[Illustration: It was once my fortune to meet in a southern Irish
town a little old man whose mind was a storehouse of strange
legendary lore.
_Frontispiece._]
THROUGH GREEN GLASSES
ANDY MERRIGAN’S
GREAT DISCOVERY
AND OTHER IRISH TALES
BY
F. M. ALLEN
ILLUSTRATED BY M. FITZGERALD
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1887
COPYRIGHT, 1887,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
ANDY MERRIGAN’S GREAT DISCOVERY . . . . . . . 5
FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE . . . . . . . . . 44
KING JOHN AND THE MAYOR . . . . . . . . . 63
THE WONDERFUL ESCAPE OF JAMES THE SECOND . . . . . 83
THE LAST OF THE DRAGONS . . . . . . . . . 123
THE SIEGE OF DON ISLE . . . . . . . . . . 143
RALEIGH IN MUNSTER . . . . . . . . . . 198
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
It was once my fortune to meet in a southern Irish
town a little old man whose mind was a storehouse
of strange legendary lore _Frontispiece_
Andy Merrigan’s Great Discovery . . . . _To face p._ 5
From Portlaw to Paradise . . . . . . ” 44
King John and the Mayor . . . . . . ” 63
The Escape of James the Second . . . . ” 83
The Last of the Dragons . . . . . . ” 123
The Siege of Don Isle . . . . . . ” 143
Raleigh in Munster . . . . . . . ” 198
[Illustration: (Banner) Introduction.]
It was once my fortune to meet in a southern Irish town a little old
man whose mind was a storehouse of strange legendary lore. He was
thoroughly illiterate, but he had contrived to pick up in some way a
peculiar collection of quasi-historical facts and fables. These he
winnowed through his brain, rejecting the greater part of the corn
and retaining all the chaff; and this mixture he would, like Æsop of
old, retail solemnly to any chance customer.
Dan—for such was his christian name—possessed an imagination of
a peculiarly circumscribed character. His vision extended little
further than his own tip-tilted nose, and around everything he
wrapped a local, nay a personal, mantle. The kings, the princes, the
chieftains of eld he clothed in his own shabby garments—even the
saints (whom he reverenced) fared little better at his hands. All the
characters introduced in his legendary yarns thought as Dan thought,
acted as he would, in all probability, have acted, and spoke with his
own delightful brogue.
I may here observe, parenthetically, that the illiterate Irish
story-teller possesses—so far as my experience goes—a vocabulary
which is singularly simple and lucid. Most of the words he employs
are either monosyllabic or dissyllabic. If the brogue were eliminated
it would be found that he adopts a style which, so far as the choice
of language is concerned, might be studied with advantage by those
who (like myself) strive vainly after simplicity of diction. Of
course no uneducated Irishman ever attempts to tread the mazes of
“shall and will,” nor is he addicted to nominatives which agree with
their verbs. He is, moreover, somewhat given to the mixing of tenses;
and in the course of a lengthy narrative, he usually flies to the
refuge of many of our modern novelists—the present tense.
Dan’s style of narration had all the faults and the merits which
I have endeavoured to point out, but Dan possessed one quality
which atoned for most of his mixed tenses and for all his ill-mated
nominatives and verbs—an extraordinary fund of humour. Of this
possession he seemed, however, to live in blissful ignorance. He
seldom smiled, and, in the general acceptation of the word, he
never laughed. His laughing muscles were, possibly, situated in his
shoulders, for when he told a good story, or when he heard one from
a neighbour, his shoulders would shake and quiver with a motion
prolonged and jelly-like.
Chronology had no meaning and no terrors for Dan. To him the early
Milesians, St. Patrick, Brian the Brave, Cromwell, and even “the
great Bonypart” were, practically speaking, contemporaneous. In
recounting any of the doughty deeds of the First Emperor he always
kept before your mind’s eye a picture of that “ould anshent warrior”
(possibly he confounded him with Hannibal) crossing the summits of
the Alps on a milk-white charger. To Dan, Waterloo and St. Helena
were purely mythical—at all events _his_ “Bonypart” had never met
with disaster nor ever endured exile. The only celebrity whom he
condescended to view in a commonplace light was Garibaldi. He firmly
believed the Italian patriot was a renegade Tipperaryman named Garret
Baldwin, and often I have heard Dan express his unbounded contempt
for the miserable Munsterman who had “gone and taken up arms agen his
Holiness the Pope.”
I have listened to many and many a romance as it fell from Dan’s
lips, and it occurred to me that if I could speak with his voice,
I might, in attempting to reproduce some of his yarns, be able to
afford amusement to a larger audience than it was Dan’s province to
cater for.
[Illustration: ANDY MERRIGAN’S GREAT DISCOVERY.]
[Illustration: (banner) ANDY MERRIGAN’S GREAT DISCOVERY.]
Many an’ many a hundhred year ago there lived at Roche’s Point, just
at the enthrance of Cork harbour, a fine sthrappin’ young fellow
named Andy Merrigan. He owned as nate a thrawler as you could see
from this to the Land’s End, an’ ’twas the grand fisherman he was
intirely.
Andy was tall and sthrong, wud long black hair fallin’ over his
showldhers, an’ eyes that burned undher his brows like fires of coal.
He was very dark in himself for a young man, an’ all the neighbours
wor more or less in dhread of him.
Andy never sailed his thrawler in company wud any of the other
fishermen in Cork Harbour; an’ ’twas always of a dirty night an’ whin
the win’ was blowin’ hard an’ the say was high that he used to cast
off from his moorin’s; an’ thin the neighbours wouldn’t see him or
hear of him again maybe for weeks an’ weeks. But whenever he did come
back it was always wud a boat-load of fish; an’ thin he would stop
ashore for a spell an’ spend whips of money in all kinds of divarsion.
Of coorse there wor plenty of back-bithers in Cork Harbour that had
the hard word agen Andy; but divil a wan of ’em had the courage ever
to say anything crooked forenenst him, for he had a fist as firm an’
as heavy as a half hundredweight, an’ he wasn’t shy of usin’ it on
an emergency. There wor some whispers that Andy was a pirate king in
saycrit, an’ others said ’twas a wrecker he was an’ that his fires
wor often seen on the coast of Clare.
No wan used to sail in the thrawler wud Andy exceptin’ two cousins of
his by the mother’s side, named Pat Carroll and Mick Egan, an’ the
cousins wor just as dark an’ as dangerous as Andy himself.
Well, wan day, afther the longest voyage he had ever made, Andy
dhropped his anchor at the quay of Cork; an’ laivin’ Pat and Mick an’
a new hand, a cabin boy, in charge of the thrawler, he started to
walk to the Rock of Cashel.
Three days an’ three nights he was on the road—for of course this
was in the oulden times before a horse-an’-car, let alone a railway
thrain was invinted—an’ on the mornin’ of the fourth day he found
himself undher the Rock.
“Good morra, major,” says he to the sinthry that was walkin’ up an’
down outside the enthrance.
“Good morra, sthranger,” says the sinthry. “Have you been long on the
thramp?”
“Three days an’ three nights,” says Andy.
“An’ where are you from?” axes the sinthry.
“The Cove of Cork,” says Andy, who generally had a short way of
spaykin’ in conversation.
“An’ what’s your business here?” axes the sinthry.
“To see the King of Munsther,” says Andy.
Begor the sinthry began to laugh thin, an’ says he, “P’raps ’tis a
poor relation of the King’s you are?”
“No, nor a rich wan aither,” says Andy; “but I came to see him all
the same.”
“Have you an ordher?” says the sinthry.
“No,” says Andy.
“Thin I wondhers at your cheek,” says the sinthry.
“You’re welcome,” says Andy.
“Arrah get on out of this about your business,” says the sinthry, “or
I’ll give you a taste of the fore-fut of my pike just to remind you
of who you’re spaykin’ to.”
“Keep your ould iron to yerself,” says Andy. “I’m not a marine-store
dayler.”
“Faix an’ that’s what I thought you wor,” says the sinthry, thryin’
to have the laugh agen Andy.
“Did you?” says Andy, lookin’ very black. “Look at here,” says he,
liftin’ his shut fist an’ givin’ the Rock of Cashel a box of it that
knocked splinthers of stone flyin’ across the road, “did you ever
meet a marine-store dayler that could do that?”
Begor, the sinthry turned as white as a ghost, an’ says he, “Who are
you at all, my fine man?”
“Andy Merrigan from Roche’s Point is my name an’ addhress,” says
Andy; “an’ if you don’t take that up to the king this minute I’ll
undhermine the foundations before I breaks my fast.”
The sinthry saw there ’ud be no use in rousin’ the timper of a man
wud a fist like Andy’s, so he blew his thrumpet an’ another soger
answered the call.
“Tell King Cormac”—for that was the King of Munsther’s name—says the
sinthry, “there’s a sthranger here called Andy Merrigan from Roche’s
Point, that wants a word wud him; and tell him from me,” says he,
“that he’d best see him at wance.”
Andy wasn’t kept waitin’ long, for in about five minutes the
messenger came back to say King Cormac would see him if he would come
upstairs. So Andy mounted the Rock and was shown into the King’s
dhrawin’-room.
“Laive on yer hat,” says King Cormac, who was sittin’ in an arm-chair
at a big fire, “for there’s a powerful dhraught up here, an’ maybe
’tis ketch cowld you would.”
“Thank ye kindly,” says Andy; “but sure I’m used to hurricanes, an’
I’d feel more at my aise if I wor to keep my hat in my hand.”
“Well, plaize yerself,” says King Cormac, givin’ the fire a stir wud
a goolden poker. “What’s your business?” says he.
“I’m a man of few words,” says Andy, “an’ I’ll not enther into a long
rigmarole.”
“I’m glad of that,” says King Cormac, “for I can’t give you more than
ten minutes by the clock.”
“Faith thin if you knew what a wondherful plan I have to lay before
you I think you’d be glad to spare me the whole run of a day,” says
Andy, wud a toss of his head.
“That’s what ye all says,” laughs the King.
“Maybe,” says Andy; “but, as I’ve towld you before, _I_’m a man of
few words.”
“I suppose you saves your breath to cool your porridge,” says the
King, who had an aggravatin’ way of givin’ a sthranger ten minutes’
talk wud him an’ of squandherin’ all the time in banther.
“Well,” says Andy, “to go straight to the point—”
“Roche’s Point, is it?” intherrupts the King.
“No, nor potatoes an’ point aither,” says Andy, who saw through the
thricks of the King. “An’ let me tell yer majesty,” says he, “that if
you don’t give fair heed to me I’ll take meself an’ me plan straight
over to Tara’s Halls.”
“Keep your hair on,” says King Cormac, seein’ that Andy was sore
vexed.
“’Tisn’t aisy to do that wud the draught,” says Andy, lookin’ as
black as tundher; “but I’ll do my endeavours; an’ you may thank
yourself, if you lose the chance of a kingdom that I’m afther
discoverin’ a hundhred times as big as Munsther.”
“What’s that you say, my man?” says King Cormac, turnin’ round
quickly in his aisy chair an’ lookin’ hard at Andy.
“Well, will you hear me fair?” says Andy, “clock or no clock?”
“I will,” says the King, for his cur’osity was on the sthretch at the
sthrange remark that came from Andy.
“I’ll take you at your word, thin,” says Andy; “an’ this is my story
an’ my plan. You must know,” says he, “that I’m the greatest sailor
in these parts, an’ that win’ or weather, say or storm, have no
terrors for me. Often I goes hundhreds an’ hundhreds of miles out
into the western ocean if the fish is scarce in shore, an’ for that
raison the cowardly bla’guards that are afeard to venture out of
sighth of land tells stories of me behind my back. I mintion this,”
says Andy, “fearin’ that if yer majesty came to Cork you’d hear
things said about me that might turn you agen me, an’ I want to put
you on yer guard beforehand.”
“But what about this tundherin’ big counthry you wor spaykin’ of?”
axes King Cormac, who didn’t care a _thrauneen_ about Andy an’ his
back-bithers, but was aiger to hear about the new kingdom.
“I’m comin’ to it,” says Andy.
“I thought you wor there already,” says the King, chucklin’ undher
his breath.
“Look at here,” says Andy, “maybe you’d like me to make a present of
it to the King of all Ireland over at Tara beyant? If that’s your
mind best say so at wance.”
“Arrah, don’t be so quick in your temper,” says King Cormac. “Sure a
man must have his joke now an’ again. Go on, Andy,” says he, “tell us
all about it, _avic_.—Maybe ’tis dhry you are. I have a nice dhrop of
the hard stuff here, if that’s in your line at all.”
“Begor,” says Andy, “I was never known to turn my back on a good
thing.”
So the King opens a big cupboard an’ tuk out a black bottle. “Say
whin,” says he to Andy, pourin’ out the whisky into a tumbler for
him.
“That’ll do,” says Andy, whin the tumbler was more than three parts
full.
“You didn’t laive much room for the wather,” says the King.
“Wather, is it?” says Andy. “Arrah, my dear man, ’tis deluged enough
wud wather I usually do be. Anyhow I prefers it nate,” says he,
tossin’ off the tumbler-full at wan go.
“’Tis a sthrong man you are!” says King Cormac. “There isn’t a tear
in your eye nor a hair turned on you, an’ that’s new Cork whisky,
twinty over proof.”
“I’m used to it,” says Andy; “an’ use is second nature, I’m towld.”
“Well, go on wud yer story now,” says the King, “for I’m dyin’ to
hear about this new counthry you’ve discovered. Did you find a mare’s
nest in it?” says he, pourin’ a dhrop out of the bottle into a
tumbler for himself.
“No, nor a cuckoo’s aither,” says Andy. “’Pon my song, I dunno
whether ’tis humbuggin’ me you are or what.”
“Well, I’ll be as sayrious as Solomon for the rest of the
intherview,” says King Cormac. “I see you’re not used to the ways of
the quality.”
“You’re right there,” says Andy. “I’m a plain man at the best, a
plain dayler an’ a plain spayker; an’ this is my story. Last voyage I
sailed out of Cork wud my two cousins, Mike Egan and Pat Carroll, an’
havin’ business round on the coast of Clare I put into the Shannon
for a spell, an’ there I shipped a new hand, a young Scotch lad named
Sandy, as a cabin boy.”
“What’s his other name?” axes King Cormac, takin’ out his note book,
“for I likes always to have full particulars.”
“Hook is his surname,” says Andy.
“Thin,” says King Cormac, “when you left the Shannon, I suppose I may
say you tuk your Hook?”
“Just as you plaize,” says Andy, not heedin’ the joke; “an’ as fish
wor scarce in by the coast I put the thrawler on a long reach wud
her head to the westhard. Well, afther a week’s sail an’ no fish,
a terrible gale came out from the nor’a’d and aisthard, an’ I was
obliged to run the thrawler before the win’ undher bare poles.
Four weeks afther startin’ from the Shannon the cabin boy shouts
out ‘Land-o;’ an’ sure enough we sighthed a point of land which we
christened Sandy Hook, afther the boy.”
“Well?” says the King, his cur’osity fairly roused.
“The same day,” says Andy, “we found ourselves in an iligant bay wud
a most beautiful counthry surroundin’ it. Of coorse we wor clane out
of provisions for some days, an’ the sighth of the new land where no
wan ever thought there was a dhry spot before nearly dhrove us out
of our wits wud joy. We ran the thrawler right in for the shore an’
beached her safely, an’ thin we jumped ashore in ordher to see where
we cud get a bite an’ a sup. In about half a pig’s whisper the beach
was crowded wud niggers, wud scarcely a screed of clothes on ’em.
There was a big man wud a necklace hangin’ from his showldhers at
the head of the crowd that looked like a chief nigger, so I goes up
to him an’ says I, ‘We’re frindly, I gives you my word; an’, what’s
more, we’re famishin’ wud hunger an’ thirst. If you haven’t a rasher
of bacon handy could you give us a fill of tobaccy?’ The chief shuk
his head as much as to say ‘I can’t undherstand you,’ and he begins
to jabber away in some sort of lingo I couldn’t make head or tail of.
‘What’ll we do at all, at all?’ says I to meself; an’ thin a grand
idaya sthruck me all of a suddint.
“I learnt the deaf-an’-dumb alphabet at school for divarsion, and
I cud talk on my fingers wud the greatest dummy in Cork, so I
began to make signs to the chief, wud my hands, an’ begor the ould
nigger twigged what I was doin’ at wance. So he beckoned to a man
in the crowd, an’ a little fellow, whom I aftherwards found was the
headmasther of a deaf-an’-dumb school, stepped out forenest me an’ in
a minute we were hard at it, talkin’ to aich other on our fingers.
‘Who or what are ye at all, at all?’ axes the little nigger. ‘We’re
christhins, to begin wud,’ says I, answerin’ him back of coorse on
my fingers. ‘What’s christhins?’ says he. ‘Did you never hear of St.
Pathrick?’ says I. ‘Never,’ says he. Indeed I might have made sure
that ’ud be the answer I’d get, for at laiste St. Pathrick if he
ever visited the niggers would have inthroduced a tailor among ’em.
‘Well,’ says I, puzzled to know how to explain matthers, ‘we’re all
Irishmen too, exceptin’ the boy here, an’ he comes from Scotland.’
‘What’s Irishmen?’ says he. ‘Arrah,’ says I, ‘is it jokin’ you are,
or do you mane to tell me you never heard of ould Ireland?’ ‘Never,’
says the nigger; ‘’tis a puzzle to me to make sense out of you at
all. Maybe,’ says he, wud a grin on him like a monkey, ‘you’re
something else?’ ‘We are, thin,’ says I, ‘whether you laughs or no.
We’re Corkmen—three parts of us, at any rate.’ ‘Three parts of ye
is cork!’ says he; ‘an’ what’s the other part made of?’ ‘Arrah, my
dear man,’ says I, ‘there’s no use in losin’ my time an’ my temper
thryin’ to enlighten your ignorance. I’ll wait till I larns to spake
your langwidge, an’ thin I’ll be able to make you undherstand me
properly. An’ now,’ says I, ‘will you answer me what I’ll ax you?’
‘Wud pleasure,’ says the little nigger. ‘What counthry is this?’ says
I. ‘Injy,’ says he. ‘An’ are ye all Red Injuns?’ says I. ‘We are,’
says he, ‘every mother’s son of us.’ ‘What’s the name of this town
an’ harbour?’ says I, pointin’ to the hape of mud cabins in shore,
an’ to the beautiful bay forenest us. ‘New York,’ says he. ‘An’ who
is the big man at the head of ye there?’ says I, pointin’ to the
nigger, who had gone up the beach a bit wud some of the faymales. ‘I
mane the chap I made the first offer at discoorsin’ to.’ ‘He’s the
King of New York,’ says he. ‘A wondher he don’t dhress himself more
dacently!’ says I. ‘Dhress!’ says he. ‘Why ’tis in full dhress he
is now.’ ‘An’ is a necklace an’ a rub of paint full dhress in these
parts?’ says I. ‘It is,’ says the little nigger. ‘It doesn’t cost
over much to be fashionable here,’ says I. ‘No’, says he, ‘we spend
the bulk of our money on aitin’ and dhrinkin’.’
“Begor, yer majesty! the mintion of grub gave me a pain in the
stomach, so I axed the little man if he could knock up a male for
us, as we were all ready to dhrop wud the hunger. ‘I’ll spake to the
King,’ says he. So he goes over to the big nigger, an’ I suppose he
towld him all he could about us, an’ whatever it was he towld him it
made the king laugh a dale. Then the little nigger beckoned to me to
come over to the King. To tell the thruth I felt a thrifle ashamed of
goin’ over near the women, but, faix! the hunger takes most of the
timidness out of a man, so I plucked up the courage, an’ over I goes
to the King. Well, by manes of the intarpinther—the little nigger—the
King and meself had a long discoorse, but the dickens a bit of me
could make the poor ignorant darkey undherstand that we wor human
craychurs like himself; and maybe you’ll think ’tis a lie I’m tellin’
you, King Cormac,” says Andy, “but ’tis as thrue as Gospel that the
King of New York thought, from what the little nigger was afther
tellin’ him, that three-quarthers of us was made of cork, an’ that
what he could see of us—I mane our face an’ our hands—was the only
naatural part of us.”
“It bates all,” says King Cormac, laughin’ hearty. “Divil the like
ever I heard! But go on wud your story, Misther Merryan.”
“Well,” says Andy, “I saw there was no use just thin in thryin’ to
persuade the King of New York that it wasn’t samples of virgin cork
three parts of us wor; but, faith! I had an onaisy feelin’ that he
might have it in his mind to cut us up for cork fendhers an’ the
like, and you may be sure I had no intintion of allowin’ meself to
be made into a sthopper for a bung-hole, so I towld him if he’d give
me a private intherview in the coorse of a few days, when I’d have
picked up some of the lingo, I could explain matthers to him. ‘In the
manetime,’ says I to him, ‘for the love of goodness, give the four
of us something to fill our insides wud!’ ‘What ’ud you like?’ says
the King of New York. ‘Well, if it’s no inconvaynience to the coort,’
says I, ‘we’d prefer a good male of bacon and cabbage to anything
you could offer; and if you could see your way to let us moisten
that same wud some whisky-an’-wather, I’d be undher a heavy load of
obligation to you.’ Well, wud that the King gev ordhers to have the
biggest side of bacon in the palace taken off the hooks an’ boiled
for us; ‘an’ while ’tis cookin’,’ says he, ‘maybe you’d like to break
your fast on the remains of a cowld showldher of mutton left from
Sunday’s dinner?’”
“That reminds me,” says King Cormac, “that I never axed you if you
had a mouth on you. I think there’s the remains of a half pig’s head
here,” says he, goin’ over to the cupboard and taking a heavy goold
dish out of it.
“Faix!” says Andy, “if you wor thryin’ to discover what was in my
mind this minute, you couldn’t have hit the mark more close. I’m
nearly famished wud the hunger, but, of coorse, I didn’t like to
be makin’ meself too much at home on a first visit, or I’d have
mintioned the fact before.”
“Betther late than never,” says King Cormac. “Hunger is the best
sauce, an’ the chapest too, so you’ll excuse me for not offerin’ you
anything barrin’ the knife an’ fork.”
“Don’t mintion it,” says Andy.
“’Tis a nice piece of mate,” says King Cormac. “You find it tindher,
don’t you?”
“Like a spring chicken,” says Andy.
“I suppose you can talk while you’re aitin’?” says King Cormac.
“I can,” says Andy, though the words nearly choked him. Of coorse, he
had to thry an’ put on his quality manners when he was discoorsin’
wud a king, but it tuk him all his time to spake plain wud his mouth
full.
“Go on, thin,” says King Cormac. “What I’m anxious to hear,” says he,
“is what’s the size of this new counthry, an’ what soort of a place
it is in general.”
“That’s what I’m comin’ to,” says Andy.
“Thin come to it quick,” says King Cormac, “for half my mornin’ is
gone already, an’ I’ve a dale of business to attend to.”
Andy’s hunger was partly satisfied by this, so he laid down his knife
an’ fork, an’ says he, “Well, to hurry matthers up, this Injy is a
mighty big counthry. They tell me ’twould take a man, walkin’ twinty
mile a day, nearly half a year to get to the other side of it.”
“Dhraw it mild,” says King Cormac.
“Faith! ’tis the thruth I’m telling you,” says Andy. “An’, now,” says
he, “I comes to the point where I’ll have to ax your majesty to give
me full considheration. I spent the best part of two months wud the
Injuns, an’ ’tis right well they thrated me. The innocent craychurs
have no idaya at all of the value of land; all they thinks of is
aitin’ an’ dhrinkin’, crackin’ jokes, an’ playing tambourines. Just
to show what sort they are, I may tell you that wan day, afther I
had made christhins of ’em all an’ taught ’em how to spake English,
the King axed me to write me name in the visithors’ book, so I wrote
down wud a flourish, ‘A. Merrigan.’ He looks at the writin’, an’
says he, ‘For the future we’ll call ourselves afther you.’ So the
word wint forth that all the Injuns all over the counthry wor to be
known in future as Amerrigans, an’ they calls the counthry for short,
Amerriga. They has a way of choppin’ their words, you see.”
“’Tis a proud man you ought to be,” says King Cormac. “Do you mind
shakin’ hands wud me?”
So, begor, Andy an’ the King of Munsther shuk hands, an’ the tears
rowled down King Cormac’s cheeks wud the hard grip Andy fastened on
him, but he was a proud man, an’ wouldn’t let on he was hurt if a
mule wor to give him a kick in the ribs.
“Well,” says Andy, “even callin’ the counthry afther me wouldn’t
satisfy ould Sambo—the King of New York, I mane—but the next thing
he did was to summon a meetin’ of his head follyers; an’, wudout a
word of a lie, they towld me they had made up their minds to give me
a present of the whole counthry if I’d marry the King of New York’s
eldest daughther.”
“An’ did you take the offer?” says King Cormac.
“Of coorse I did,” says Andy; “an’ not to be outdone by a parcel
of niggers in ginerosity, the first thing I did was to make my two
cousins a present of as much of the counthry as they tuk a fancy to.
Pat Carroll went down South, an’ he measured out a two big thracts of
land, an’ called ’em North and South Carrollina; and Mick Egan went
a bit in from the coast an’ measured out another slice an’ called it
Michael Egan; but the darkeys, I hear, shortened that to Michegan.”
“An’ what did you do for the cabin boy?”
“To tell you the thruth,” says Andy, “I didn’t like to make a king
of him, or give him a big thract of counthry, on account of his not
bein’ an Irishman; but I made him a present of the first land we
sighthed; an’ being a smart lad he tuk what he could get wud a good
grace an’ detarmined to make the most of his little slice. He’s goin’
to build a lighthouse on it shortly, an’ charge a toll to the ships
that pass; an’ I have no manner of doubt he’ll pick up a good livin’
at ‘Sandy Hook,’ for he’s a knowin’ young shaver.”
“Did you bring the wife home wud you?” axed King Cormac.
“Not this thrip,” says Andy. “I got her to laive her measure for a
dhress, an’ ’twasn’t finished by the time I had to come away.”
“She’s black of coorse?” says King Cormac.
“Black as the ace of spades,” says Andy; “but I’m towld she’ll bleach
in the sun, an’ even if she don’t turn the right colour,” says he,
“sure I can give her an odd coat of whitewash now an’ again.”
“You haven’t towld me what sort of a counthry it is,” says King
Cormac; “maybe ’tis all bog.”
“Bog!” says Andy, curlin’ his lip. “There isn’t a bit of bog land in
it from Aist to West.”
“An’ what do they grow in it?” says King Cormac.
“Everything,” says Andy; “but mostly goold nuggets.”
“_What!_” says King Cormac, startin’ up out of his aisy chair.
“No wondher you’re astonished,” says Andy.
“Goold nuggets!” says the King of Munsther.
“Ay,” says Andy, “’tis rotten wud ’em the counthry is. I wint out to
the diggin’s,” says he, “an’ there’s as much goold in wan field there
as ’ud build the Rock of Cashel twice over.”
“Murdher alive!” says the King; “’tis a great place intirely it must
be! But what is it you want a poor sthrugglin’ man like me to do for
you, Andy?”
“Not much,” says Andy, “but little as it is it manes a dale to me.
You see the goold is no value at all at all in my counthry.”
“But sure you could bring a few cargoes of it over here?” says King
Cormac.
“That’s the very thing I came to consult wud yerself about,” says
Andy. “You see if I wor to bring a load of it into Cork harbour ’tis
saised on it wud be, an’, I’ll go bail some of my neighbours ’ud be
bla’guards enough to swear I didn’t come by it honest. Now here’s my
offer to you, King Cormac,” says Andy. “I have no likin’ at all to
be a king, especially wud nothing but a lot of tambourine-playin’
niggers for my subjects, an’ my proposal to you this blessed mornin’
is to sell you the whole counthry for a hundred pound down on the
nail, wud the perviso that I’m allowed to take as much goold out of
it as me own little thrawler can carry, for I’m not a covechous man
at all.”
“Will you give me that in writin’?” says King Cormac.
“Of coorse,” says Andy; “but there’s wan more condition.”
“What’s that?” says King Cormac.
“That you buys my cargo for the Mint,” says Andy.
“How much do you want for it?” says King Cormac.
“The market price,” says Andy.
“Will you take Griffith’s valuation,” says King Cormac, who was a
hard hand at buyin’ or sellin’.
“Well, not to break your word, I will,” says Andy.
“Then it’s a bargain,” says King Cormac. “I’ll send for my head
clerk, an’ we’ll dhraw up the agreement.”
So the head clerk of the coort was sint for, an’ he dhrew up a great
long dockyment that ’ud cover the side of a barracks, an’ King Cormac
and Andy signed their names at the fut of it.
“I’ll give you my dhraft on the Munsther Bank,” says King Cormac,
“for the hundhred pound.”
“Will there be any charge for cashin’ it?” says Andy.
“No,” says King Cormac, “I’m always on the right side of the books
there, an’ I’m a head directhor into the bargain.”
“Well, I’ll be sayin’ good-bye now,” says Andy, taking the dhraft
from King Cormac; “an’ you may expect to hear of me again in or about
three months’ time.”
“Howld on a bit!” says King Cormac. “When am I to enther into
possession of the new counthry?”
“Whin I comes back, of coorse,” says Andy. “If I was to bring you
over wud me now maybe the Injuns ’ud make some objections to my
takin’ the goold out of the counthry. ’Tis best to keep ’em in the
dark for a spell about this bargain of ours. Maybe ’tis a rebellion
they’d rise agen you if you wor to go over hot fut afther me, for
they have their feelin’s, of coorse.”
“Of coorse,” says King Cormac. “But make your voyage as quick as you
can, Andy, for ’tis dyin’ I am to take charge of this new counthry of
mine.”
“I’ll be as quick as win’ and weather will permit,” says Andy; “an’
barrin’ accidents of navigation you may reckon on me, say, for this
day three months. Good-bye now,” says he, givin’ King Cormac’s fist
another hearty grip.
“Good-bye,” says King Cormac, “an’ a quick voyage to you, my sweet
fellow!”
So Andy walked back to Cork an’ cashed the King’s dhraft on the bank,
an’ thin he goes down to the quay an’ jumped aboord the thrawler.
“Up stick, boys!” says he to the crew. “We have just three months to
do it, so ye’ll have to work purty hard an’ constant.”
Well, in three months to the very day Andy sails up Cork river wance
more. His little craft was down to the scuppers in the wather, an’
seein’ her so deep the revenue boat pulls off an’ an officer jumps
aboord.
“Where are you from?” axes the revenue man.
“We’re from New York,” says Andy.
“There’s no such a place,” says the revenue man.
“That only shows your ignorance,” says Andy.
“It isn’t down on the charts, anyhow,” says the revenue man, partly
losin’ his timper.
“Of coorse it isn’t,” says Andy, “for ’twas only discovered by meself
some months back.”
“Is that so?” says the revenue man. “An’ what’s the bearin’s of it?”
“That’s my saycrit,” says Andy.
“’Tis a dark man, you are!” says the revenue officer, who knew Andy
well by sighth.
“You’re not the first that thought so,” says Andy.
“Have you any smuggled tobaccy aboord?” says the revenue man.
“Only what’s allowed for ship’s use on the voyage,” says Andy,
answerin’ him back mighty independent.
“I see you knows the law,” says the revenue man.
“Purty fair,” says Andy.
“An’ what’s your cargo?” says the revenue man.
“Goold for the mint,” says Andy.
“Goold!” says the revenue man, nearly dhroppin’ wud surprise.
“Ay,” says Andy, “an’ very good goold it is too.”
“Where are you goin’ to land it?” says the revenue man.
“Wherever the King of Munsther ordhers me, for ’tis sowld to his
own self. An’ look here,” says he, “I won’t have any meddlin’ wud
my affairs. If you gives me the laste throuble or annoyance I’ll
complain of you to King Cormac, an’ he’ll give you your discharge
purty quick, I can tell you, for he’s undher a heavy obligation to
me.”
Begor the revenue man sung purty small after that, for he knew that
King Cormac was quick in his timper, an’ of coorse if Andy was to
tell on him, maybe ’tis cut off his pinsion the King would as well as
give him his discharge. So he says to Andy in a frindly way, “Well,
I’ll put a man in charge if you have no objections. ’Twill keep the
quay boys off at any rate, Andy, if they sees a man wud a gun aboord.”
“Very well,” says Andy. “Only let it be undherstood that I’ve left
ordhers wud my cousin, Pat Carroll, to hang any wan from the yardarm
by martial law who attimpts to meddle wud the cargo.”
“I suppose you’re goin’ straight to the Rock of Cashel now,” says the
revenue man, seein’ Andy takin’ off his sou’westher and fixin’ a top
hat on his head.
“I am,” says Andy.
“You might put in a good word for me wud the King,” says the revenue
man.
“I’ll wait till I comes back,” says Andy; “an’ if I hears a good
account of your man from Pat Carroll, I’ll sartinly see that your
wages is raised.”
“More power to your elbow!” says the revenue man. “Let me give you a
leg over the side,” says he.
So Andy stepped over the rail and dhropped into a small boat that
landed him safe and sound on the quay, an’ then he started to thramp
it again to the Rock of Cashel. The sinthry knew him this time an’
let him in at wance, and Andy walked up the steps of the Rock an’
knocked at the dhrawin’-room door.
“Come in,” says King Cormac, so in Andy wint.
“Well, here I am again,” says he, “thrue to my promise. I know I’m a
few days behind time, but there was a nasty slop of a say outside for
the past forty-eight hours, an’ I was rather in dhread of makin’ for
the enthrance of the harbour.”
“You worn’t in dhread of makin’ sail out of the enthrance of the
Shannon the day before yestherday,” says King Cormac, lookin’ hard at
Andy.
“What do you mane?” says Andy, turnin’ rather white in the gills.
“Nothing,” says King Cormac. “Only a joke.”
“’Tis a quare way of jokin’ you have,” says Andy.
“Maybe,” says King Cormac, who seemed very short in his conversation
this mornin’.
“I brought the cargo of goold,” says Andy.
“Did you?” says the King. “An’ did you bring the wife? for I’m rather
anxious to see wan of my new subjects.”
“Well,” says Andy, an’ there was a kind of a stammer in his voice,
“I brought her right enough, but I landed the poor girl at Roche’s
Point, for she was mortial say-sick on the voyage.”
“Thin, I can see her of coorse?” says King Cormac.
“You can,” says Andy, “as soon as she gets the rowl of the westhern
ocean out of her head.”
“’Tis a puzzlin’ business altogether,” says the King half to himself.
“Look here, Andy,” says he, “I may as well tell you the honest
thruth, for I don’t like to condimn a man wudhout givin’ him a fair
chance. There’s a sayrious charge brought agen you this week.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised at that,” says Andy. “I towld you
long ago that the neighbours wor never tired of backbitin’ me.”
“’Tisn’t a neighbour this time,” says the King. “’Tis a Portingale
man.”[1]
[1] “Portingale man” is Anglo-Hibernian for “Portuguese.”
“Yerrah!” says Andy, “sure a king of your parts wouldn’t believe the
daylight from a Portingale man!”
“That depinds,” says King Cormac.
“An’ what does the bla’guard say agen me?” says Andy.
“I’ll tell you,” says the King; “an’ if you don’t disprove it I’ll
hang you in chains as sure as my name is Cormac of Munsther.”
“That’s purty sure by all accounts,” says Andy,
thryin’ to show he took little heed of what any Portingale man could
say about him; but he didn’t look much at his aise, I can tell you.
“Maybe ’tis laugh at the wrong side of your mouth you will before I’m
done wud you,” says King Cormac; “an’ this is the charge agen you.
Last week it seems you sailed into the Shannon—”
“I won’t deny it,” intherrupts Andy. “’Twas the first landin’ place I
could get a grip of. I was run out of tobaccy an’ of salt pork, an’
I’m partial to Limerick twist an’ Limerick bacon.”
“Very well,” says the King. “Your acknowledgin’ the charge saves me
the throuble of summonin’ eye-witnesses. Anyhow, in Limerick you wint
into a public-house. Do you deny that?”
“I don’t,” says Andy; “nor I don’t deny I had a dhrop too much
aither.”
“Very well,” says the King; “but you’re not obliged to make charges
agen yerself. At any rate, this Portingale man saw you in this public
house, an’ he recognized you at wance. It seems you boorded a ship
he was sailin’ in some years back, loaded wud a general cargo, an’
afther murdherin’ all aboord you tuk away the valuable part of this
cargo, amongst which wor a lot of bags of Portingale goold.”
“That’s a quare story, sure enough,” says Andy. “Now if I murdhered
every wan aboard, how could this fellow you’re spaykin’ of be in
Limerick last week?”
“He was in hidin’ in the lazareet,” says the King, “an’ that’s how
you missed him.”
Begor Andy didn’t look at all well whin he heard this, but he was a
desperate darin’ man, an’ says he, “I know what you’re dhrivin’ at,
King Cormac. You mane to make out that ’tis a pirate I am, an’ that
the story I towld you about the great new counthry is only moonshine.”
“Exactly,” says King Cormac.
“’Tis aisy to disprove that, at any rate,” says Andy. “If any of my
prisent cargo is in Portingale money, or in the money of any counthry
known to the prisent generation, I’ll give you laife to hang draw an’
quarther me before mornin’.”
“Do you take me for an _omadhaun?_” says King Cormac. “Do you think I
never heard of a meltin’-pot?”
Andy was silent for a spell afther that remark, an’ whin he spoke
again there was a sthrange hoarseness in his voice. “I see,” says he,
“that things look black agen me, but for all that I can clear myself
if I only gets a fair chance.”
“I’ll give you every chance in the world,” says King Cormac.
“Look at here!” says Andy, “If I shows you my black-skinned wife will
you believe me?”
“I will,” says King Cormac; “but I’ll take care you don’t make a hare
of me this time. I’ll put three armed revenue men in the thrawler,
an’ I’ll see that every weapon is taken from your boat, an thin you
can sail down to Roche’s Point an’ bring me back your wife; an’
mind you,” says King Cormac, “’twon’t do to thry an’ desayve me by
coatin’ wan of my own subjects wud gas tar, for I’ll have the coort
physician to examine the woman—that is if you brings her here. An’ if
you don’t bring her,” says he, “take my word for it I’ll hang you in
chains from the top of the Rock.”
Faith, Andy saw the King was in fair airnest, so he never said a word
more, but allowed himself to be taken down to Cork undher a sthrong
escort. His thrawler was examined carefully an’ all the weapons wor
taken out of her, an’ three armed men wor put aboord.
’Twas nigh dusk when they started the fishin’-boat from the quay of
Cork, an’ the win’ rose to a gale before they got abreast of Grab-all
Bay. The revenue men implored Andy to put into the Bay for shelter or
to run back to Queenstown, but he persuaded ’em to let him continue
his journey. “No say nor win’ was ever a match for me,” says he; “an’
I can steer my craft through the eye of a needle.”
An’, sure enough, ’twas a wondherful hand at the tiller he was. Every
big lump of a say that threatened to swamp the little boat Andy
dodged as aisy as children dodge wan another at blindman’s-buff; but
for all that the revenue men wor ready to die of the fright. At last
the thrawler was nearly abreast of Roche’s Point, an’ the say was
rowlin’ in mountains high, an’ the win’ was roarin’ loud enough to
burst the dhrum of your ear.
“Study now!” shouts Andy, an’ his voice was heard clear above the
tundher of the gale an’ the say. “Study!” he shouts again; “an’ say
your last prayer quick, for this minute we die!”
An’ as he said the words he gripped the tiller in his two fists an’
sent the thrawler’s head right into the mouth of the biggest say that
ever rowled into Cork harbour; an’ under she went, goold an’ all an’
rose no more.
* * * * *
To this day they’re many that believe Andy Merrigan discovered
the New World; an’ faix if he didn’t ’tis sthrange enough that
generations afterwards when Columbus ventured across the Atlantic he
found the place called afther Andy, and parts of it afther his crew.
At any rate, of a winther’s night whin the sky is heavy an’ the win’
is high, the people from Roche’s Point will tell you they see the
thrawler sthrugglin’ in the trough of an angry say, an’ loudher than
the sounds of the elements is heard the last shout of Andy Merrigan
an’ the terrible cry of the six hands that wint down wud him.
[Illustration: (banner) FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE]
Wance upon a time, an’ a very good time it was too, there was a
dacent little man, named Paddy Power, that lived in the parish of
Portlaw.
At the time I spake of, an’ indeed for a long spell before it, most
of Paddy’s neighbours had wandhered from the thrue fold, an’ the
sheep that didn’t stray wor, not to put too fine a point on it, a
black lot. But Paddy had always conthrived to keep his last end in
view, an’ he stuck to the ould faith like a poor man’s plasther.
Well, in the coorse of time poor Paddy felt his days wor well-nigh
numbered, so he tuk to the bed an’ sent for the priest; an’ thin he
settled himself down to aise his conscience an’ to clear the road in
the other world by manes of a good confession.
[Illustration: FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE.]
He reeled off his sins, mortial an’ vaynial, to the priest by the
yard, an’ begor he felt mighty sorrowful intirely whin he thought
what a bad boy he’d been an’ what a hape of quare things he’d done in
his time—though, as I’ve said before, he was a dacent little man in
his way, only, you see, bein’ so close to the other side of Jordan,
he tuk an onaisy view of all his sayin’s and doin’s. Poor Paddy—small
blame to him—was very aiger to get a comfortable corner in glory in
his old age, for he’d a hard sthruggle enough of it here below.
Well, whin he’d towld all his sins to Father McGrath, an’ whin Father
McGrath had given him a few hard rubs by way of consolation, he bent
his head to get the absolution, an’, lo an’ behold you! before the
priest could get through the words that would open the gates of glory
to poor Paddy the life wint out of the man’s body.
It seems ’twas a busy mornin’ in heaven, an’ as soon as Father
McGrath began to say the first words of the absolution, down they
claps Paddy Power’s name on the due-book.—However, we’ll come to that
part of the story by an’ by.
Anyhow, up goes Paddy, an’ before he knew where he was he found
himself standin’ outside the gates of Paradise. Of coorse, he partly
guessed there ’ud be throuble, but he thought he’d put a bowld face
on, so he gives a hard double-knock at the door, an’ a holy saint
shoves back the slide an’ looks out at him through an iron gratin’.
“God save all here!” says Paddy.
“God save you kindly!” says the saint.
“Maybe I’m too airly?” says Paddy, dhreadin’ all the time that ’tis
the cowld showlder he’d get.
“’Tis naither airly nor late here,” says the saint, “pervidin’ you’re
on the way-bill. What’s yer name?” says he.
“Paddy Power,” says the little man from Portlaw.
“There’s so many of that name due here,” says the saint, “that I must
ax you for further particulars.”
“You’re quite welcome, your reverence,” says Paddy.
“What’s your occupation?” says the saint.
“Well,” says Paddy, “I can turn my hand to anything in raison.”
“A kind of Jack-of-all-thrades?” says the saint.
“Not exactly that,” says Paddy, thinkin’ the saint was thryin’ to
make fun of him. “In fact,” says he, “I’m a general dayler.”
“An’ what do you generally dale in?” axes the saint.
“All’s fish that comes to my net,” says Paddy, thinkin’ of coorse
’twould put Saint Pether in good humour to be reminded of ould times.
“An’ is it a fisherman you are, thin?” axes the saint.
“Well, no,” says Paddy, “though I’ve done a little huckstherin’ in
fish in my time; but I was partial to scrap iron, as a rule.”
“To tell you the thruth,” says the saint, “I’m not over fond of
general daylin’, but of coorse my private feelin’s don’t intherfere
wud my duties here. I’m on the gates agen my will for the matther
of that; but that’s naither here nor there so far as yourself is
consarned, Paddy,” says he.
“It must be a hard dhrain on the constitution at times,” says Paddy,
“to be on the door from mornin’ till night.”
“’Tis,” says the saint, “of a busy day—but I must go an’ have a look
at the books. Paddy Power is your name?” says he.
“Yis,” says Paddy; “an’, though ’tis meself, that says it, I’m not
ashamed of it.”
“An’ where are you from?” axes the saint.
“From the parish of Portlaw,” says Paddy.
“I never heard tell of it,” says the saint, bitin’ his thumb.
“Sure it couldn’t be expected you would, sir,” says Paddy, “for it
lies at the back of God-speed.”
“Well stand there, Paddy _avic_,” says the holy saint, “an’ I’ll have
a good look at the books.”
“God bless you!” says Paddy. “Wan ’ud think ’twas born in Munsther
you wor, Saint Pether, you have such an iligant accent in spaykin’.”
Faix, Paddy was beginnin’ to dhread that his name wouldn’t be found
on the books at all on account of his not havin’ complate absolution,
so he thought ’twas the best of his play to say a soft word to the
keeper of the kays.
The saint tuk a hasty glance at the enthry-book, but when Paddy
called him Saint Pether he lifted his head, an’ he put his face to
the wicket again, an’ there was a cunnin’ twinkle in his eye.
“An’ so you thinks ’tis Saint Pether I am?” says he.
“Of coorse, your reverence,” says Paddy; “an’ ’tis a rock of sense
I’m towld you are.”
Well, wud that the saint began to laugh very hearty, an’ says he,—
“Now it’s a quare thing that every wan of ye that comes from below
thinks Saint Pether is on the gates constant. Do you ralely think,
Paddy,” says he, “that Saint Pether has nothing else to do, nor no
way to pass the time except by standin’ here in the cowld from year’s
end to year’s end, openin’ the gates of Paradise?”
“Begor,” says Paddy, “that never sthruck me before, sure enough. Of
coorse he must have some sort of divarsion to pass the time. An’
might I ax your reverence,” says he, “what your own name is, an’ I
hopes you’ll pardon my ignorance.”
“Don’t mintion that,” says the saint; “but I’d rather not tell you my
name, just yet at any rate, for a raison of my own.”
“Plaize yourself an’ you’ll plaize me, sir,” says Paddy.
“’Tis a civil-spoken little man you are,” says the saint.
Findin’ the saint was such a nice agreeable man an’ such an iligant
discoorser, Paddy thought he’d venture on a few remarks just to dodge
the time until some other poor sowl ’ud turn up an’ give him the
chance to slip into Paradise unbeknowst—for he knew that wance he got
in by hook or by crook they could never have the heart to turn him
out of it again. So says he,—
“Might I ax what Saint Pether is doin’ just now?”
“He’s at a hurlin’ match,” says the deputy.
“Oh murdher!” says Paddy, “couldn’t I get a peep at the match while
you’re examinin’ the books?”
“I’m afeard not,” says the saint, shakin’ his head. “Besides,” says
he, “I think the fun is nearly over by this time.”
“Is there often a hurlin’ match here?” axes Paddy.
“Wance a year,” says the saint. “You see,” says he, pointin’ over his
showldher wud his thumb, “they have all nationalities in here, and
they plays the game of aich nation on aich pathron saint’s day, if
you undherstand me.”
“I do,” says Paddy. “An’ sure enough ’twas Saint Pathrick’s Day in
the mornin’ whin I started from Portlaw, an’ the last thing I did—of
coorse before tellin’ my sins—was to dhrink my Pathrick’s pot.”
“More power to you!” says the saint.
“I suppose Saint Pathrick is the umpire to-day?” says Paddy.
“No,” says the saint. “Aich of us, you see, takes our turn at the
gates on our own festival days.”
“Holy Moses!” shouts Paddy. “Thin ’tis to Saint Pathrick himself
I’ve been talkin’ all this while back. Oh murdher alive, did I ever
think I’d live to see this day!”
Begor the poor _augashore_ of a man was fairly knocked off his head
to discover he was discoorsin’ so fameeliarly wud the great Saint
Pathrick, an the great saint himself was proud to see what a dale the
little man from Portlaw thought of him; but he didn’t let on to Paddy
how plaized he was. “Ah!” says he, “sure we’re all on an aiquality
here. You’ll be a great saint yourself, maybe, wan of these days.”
“The heavens forbid,” says Paddy, “that I’d dhrame of ever being on
an aiquality wud your reverence! Begor ’tis a joyful man I’d be to be
allowed to spake a few words to you wance in a blue moon. Aiquality
_inagh_!” says he. “Sure what aiquality could there be between the
great apostle of Ould Ireland and Paddy Power, general dayler, from
Portlaw?”
“I wish there was more of ’em your way of thinkin’, Paddy,” says
Saint Pathrick, sighin’ deeply.
“An’ do you mane to tell me,” says Paddy, “that any craychur inside
there ’ud dare to put himself on an aiqual footin’ wud yourself?”
“I do, thin,” says Saint Pathrick; “an’ worse than that,” says he,
“there’s some of ’em thinks ’tis very small potatoes I am, in their
own mind. I gives you me word, Paddy, that it takes me all my time
occasionally to keep my timper wud Saint George an’ Saint Andhrew.”
“Bad luck to ’em both!” says Paddy, intherruptin’ him.
“Whisht!” says Saint Pathrick. “I partly admires your sentiments, but
I must tell you there’s no rale ill-will allowed inside here. You’ll
feel complately changed wance you gets at the right side of the gate.”