and offices were in a ruinous state when they came into his possession, and the consequence was that he found it necessary to build a new dwelling house and suitable offices, which he did on a more commodious and eligible site. Altogether his expenditure on the farm could not have been less than eight hundred pounds at the period of the landlord's death, which, as the reader knows is that at which we have commenced our narrative.

      Thomas M'Mahon's family consisted of—first, his father, a grey-haired patriarch, who, though a very old man, was healthy and in the full possession of all his faculties; next, himself; then his wife; Bryan, the proprietor of Ahadarra; two other sons, both younger, and two daughters, the eldest twenty, and the youngest about eighteen. The name of the latter was Dora, a sweet and gentle girl, with beautiful auburn hair, dark, brilliant eyes, full of intellect and feeling, an exquisite mouth, and a figure which was remarkable for natural grace and great symmetry.

      “Well, Bryan,” said the father, “what news from Ahadarra?”

      “Nothing particular from Ahadarra,” replied the son, “but our good-natured friend, Jemmy Burke, had his house broken open and robbed the night before last.”

      “Wurrah deheelish” exclaimed his mother, “no, he hadn't!”

      “Well, mother,” replied Bryan, laughing, “maybe not. I'm afeard it's too true though.”

      “An' how much did he lose?” asked his father.

      “Between seventy and eighty pounds,” said Bryan.

      “It's too much,” observed the other; “still I'm glad it's no more; an' since the villains did take it, it's well they tuck it from a man that can afford to lose it.”

      “By all accounts,” said Arthur, or, as he was called, Art, “Hycy, the sportheen, has pulled him down a bit. He's not so rich now, they say, as he was three or four years ago.”

      “He's rich enough still,” observed his father; “but at any rate, upon my sowl I'm sorry for him; he's the crame of an honest, kind-hearted neighbor; an' I believe in my conscience if there's a man alive that hasn't an ill-wisher, he is.”

      “Is it known who robbed him?” asked the grandfather, “or does he suspect anybody?”

      “It's not known, of course, grandfather,” replied Bryan, “or I suppose they would be in limbo before now; but there's quare talk about it. The Hogans is suspected, it seems. Philip was caught examinin' the hall-door the night before; an' that does look suspicious.”

      “Ay,” said the old man, “an' very likely they're the men. I remember them this many a long day; it's forty years since Andy Hogan—he was lame—Andy Boccah they called him—was hanged for the murdher of your great-granduncle, Billy Shevlin, of Frughmore, so that they don't like a bone in our bodies. That was the only murdher I remember of them, but many a robbery was laid to their charge; an' every now and then there was always sure to be an odd one transported for thievin', an' house-breakin', and sich villainy.”

      “I wouldn't be surprised,” said Mrs. M'Mahon, “but it was some o' them tuck our two brave geese the night before last.”

      “Very likely, in throth, Bridget,” said her husband; “however, as the ould proverb has it, 'honesty's the best policy.' Let them see which of us I'll be the best off at the end of the year.”

      “There's an odd whisper here an' there about another robber,” continued Bryan; “but I don't believe a word about it. No, no;—he's wild, and not scrupulous in many things, but I always thought him generous, an' indeed rather careless about money.”

      “You mane the sportheen?” said his brother Art.

      “The Hogans,” said the old man, recurring to the subject, as associated with them, “would rob anybody barrin' the Cavanaghs; but I won't listen to it, Bryan, that Hycy Burke, or the son of any honest man that ever had an opportunity of hearin' the Word o' God, or livin' in a Christian counthry, could ever think of robbin' his own father—his own father! I won't listen to that.”

      “No, nor I, grandfather,” said Bryan, “putting everything else out of the question, its too unnatural an act. What makes you shake your head, Art?”

      “I never liked a bone in his body, somehow,” replied Art.

      “Ay, but my goodness, Art,” said Dora, “sure nobody would think of robbin' their own father?”

      “He has been doin' little else these three years, Dora, by all accounts,” replied Art.

      “Ay, but his father,” continued the innocent girl; “to break into the house at night an' rob him like a robber!”

      “Well, I say, it's reported that he has been robbin' him these three years in one shape or other,” continued Art; “but here's Shibby, let's hear what she'll say. What do you think, shibby?”

      “About what, Art?”

      “That Hycy Burke would rob his father!”

      “Hut, tut! Art, what puts that into your head? Oh, no, Art—not at all—to rob his father, an' him has been so indulgent to him!”

      “Indeed, I agree with you, Shibby,” said Bryan; “for although my opinion of Hycy is changed very much for the worse of late, still I can't and won't give in to that.”

      “An what has changed it for the worse?” asked his mother. “You an' СКАЧАТЬ