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The Playboy of the Western World by J. M. Synge Know-the-Show Audience Guide compiled and written by Cover art by Scott McKowen. Meredith Keffer for the. The Playboy of the Western World by J. M. Synge March, [Etext #] The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Playboy of the Western World ******This file. PDF | This paper aims to reveal some of the reasons why such a komedie soos die The Playboy of the Western World het die gehoor telkens verras.


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PREFACE. In writing THE PLAYBOY OF THE WESTERN WORLD, as in my other plays, I have used one or two words only that I have not heard among the. Download The Playboy of the Western World free in PDF & EPUB format. Download J. M. Synge's The Playboy of the Western World for your. John Millington Synge's linguistic repre- sentation of the Irish woman in a comedy like The Playboy of the Western World surprised the audience at every turn.

Then, one can speak about the "language of bosses", the "language of secretaries", the "language of teachers", the "language of stu- dents", etc.. Well, the heart's a wonder; and, I'm thinking, there won't be our like in Mayo, for gallant lovers, from this hour, to-day. Let me out, the lot of you! The object of study of many analysts is a stereotyped male or female use of language. What would any be but odd men and they living lonesome in the world?

Yeats was unable to attend the first performance of The Playboy, on January 26, That evening, he received a W. Yet the reaction was not totally unexpected. At one in the morning, Yeats received another telegram: Their outrage reached a tipping point at was a very politically loaded Source: When the play repeatedly subverted person would say in public.

The audience broke into a full riot, their expectations, they took it as an attack not only on the with the actors having to shout and mime to finish the play. The peasantry but on themselves, their conceptions and beliefs.

The remaining performances were attended by protesters blowing extravagant, violent character of Christy Mahon struck them trumpets and by hundreds of police officers to keep them in line.

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Not in a Dublin counterpart — in New York, the objects thrown on stage position to separate the literary from the political in order included potatoes, a currant cake, and a watch retrieved later by to appreciate the subtleties and ironies of the play, the its owner , while in Philadelphia the entire cast was arrested.

Electric Scotland. Harold Strong, whisht — be quiet Source: Wikimedia Commons. Villanova University, Synge The Aran Islands. Creighton University.

Further Reading Kiberd, Declan. Inventing Ireland: The Literature of the Modern Nation. Harvard University Press, Kiberd, Declan. Synge and the Songs of the Folk. Bickley, Francis. Synge and the Irish Dramatic Movement. Houghton Mifflin, Western World. Bretherton, George. Synge and His Critics.

Modern Drama Clark, Barrett H. The British and American Drama of Today. Henry Holt and Company, History of the Highlands. Collins, Michael J. Voices of Ireland: Classic Writings of a Rich the Western World. Running Press, Messenger, John C. An Anthropological Cusack, George. Nationalism, Critique.

Famine, and The Playboy of the Western World.

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By Charles Squire. Internet Sacred Text Fitzpatrick, Thomas. The Playboy and the Tomboy [cartoon]. The Archive. Lepracaun National Library of Ireland Catalogue. Abbey Theatre. Parker, Randolph. Language and Liminality Grene, Nicholas.

A Critical Study of the Plays. Totowa, in Playboy of the Western World. Rowman and Littlefield, Grene, Nicholas. Nicholas Grene. Totowa, NJ: Henigan, Julie. Villanova University Online Library Exhibits. Review 6. Pollard, Simon. Price, Alan, ed. The Autobiography of J. Hyde, Douglas. Love Songs of Connacht. The Dolmen Press, Know-the-Show Guide Saddlemyer, Ann.

Masaru Sekine. Saddlemyer, Ann, ed.

The Playboy of the Western World: A Comedy in Three Acts by J. M. Synge

Collected Works vol. Oxford University Press, Skelton, Robin. New York: The Viking Press, Synge, J. John W.

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Non Worrall. Methuen, Ann Saddlemeyer. Synge, John Millington. Whitaker, Thomas R. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, Wilson, Steve. Yeats, Jack Butler. Life in the West of Ireland. Maunsel and Company LTD, Villanova Digital Library. Villanova University. Yeats, John Butler. Essays Irish and American. Talbot Press Ltd. Yeats, William Butler. The Cutting of an Agate. A Playboy riot-themed cartoon published in The Lepracaun in Macmillan, Many of the articles listed here are available on www.

If your music hall shows Source: National Library of Ireland. Related Papers. By Mary Doolan. By Marla Bruner. By Mousir Khan. The Canadian Journal of Irish Studies By Mary Burke. Staging Ethnography: John M. By Gregory Castle. Download pdf. Remember me on this computer. Enter the email address you signed up with and we'll email you a reset link.

Need an account? Click here to sign up. Help Center Find new research papers in: One has, on one side, Mallarme and Huysmans producing this literature; and on the other, Ibsen and Zola dealing with the reality of life in joyless and pallid words. On the stage one must have reality, and one must have joy; and that is why the intellectual modern drama has failed, and people have grown sick of the false joy of the musical comedy, that has been given them in place of the rich joy found only in what is superb and wild in reality.

In a good play every speech should be as fully flavoured as a nut or apple, and such speeches cannot be written by anyone who works among people who have shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for a few years more, we have a popular imagination that is fiery and magnificent, and tender; so that those of us who wish to write start with a chance that is not given to writers in places where the springtime of the local life has been forgotten, and the harvest is a memory only, and the straw has been turned into bricks.

January 21st, The action takes place near a village, on a wild coast of Mayo. The first Act passes on an evening of autumn, the other two Acts on the following day.

There is a sort of counter on the right with shelves, holding many bottles and jugs, just seen above it. Empty barrels stand near the counter. At back, a little to left of counter, there is a door into the open air, then, more to the left, there is a settle with shelves above it, with more jugs, and a table beneath a window.

At the left there is a large open fire-place, with turf fire, and a small door into inner room. Pegeen, a wild looking but fine girl, of about twenty, is writing at table. She is dressed in the usual peasant dress. A pair of lace boots with lengthy heels on them and brassy eyes. A hat is suited for a wedding-day.

A fine tooth comb. To be sent with three barrels of porter in Jimmy Farrell's creel cart on the evening of the coming Fair to Mister Michael James Flaherty.

With the best compliments of this season. Margaret Flaherty. She directs the letter. SHAWN -- [uneasily. How would you see him licks stamp and puts it on letter and it dark night this half hour gone by?

SHAWN -- [turning towards the door again. SHAWN -- [looking at her blankly. She gets up and puts envelope on dresser, then winds clock. Isn't it long the nights are now, Shawn Keogh, to be leaving a poor girl with her own self counting the hours to the dawn of day?

SHAWN -- [with awkward humour. Aren't we after making a good bargain, the way we're only waiting these days on Father Reilly's dispensation from the bishops, or the Court of Rome. We're a queer lot these times to go troubling the Holy Father on his sacred seat. SHAWN -- [scandalized. Where now will you meet the like of Daneen Sullivan knocked the eye from a peeler, or Marcus Quin, God rest him, got six months for maiming ewes, and he a great warrant to tell stories of holy Ireland till he'd have the old women shedding down tears about their feet.

Where will you find the like of them, I'm saying? SHAWN -- [timidly. Is it the like of that murderer? You'll not, surely. SHAWN -- [going to her, soothingly. Is it a man you seen? SHAWN -- [retreating. It should have been a young man from his words speaking. I did not, Pegeen Mike. It was a dark, lonesome place to be hearing the like of him. Well, you're a daring fellow, and if they find his corpse stretched above in the dews of dawn, what'll you say then to the peelers, or the Justice of the Peace?

SHAWN -- [thunderstruck. For the love of God, Pegeen Mike, don't let on I was speaking of him. Don't tell your father and the men is coming above; for if they heard that story, they'd have great blabbing this night at the wake.

I'll maybe tell them, and I'll maybe not. They are coming at the door, Will you whisht, I'm saying? Whisht yourself. Michael James, fat jovial publican, comes in followed by Philly Cullen, who is thin and mistrusting, and Jimmy Farrell, who is fat and amorous, about forty-five. The blessing of God on this place. God bless you kindly.

Crosses to Shawn at the fire. And how is it you are, Shawn Keogh? Are you coming over the sands to Kate Cassidy's wake? I am not, Michael James. I'm going home the short cut to my bed. If I am a queer daughter, it's a queer father'd be leaving me lonesome these twelve hours of dark, and I piling the turf with the dogs barking, and the calves mooing, and my own teeth rattling with the fear.

JIMMY -- [flatteringly. There's lots surely to hurt me, and I won't stop alone in it, let himself do what he will. If you're that afeard, let Shawn Keogh stop along with you.

It's the will of God, I'm thinking, himself should be seeing to you now. Can't you sit in by the hearth with the light lit and herself beyond in the room?

You'll do that surely, for I've heard tell there's a queer fellow above, going mad or getting his death, maybe, in the gripe of the ditch, so she'd be safer this night with a person here. SHAWN -- [with plaintive despair. Let you not be tempting me, and we near married itself. He'll stay then and have no sin to be telling to the priest. SHAWN -- [at the top of his voice. Let me out of the door, I'm saying, for the love of the Almighty God. Let me out trying to dodge past him.

Let me out of it, and may God grant you His indulgence in the hour of need. Oh, St. Joseph and St. Patrick and St. Brigid, and St. James, have mercy on me now! SHAWN -- [screaming. Oh, there's sainted glory this day in the lonesome west; and by the will of God I've got you a decent man, Pegeen, you'll have no call to be spying after if you've a score of young girls, maybe, weeding in your fields. Would you have me send the bell-man screaming in the streets of Castlebar?

SHAWN -- [opening the door a chink and putting in his head, in a small voice. The queer dying fellow's beyond looking over the ditch. He's come up, I'm thinking, stealing your hens.

Looks over his shoulder. God help me, he's following me now he runs into room , and if he's heard what I said, he'll be having my life, and I going home lonesome in the darkness of the night. Some one coughs outside. Then Christy Mahon, a slight young man, comes in very tired and frightened and dirty.

God save you kindly. I am not; but I'm destroyed walking. You're looking famished with the cold. God reward you. He takes up his glass and goes a little way across to the left, then stops and looks about him. Is it often the police do be coming into this place, master of the house? If you'd come in better hours, you'd have seen "Licensed for the sale of Beer and Spirits, to be consumed on the premises," written in white letters above the door, and what would the polis want spying on me, and not a decent house within four miles, the way every living Christian is a bona fide, saving one widow alone?

Then he sits down, putting his glass beside him and begins gnawing a turnip, too miserable to feel the others staring at him with curiosity. You're wanting, maybe? There's many wanting.

Many surely, with the broken harvest and the ended wars. He picks up some stockings, etc. It should be larceny, I'm thinking?

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There's a queer lad. Were you never slapped in school, young fellow, that you don't know the name of your deed? If you're a dunce itself, you'd have a right to know that larceny's robbing and stealing. Is it for the like of that you're wanting? He's a wicked-looking young fellow. Maybe he followed after a young woman on a lonesome night.

He said his father was a farmer a while since, and there's himself now in a poor state. Maybe the land was grabbed from him, and he did what any decent man would do.

The divil a one. You'd see the like of them stories on any little paper of a Munster town. But I'm not calling to mind any person, gentle, simple, judge or jury, did the like of me. Well, that lad's a puzzle--the world. He'd beat Dan Davies' circus, or the holy missioners making sermons on the villainy of man. Try him again, Philly. Did you strike golden guineas out of solder, young fellow, or shilling coins itself? I did not, mister, not sixpence nor a farthing coin. Did you marry three wives maybe?

I'm told there's a sprinkling have done that among the holy Luthers of the preaching north. Maybe he went fighting for the Boers, the like of the man beyond, was judged to be hanged, quartered and drawn. Were you off east, young fellow, fighting bloody wars for Kruger and the freedom of the Boers? I never left my own parish till Tuesday was a week.

The Playboy of the Western World

To Christy. If you didn't commit murder or a bad, nasty thing, or false coining, or robbery, or butchery, or the like of them, there isn't anything that would be worth your troubling for to run from now. You did nothing at all. A soft lad the like of you wouldn't slit the windpipe of a screeching sow. Would you have me knock the head of you with the butt of the broom? I killed my poor father, Tuesday was a week, for doing the like of that.

Oh, glory be to God! You should have had good reason for doing the like of that. And you shot him dead? I've no license, and I'm a law-fearing man.

It was with a hilted knife maybe? I'm told, in the big world it's bloody knives they use. You never hanged him, the way Jimmy Farrell hanged his dog from the license, and had it screeching and wriggling three hours at the butt of a string, and himself swearing it was a dead dog, and the peelers swearing it had life?

I did not then. I just riz the loy and let fall the edge of it on the ridge of his skull, and he went down at my feet like an empty sack, and never let a grunt or groan from him at all. Did you bury him then? I buried him then. Wasn't I digging spuds in the field? And the peelers never followed after you the eleven days that you're out?

He should then. And where was it, mister honey, that you did the deed? That'd be a lad with the sense of Solomon to have for a pot-boy, Michael James, if it's the truth you're seeking one at all.

The peelers is fearing him, and if you'd that lad in the house there isn't one of them would come smelling around if the dogs itself were lapping poteen from the dungpit of the yard. Bravery's a treasure in a lonesome place, and a lad would kill his father, I'm thinking, would face a foxy divil with a pitchpike on the flags of hell.

It's the truth they're saying, and if I'd that lad in the house, I wouldn't be fearing the loosed kharki cut-throats, or the walking dead. SHAWN -- [coming forward uneasily. Who's speaking to you? To Christy with a honeyed voice. And you, young fellow, you'd have a right to stop, I'm thinking, for we'd do our all and utmost to content your needs. You would, surely. If they're not fearing you, itself, the peelers in this place is decent droughty poor fellows, wouldn't touch a cur dog and not give warning in the dead of night.

Aren't you destroyed walking with your feet in bleeding blisters, and your whole skin needing washing like a Wicklow sheep. JIMMY -- [jumps up. Christopher Mahon. Well, God bless you, Christy, and a good rest till we meet again when the sun'll be rising to the noon of day. God bless you all. God bless you. There'd be no harm staying now, I'm thinking, and himself in it too.

You wouldn't stay when there was need for you, and let you step off nimble this time when there's none. Didn't I say it was Father Reilly. Go on, then, to Father Reilly in a jeering tone , and let him put you in the holy brotherhoods, and leave that lad to me. If I meet the Widow Quin. Go on, I'm saying, and don't be waking this place with your noise.

She hustles him out and bolts the door. That lad would wear the spirits from the saints of peace. Bustles about, then takes off her apron and pins it up in the window as a blind. Christy watching her timidly. Then she comes to him and speaks with bland good-humour. Let you stretch out now by the fire, young fellow. You should be destroyed travelling. I'm tired, surely, walking wild eleven days, and waking fearful in the night. Wasn't I telling you, and you a fine, handsome young fellow with a noble brow?

Did you never hear that from the young girls where you come from in the west or south? Oh, they're bloody liars in the naked parish where I grew a man. If they are itself, you've heard it these days, I'm thinking, and you walking the world telling out your story to young girls or old. I've told my story no place till this night, Pegeen Mike, and it's foolish I was here, maybe, to be talking free, but you're decent people, I'm thinking, and yourself a kindly woman, the way I wasn't fearing you at all.

If you weren't destroyed travelling, you'd have as much talk and streeleen, I'm thinking, as Owen Roe O'Sullivan or the poets of the Dingle Bay, and I've heard all times it's the poets are your like, fine fiery fellows with great rages when their temper's roused. What would I want wedding so young? I'd be afeard to do that, except I was the like of yourself with blind rages tearing me within, for I'm thinking you should have had great tussling when the end was come.

It was a hard woman was come over the hill, and if he was always a crusty kind when he'd a hard woman setting him on, not the divil himself or his four fathers could put up with him at all. There wasn't anyone heeding me in that place saving only the dumb beasts of the field.

And I after toiling, moiling, digging, dodging from the dawn till dusk with never a sight of joy or sport saving only when I'd be abroad in the dark night poaching rabbits on hills, for I was a devil to poach, God forgive me, very naively and I near got six months for going with a dung fork and stabbing a fish. And it's that you'd call sport, is it, to be abroad in the darkness with yourself alone? I did, God help me, and there I'd be as happy as the sunshine of St. Martin's Day, watching the light passing the north or the patches of fog, till I'd hear a rabbit starting to screech and I'd go running in the furze.

Then when I'd my full share I'd come walking down where you'd see the ducks and geese stretched sleeping on the highway of the road, and before I'd pass the dunghill, I'd hear himself snoring out, a loud lonesome snore he'd be making all times, the while he was sleeping, and he a man 'd be raging all times, the while he was waking, like a gaudy officer you'd hear cursing and damning and swearing oaths.

Providence and Mercy, spare us all! It's that you'd say surely if you seen him and he after drinking for weeks, rising up in the red dawn, or before it maybe, and going out into the yard as naked as an ash tree in the moon of May, and shying clods against the visage of the stars till he'd put the fear of death into the banbhs and the screeching sows.

I'd be well-night afeard of that lad myself, I'm thinking. And there was no one in it but the two of you alone? The divil a one, though he'd sons and daughters walking all great states and territories of the world, and not a one of them, to this day, but would say their seven curses on him, and they rousing up to let a cough or sneeze, maybe, in the deadness of the night.

I never cursed my father the like of that, though I'm twenty and more years of age. Then you'd have cursed mine, I'm telling you, and he a man never gave peace to any, saving when he'd get two months or three, or be locked in the asylums for battering peelers or assaulting men with depression the way it was a bitter life he led me till I did up a Tuesday and halve his skull. It's time surely, and I a seemly fellow with great strength in me and bravery of.

Who's there? VOICE -- [outside. Who's me? The Widow Quin. He takes bread and sits shyly with his back to the door. Walk down and tell that to Father Reilly and to Shaneen Keogh.

God save you, mister! It should have been great and bitter torments did rouse your spirits to a deed of blood. It's more than "maybe" I'm saying, and it'd soften my heart to see you sitting so simple with your cup and cake, and you fitter to be saying your catechism than slaying your da. Walk on from this, for I'll not have him tormented and he destroyed travelling since Tuesday was a week.

She hit himself with a worn pick, and the rusted poison did corrode his blood the way he never overed it, and died after. That was a sneaky kind of murder did win small glory with the boys itself. Well, Father Reilly has cuteness to divide you now. She pulls Christy up. There's great temptation in a man did slay his da, and we'd best be going, young fellow; so rise up and come with me. He's pot-boy in this place, and I'll not have him stolen off and kidnabbed while himself's abroad.

It'd be a crazy pot-boy'd lodge him in the shebeen where he works by day, so you'd have a right to come on, young fellow, till you see my little houseen, a perch off on the rising hill. Wait till morning, Christy Mahon. Wait till you lay eyes on her leaky thatch is growing more pasture for her buck goat than her square of fields, and she without a tramp itself to keep in order her place at all.

When you see me contriving in my little gardens, Christy Mahon, you'll swear the Lord God formed me to be living lone, and that there isn't my match in Mayo for thatching, or mowing, or shearing a sheep. Doesn't the world know you reared a black lamb at your own breast, so that the Lord Bishop of Connaught felt the elements of a Christian, and he eating it after in a kidney stew?

Doesn't the world know you've been seen shaving the foxy skipper from France for a threepenny bit and a sop of grass tobacco would wring the liver from a mountain goat you'd meet leaping the hills? Do you hear the way she'll be rating at your own self when a week is by?

Tell her to go into her pigsty and not plague us here. I'm going; but he'll come with me. Let me stretch out on the settle, Pegeen Mike; and himself can lie by the hearth. Quit off or I will send you now. God bless you now, young fellow, and let you be wary, or there's right torment will await you here if you go romancing with her like, and she waiting only, as they bade me say, on a sheepskin parchment to be wed with Shawn Keogh of Killakeen.

Lies and blather, you've no call to mind. Well, isn't Shawn Keogh an impudent fellow to send up spying on me? Wait till I lay hands on him.

Let him wait, I'm saying. And you're not wedding him at all? I wouldn't wed him if a bishop came walking for to join us here. That God in glory may be thanked for that. There's your bed now. I've put a quilt upon you I'm after quilting a while since with my own two hands, and you'd best stretch out now for your sleep, and may God give you a good rest till I call you in the morning when the cocks will crow.

Patrick bless you and reward you, for your kindly talk. She shuts the door behind her. He settles his bed slowly, feeling the quilt with immense satisfaction.

SCENE, [as before. Brilliant morning light. Christy, looking bright and cheerful, is cleaning a girl's boots. Ten there. A score that's above. Eighty jugs. Six cups and a broken one. Two plates. A power of glasses.

Bottles, a school-master'd be hard set to count, and enough in them, I'm thinking, to drunken all the wealth and wisdom of the County Clare. He puts down the boot carefully. There's her boots now, nice and decent for her evening use, and isn't it grand brushes she has? He puts them down and goes by degrees to the looking-glass. Well, this'd be a fine place to be my whole life talking out with swearing Christians, in place of my old dogs and cat, and I stalking around, smoking my pipe and drinking my fill, and never a day's work but drawing a cork an odd time, or wiping a glass, or rinsing out a shiny tumbler for a decent man.

He takes the looking-glass from the wall and puts it on the back of a chair; then sits down in front of it and begins washing his face. Didn't I know rightly I was handsome, though it was the divil's own mirror we had beyond, would twist a squint across an angel's brow; and I'll be growing fine from this day, the way I'll have a soft lovely skin on me and won't be the like of the clumsy young fellows do be ploughing all times in the earth and dung.

He starts. Is she coming again? He looks out. Stranger girls. God help me, where'll I hide myself away and my long neck nacked to the world? I'd best go to the room maybe till I'm dressed again. The door is pushed open, and Susan Brady looks in, and knocks on door.

There's nobody in it. I'm thinking Shawn Keogh was making game of us and there's no such man in it at all. HONOR -- [pointing to straw and quilt. He's been sleeping there in the night. Well, it'll be a hard case if he's gone off now, the way we'll never set our eyes on a man killed his father, and we after rising early and destroying ourselves running fast on the hill.

Are you thinking them's his boots? SARA -- [taking them up. Did you never read in the papers the way murdered men do bleed and drip? Is that blood there, Sara Tansey? SARAH -- [smelling it. That man's been walking, I'm telling you. Putting on other boot. There's a pair do fit me well, and I'll be keeping them for walking to the priest, when you'd be ashamed this place, going up winter and summer with nothing worth while to confess at all. HONOR -- [who has been listening at the door.

She pushes door a chink open. It's a man. They all stand in a line looking through chink. I'll call him. He puts in his head. Is Pegeen within? And asking your pardon, is it you's the man killed his father?

SARA -- [taking eggs she has brought. Pegeen's ducks is no use, but these are the real rich sort. Hold out your hand and you'll see it's no lie I'm telling you.

And I run up with a pat of butter, for it'd be a poor thing to have you eating your spuds dry, and you after running a great way since you did destroy your da.

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Thank you kindly. And I brought you a little cut of cake, for you should have a thin stomach on you, and you that length walking the world. And I brought you a little laying pullet -- boiled and all she is -- was crushed at the fall of night by the curate's car.

Feel the fat of that breast, Mister. It's bursting, surely. Will you pinch it? Is your right hand too sacred for to use at all? She slips round behind him. It's a glass he has. Well, I never seen to this day a man with a looking-glass held to his back. Them that kills their fathers is a vain lot surely. What in glory has you here at this hour of day? GIRLS -- [giggling. SARA -- [exuberantly. I'll bet my dowry that he'll lick the world.

If you will, you'd have a right to have him fresh and nourished in place of nursing a feast. Taking presents. Are you fasting or fed, young fellow? Fasting, if you please. Stir up now and give him his breakfast. Come here to me she puts him on bench beside her while the girls make tea and get his breakfast and let you tell us your story before Pegeen will come, in place of grinning your ears off like the moon of May. Don't be letting on to be shy, a fine, gamey, treacherous lad the like of you.

Was it in your house beyond you cracked his skull? We were digging spuds in his cold, sloping, stony, divil's patch of a field. And you went asking money of him, or making talk of getting a wife would drive him from his farm? I did not, then; but there I was, digging and digging, and "You squinting idiot," says he, "let you walk down now and tell the priest you'll wed the Widow Casey in a score of days. And what kind was she?

GIRLS -- [clustering round him, serving him. And what did he want driving you to wed with her?

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There's maybe worse than a dry hearth and a widow woman and your glass at night. So you hit him then? SARA -- [eagerly. Did you kill him then? You were right surely. That's a grand story. He tells it lovely. Then I turned around with my back to the north, and I hit a blow on the ridge of his skull, laid him stretched out, and he split to the knob of his gullet.

GIRLS -- [together.

Oh, God bless you! You're the lad surely! I'm thinking the Lord God sent him this road to make a second husband to the Widow Quin, and she with a great yearning to be wedded, though all dread her here. Lift him on her knee, Sara Tansey. Don't tease him. SARA -- [going over to dresser and counter very quickly, and getting two glasses and porter.

She links their arms and gives them the glasses. There now. Drink a health to the wonders of the western world, the pirates, preachers, poteen-makers, with the jobbing jockies; parching peelers, and the juries fill their stomachs selling judgments of the English law. That's a right toast, Sara Tansey. Now Christy. As they are drinking, Pegeen Mike comes in with a milk can and stands aghast. They all spring away from Christy. He goes down left. Widow Quin remains seated. SARA -- [twisting her apron.

Have you tuppence? I've forgotten my purse. Then you'd best be getting it and not fooling us here. To the Widow Quin, with more elaborate scorn. And what is it you're wanting, Widow Quin? I've no starch for the like of you, and let you walk on now to Killamuck. Christy tidies away in great haste. Shove in the bench by the wall. He does so. And hang that glass on the nail. What disturbed it at all? Wouldn't any wish to be decent in a place. Whisht I'm saying. CHRISTY -- [looks at her face for a moment with great misgivings, then as a last effort, takes up a loy, and goes towards her, with feigned assurance.

It's bona fides by the road they are, but that lot came over the river lepping the stones. It's not three perches when you go like that, and I was down this morning looking on the papers the post-boy does have in his bag. With meaning and emphasis.

For there was great news this day, Christopher Mahon. Ah, that should be a fearful end, young fellow, and it worst of all for a man who destroyed his da, for the like of him would get small mercies, and when it's dead he is, they'd put him in a narrow grave, with cheap sacking wrapping him round, and pour down quicklime on his head, the way you'd see a woman pouring any frish-frash from a cup. Are you thinking I'm safe? You were saying at the fall of night, I was shut of jeopardy and I here with yourselves.

It's queer joys they have, and who knows the thing they'd do, if it'd make the green stones cry itself to think of you swaying and swiggling at the butt of a rope, and you with a fine, stout neck, God bless you!

Looking up at her. And isn't it a poor thing to be starting again and I a lonesome fellow will be looking out on women and girls the way the needy fallen spirits do be looking on the Lord? What call have you to be that lonesome when there's poor girls walking Mayo in their thousands now? It's well you know it's a lonesome thing to be passing small towns with the lights shining sideways when the night is down, or going in strange places with a dog nosing before you and a dog nosing behind, or drawn to the cities where you'd hear a voice kissing and talking deep love in every shadow of the ditch, and you passing on with an empty, hungry stomach failing from your heart.

I'm thinking you're an odd man, Christy Mahon. The oddest walking fellow I ever set my eyes on to this hour to-day. What would any be but odd men and they living lonesome in the world? I'm not odd, and I'm my whole life with my father only. I'm hard set to know what way a coaxing fellow the like of yourself should be lonesome either. Would you have me think a man never talked with the girls would have the words you've spoken to-day?

It's only letting on you are to be lonesome, the way you'd get around me now. I wish to God I was letting on; but I was lonesome all times, and born lonesome, I'm thinking, as the moon of dawn. It's little I'm understanding myself, saving only that my heart's scalded this day, and I going off stretching out the earth between us, the way I'll not be waking near you another dawn of the year till the two of us do arise to hope or judgment with the saints of God, and now I'd best be going with my wattle in my hand, for hanging is a poor thing turning to go , and it's little welcome only is left me in this house to-day.

He turns round. Come here to me. He goes towards her. Lay down that switch and throw some sods on the fire. You're pot-boy in this place, and I'll not have you mitch off from us now. You were saying I'd be hanged if I stay. Getting up and going over to the counter. They've likely not found the body.

You're safe so with ourselves. What's to hinder you from staying, except the widow woman or the young girls would inveigle you off? Run up or they'll be bursting surely. Oh, God mend them! Still in high spirits. I'm handy with ewes. SHAWN -- [trembling with anxiety. I'm wedding with Pegeen beyond, and I don't think well of having a clever fearless man the like of you dwelling in her house. SHAWN -- [in an imploring voice.

He makes the movement of strangling with his hands. It's the like of me only that she's fit for, a quiet simple fellow wouldn't raise a hand upon her if she scratched itself. Pushing him towards inner door. Fit them on and you can give your answer when you have them tried. I'd like herself to see me in them tweeds and hat.

He'll not leave us, Widow Quin. He's a score of divils in him the way it's well nigh certain he will wed Pegeen. SHAWN -- [walking about in desperation. I'd inform again him, but he'd burst from Kilmainham and he'd be sure and certain to destroy me. If I wasn't so God-fearing, I'd near have courage to come behind him and run a pike into his side.

Oh, it's a hard case to be an orphan and not to have your father that you're used to, and you'd easy kill and make yourself a hero in the sight of all. Coming up to her.

Oh, Widow Quin, will you find me some contrivance when I've promised you a ewe? A ewe's a small thing, but what would you give me if I did wed him and did save you so? SHAWN -- [with astonishment. Would you give me the red cow you have and the mountainy ram, and the right of way across your rye path, and a load of dung at Michaelmas, and turbary upon the western hill? SHAWN -- [radiant with hope.

I'd give you two kids for your dinner, and a gallon of poteen, and I'd call the piper on the long car to your wedding from Crossmolina or from Ballina.

I'd give you. That'll do so, and let you whisht, for he's coming now again. Widow Quin goes to him ad miringly. If you seen yourself now, I'm thinking you'd be too proud to speak to us at all, and it'd be a pity surely to have your like sailing from Mayo to the Western World. If this is a poor place itself, I'll make myself contented to be lodging here. Well, I'm going measuring the race-course while the tide is low, so I'll leave you the garments and my blessing for the sports to-day.

God bless you! Sit down now while you're quiet till you talk with me. You'll have time and plenty for to seek Pegeen, and you heard me saying at the fall of night the two of us should be great company. From this out I'll have no want of company when all sorts is bringing me their food and clothing he swaggers to the door, tightening his belt , the way they'd set their eyes upon a gallant orphan cleft his father with one blow to the breeches belt.

He opens door, then staggers back. Saints of glory! Holy angels from the throne of light! It's the walking spirit of my murdered da? Christy darts in behind door. MAHON -- [gruffly. You're a queer kind to walk in not saluting at all. Did you see the young lad?

An ugly young streeler with a murderous gob on him, and a little switch in his hand. I met a tramper seen him coming this way at the fall of night. There's harvest hundreds do be passing these days for the Sligo boat. For what is it you're wanting him, my poor man? I want to destroy him for breaking the head on me with the clout of a loy. He takes off a big hat, and shows his head in a mass of bandages and plaster, with some pride.

It was he did that, and amn't I a great wonder to think I've traced him ten days with that rent in my crown? And who hit you? A robber maybe? It was my own son hit me, and he the divil a robber, or anything else, but a dirty, stuttering lout. WIDOW -- [letting go his skull and wiping her hands in her apron.

It was a bad blow surely, and you should have vexed him fearful to make him strike that gash in his da. Is it me? And isn't it a great shame when the old and hardened do torment the young? MAHON -- [raging.

And I after holding out with the patience of a martyred saint till there's nothing but destruction on, and I'm driven out in my old age with none to aid me. My wickedness, is it? Amn't I after saying it is himself has me destroyed, and he a liar on walls, a talker of folly, a man you'd see stretched the half of the day in the brown ferns with his belly to the sun.

Not working at all? The divil a work, or if he did itself, you'd see him raising up a haystack like the stalk of a rush, or driving our last cow till he broke her leg at the hip, and when he wasn't at that he'd be fooling over little birds he had -- finches and felts -- or making mugs at his own self in the bit of glass we had hung on the wall.

It was running wild after the girls may be? MAHON -- [with a shout of derision. If he seen a red petticoat coming swinging over the hill, he'd be off to hide in the sticks, and you'd see him shooting out his sheep's eyes between the little twigs and the leaves, and his two ears rising like a hare looking out through a gap.