heard the biggest saint in Paradise say a hard word agen you, or even
dar’ to put himself on a par wud you!”
“Oh, Paddy!” says Saint Pathrick, “you mustn’t allow your timper to
get the betther of you. ’Tis hard, I know, _avic_, to sthruggle at
times agen your feelin’s, but the laiste said the soonest mended.”
“An’ will I meet Saint George and Saint Andhrew whin I get inside?”
“You will,” says Saint Pathrick; “but you mustn’t disgrace our
counthry by makin’ a row wud aither of ’em.”
“I’ll do my best,” says Paddy, “as ’tis yourself that axes me. An’ is
there any more of ’em that thrates you wud contimpt?”
“Well, not many,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ indeed,” says he, “’tis
only an odd day we meets at all; an’ I can tell you I’m not a bad
hand at takin’ my own part—but there’s wan fellow,” says he, “that
breaks my _giddawn_ intirely.”
“An’ who is he? the bla’guard!” says Paddy.
“He’s an uncanonized craychur named Brakespeare,” says Saint Pathrick.
“A wondher you’d be seen talkin’ to the likes of him!” says Paddy;
“an’ who is he at all?”
“Did you never hear tell of him?” says Saint Pathrick.
“Never,” says Paddy.
“Well,” says Saint Pathrick, “he made the worst bull—”
“Thin,” says Paddy, intherruptin’ him in hot haste, “he’s wan of
ourselves—more shame for him! O wait till I gets a grip of him by the
scruff of the neck!”
“Whisht! I tell you!” says Saint Pathrick. “Perhaps ’tis committin’
a vaynial sin you are now, an’ if that wor to come to Saint Pether’s
ears, maybe he’d clap twinty years of Limbo on to you—for he’s a
hard man sometimes, especially if he hears of any one losin’ his
timper, or getting impatient at the gates. An’ moreover,” says Saint
Pathrick, “himself an’ this Brakespeare are as thick as thieves, for
they both sat in the same chair below. I had a hot argument wud Nick
yesterday.”
“Ould Nick, is it?” says Paddy.
“No,” says Saint Pathrick laughin’. “Nick Brakespeare, I mane—the
same indeveedual I was tellin’ you about.”
“I beg your reverence’s pardon,” says Paddy, “an’ I hopes you’ll
excuse my ignorance. But you wor goin’ to give me an account of this
hot argument you had wud the bla’guard whin I put in my spoke.”
Begor Saint Pathrick dhrew in his horns thin, an’ fearin’ Paddy might
think they wor in the habit of squabblin’ in heaven he says, “Of
coorse, I meant only a frindly discussion.”
“An’ what was the frindly discussion about?” axes Paddy.
“About this bull of his,” says Saint Pathrick.
“The mischief choke himself an’ his cattle!” says Paddy.
“Begor,” says Saint Pathrick, “’twas choked the poor man was, sure
enough.”
“More power to the man that choked him!” says Paddy. “I hopes ye
canonized him.”
“’Twasn’t a man at all,” says Saint Pathrick.
“A faymale, perhaps?” says Paddy.
“Fie, fie, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick. “Come, guess again.”
“Ah, I’m a poor hand at guessin’,” says Paddy.
“Well, ’twas a blue bottle,” says Saint Pathrick.
“An’ was it thryin’ to swallow the bottle an’ all he was?” says
Paddy. “He must have been ‘a hard case.’”
Begor Saint Pathrick burst out laughin’, an’ says he, “You’ll make
your mark here, Paddy, I have no doubt.”
“I’ll make my mark on them that slights your reverence, believe me,”
says Paddy.
“Hush!” says Saint Pathrick, puttin’ his finger on his lips an’
lookin’ very solemn an’ business-like. “Here comes Saint Pether,” he
whispers, rattlin’ the kays to show he was mindin’ his duties. “He
looks in good-humour too; so it’s in luck you are.”
“I hope so, at any rate,” says Paddy; “for the clouds is very damp,
an’ I’m throubled greatly wud the rheumatics.”
“Well, Pathrick,” says Saint Pether, comin’ up to the gates—Paddy
Power could just get a sighth of the pair inside through the bars
of the wicket—“how goes the inemy? Have you had a hard day of it, my
son?”
“A very hard mornin’,” says Saint Pathrick. “They wor flockin’ here
as thick as flies at cock-crow—I mane,” says he, gettin’ very red in
the face, for he was in dhread he was afther puttin’ his fut in it
wud Saint Pether, “I mane just at daybreak.”
“It’s strange,” says Saint Pether, in a dhramey kind of a way, “but
I’ve noticed meself that there’s often a great rush of people in the
early mornin’: often I don’t know whether it’s on my head or my heels
I do be standin’ wud the noise they kicks up outside, elbowin’ wan
another, an’ bawlin’ at me as if it was hard of hearin’ I was.”
“How did the match go?” says Saint Pathrick, aiger to divart Saint
Pether’s mind from his throubles.
“Grand!” says Saint Pether, brightenin’ up. “Hurlin’ is a great game.
It takes all the stiffness out of my ould joints. But who’s that
outside?” catching sighth of Paddy Power.
“A poor fellow from Ireland,” says Saint Pathrick.
“I dunno how we’re to find room for all these Irishmen,” says Saint
Pether, scratchin’ his head. “’Twas only last week I gev ordhers
to have a new wing added to the Irish mansion, an’ begor I’m towld
to-day that ’tis chock full already. But of coorse we must find room
for the poor sowls. Did this chap come _viâ_ Purgathory?” says he.
“No,” says Saint Pathrick. “They sint him up direct.”
“Who is he” says Saint Pether.
“His name is Paddy Power,” says St. Pathrick, “He seems a dacent sort
of craychur.”
“Where’s he from?” axes Saint Pether.
“The Parish of Portlaw,” says Saint Pathrick.
“Portlaw!” says Saint Pether. “Well, that’s sthrange,” says he,
rubbin’ his chin. “You know I never forgets a name, but to my sartin
knowledge I never heard of Portlaw before. Has he a clane record?”
“There’s a thrifle wrong about it,” says Saint Pathrick. “He’s down
on the way bill, but there are some charges agen him not quite rubbed
out.”
“In that case,” says Saint Pether, “we’d best be on the safe side,
an’ sind him to Limbo for a spell.”
Begor when Paddy Power heard this he nearly lost his seven sinses wud
the fright, so he puts his face close up to the wicket, an’ he cries
out in a pitiful voice,—
“O blessed Saint Pether, don’t be too hard on me. Sure even below,
where the law is sthrict enough agen a poor sthrugglin’ boy, they
always allows him the benefit of the doubt, an’ I gives you my word,
yer reverence, ’twas only by an accident the slate wasn’t rubbed
clane. I know for sartin that Father McGrath said some of the words
of the absolution before the life wint out of my body. Don’t dhrive a
helpless ould man to purgathory, I beseeches you. Saint Pathrick will
go bail for my good behaviour, I’ll be bound; an’ tis many the prayer
I said to your own self below!”
Faix, Saint Pether was touched wud the implorin’ way Paddy spoke, an’
turnin’ to Saint Pathrick he says, “’Tis a quare case, sure enough.
I don’t know that I ever remimber the like before, an’ my memory is
of the best. I think we’d do right to have a consultation over the
affair before we decides wan way or the other.”
“Ah give the poor _angashore_ a chance,” says Saint Pathrick. “’Tis
hard to scald him for an accident. Besides,” says he, brightenin’ up
as a thought sthruck him, “you say you never had a man before from
the parish of Portlaw, an’ I remember you towld me wance that you’d
like to have a represintative here from every parish in the world.”
“Thrue enough,” says Saint Pether; “an maybe I’d never have another
chance from Portlaw.”
“Maybe not,” says Saint Pathrick, humourin’ him.
So Saint Pether takes a piece of injy-rubber from his waistcoat
pocket, an’ goin’ over to the enthry-book he rubs out the charges
agen Paddy Power.
“I’ll take it on meself,” says he, “to docthor the books for this
wance, only don’t let the cat out of the bag on me, Pathrick, my son.”
“Never fear,” says Saint Pathrick. “Depind your life on me.”
“Well, it’s done, anyhow,” says Saint Pether, puttin’ the injy-rubber
back into his pocket; “an’ if you hands me over the kays, Pat,” says
he, “I’ll relase you for the day, so that you can show your frind
over the grounds.”
“’Tis a grand man you are!” says Saint Pathrick. “My blessin’ on you,
_avic_!”
“Come in, Paddy Power,” says Saint Pether, openin’ the gates; “an’
rimember always that you wouldn’t be here for maybe nine hundred an’
ninety-nine year or more only that you’re the only offer we ever had
from the Parish of Portlaw.”
[Illustration: KING JOHN AND THE MAYOR.]
[Illustration: (banner) KING JOHN AND THE MAYOR]
I suppose it’s well known that King John made two visits to the city
of Watherford. The first time he came he was only a slip of a boy of
about nineteen year, an’ his father, who had a hard job rearin’ him
(for ’tis the unmannerdly young cub he was) thought he’d kill two
birds wud wan stone by gettin’ rid of the prince for a short spell in
the first place, an’ by gettin’ the boy to make himself frindly wud
the Irish chiefs in the second place.
But nothin’ would suit young Masther John except divarsion an’
bla’guardin’. The moment he put his fut on Irish soil he began to
poke fun at the ould chieftains’ beards. ’Twas jealous the young
jackanapes was of the fine hairy faces of the crowd that met him on
the quay of Watherford, for divil a hair he could grow on the upper
part of his lip, though he was near dhraggin’ the English coort into
bankruptcy wud the quantities of bears’ grease an’ other barbers’
thricks he thried day afther day to coax out even a few morsels of a
moustache.
Anyhow he made naither a good beginnin’ nor a good endin’ on his
first thrip to Ireland. He ate so much fresh salmon that a rash broke
out on him, an’ nearly dhrove him to despair, for he was fond of the
faymales, an’ a man wud a bad rash even if he’s a prince of the blood
isn’t the soort of craychur to make much headway wud the girls.
He got over the rash, however, in due coorse; an’ built an hospital
in mimory of his recovery; an’ to this day it stands there at the fut
of John’s Hill, an’ is called the “Leper Hospital.”
As soon as he got well rid of the rash, he began to make ructions in
the counthry, kickin’ out the rale ould anshant owners of the soil,
an’ makin’ presents of what didn’t belong to him to his own follyers.
Begor even owld Henery, the father, got unaisy at the son’s plan of
campaign, so back he calls Prince John an’ puts a Misther Decoorcy in
his place.
Well, time passed on, an’ when his call came, ould Henery the Second
wint to Limbo; an’ afther a spell, the son John got a howld of the
throne. He had always a hankerin’ for the Watherford salmon, even
afther the rash it broke out on him, so as soon as he could make
things snug in the English coort, away he sails again for Ireland.
This time of coorse he was a full king, an’ as he was several years
ouldher, the Watherford people naaturally expected his manners would
have improved; so they made up their minds to forget the thricks an’
bla’guardin’ of the nineteen year ould prince, an’ to give King John
a hearty welcome.
When the Mayor an’ Corporation heard the news that the royal barge
was comin’ up the river, they put on their grand robes and started
down the quay. They wint outside the walls a bit until they came to a
piece of slob land near the mouth of a sthrame, an’ there they stud
up to their ankles in slush until the king’s ship hove in sighth.
Thin they waved a flag of welcome to his Majesty, who was standin’
on deck, an’ bawled out to him to dhrop anchor abreast of them. So
the captain—a red-whiskered Welshman who chawed more tobaccy than
was wholesome for him—puts the ship’s head in for the shore, an’
dhropped anchor as soon as he got close to the slob where the Mayor
and Corporation wor standin’.
“How are we to get ashore, boys?” says King John, makin’ a foghorn of
his fists.
“Aisy, _avic_,” says the Mayor. “It’s a sthrong ebb tide now, an’
if you’ll go below into your cabin the ship will dhry while your
clanein’ your face an’ hands an’ fixin’ the crown on your poll.”
“All right,” says King John. “Come aboord as soon as the tide laives
her.”
“I will,” says the Mayor.
Wud that King John went down to the cabin, an’ in about half an hour
the ship began to ground an’ very soon afther the Mayor, not heedin’
the sighth of a fut or two of wather between him an’ the king’s
craft, made a start to go down to her.
“Howld on there, where ye are,” says he to the Corporation. “If ye
was all to come aboord maybe ’tis heel over the little vessel would,
for she looks a crank piece of goods.”
“All right,” says the Corporation. “We’ll wait here till you return,
an’ a safe journey to your worship!”
Well, whin the Mayor got on deck of coorse his boots were dhrippin’
wud mud an’ wather.
“Is there a door-mat aboord?” says he to the skipper.
“Divil a wan,” says the skipper. “Do you think ’tis in a lady’s
chamber you are?”
“You’re an unmannerdly lot,” says the Mayor, stampin’ on the decks
an’ givin’ a kick out wud his left leg to shake some of the water out
of his boot.
Just at that moment up comes King John from the cabin, an’ a few
spatthers of mud went into his royal eye.
Before the Mayor could open his mouth to ax pardon the King bawls
out at him, “What the mischief do you mane, you lubber? Will nothin’
plaize you only knockin’ the sighth out of my eyes an’ dirtyin’ my
decks wud your muddy say-boots? ’Tis more like a mud-lark than a
Mayor you are.”
The poor Mayor very nearly lost his timper intirely at the insultin’
words of King John, for ’twas none of his fault that he dirtied the
decks, but he managed to conthrol himself, an’ says he, “I ax your
majesty’s pardon for bringing the mud aboord, but might I make so
bowld as to inquire how I could be expected to have clane boots
afther thrampin’ through the slush out there. An’ as for knockin’ the
sighth out of your eyes,” says he, “I give you me word I never seen
you comin’ up the cabin stairs or I wouldn’t have lashed out wud my
leg.”
“Give me none of your lip,” says the King. “I’d cut your ugly sconce
off if I thought there was an atom of thraison in your mind.”
“Thraison!” says the Mayor, mighty indignant, for ’tis a proud soort
of a man he was in his way. “I don’t know the maynin’ of the word.”
“I’ll soon tache you the maynin’ of it, you spalpeen,” says the King;
“an’ if you don’t go down on your bended knees an’ beg my pardon this
minute, an’ give me your note of hand for five hundred pound I’ll
dhraw your teeth first for you, an’ thin I’ll thry you for thraison,
wud meself for judge and jury, as soon as I sets fut in the city.”
The mischief only knows what would have happened thin only for a chum
of the King’s who came up from the cabin at that minute.
“Your Majesty,” says the young lord, “I think, with all due respects
to you, you’re too hard agen the Mayor. Sure the poor man did his
best. He came aboord at the risk of gettin’ a heavy cowld in his
head, in ordher to give you an airly welcome, an’ how could he mane
thraison when he ran such a risk to sarve you?”
“Maybe you’re right,” says King John, who owed the young lord a big
lump of money and was partial to him for other raisons too. “Maybe
you’re right; an’ I know,” says he, “that my timper is none of the
best; and moreover the say-sickness isn’t out of my stomach yet, bad
luck to it! All right,” says he, turnin’ to the Mayor, an’ spittin’
on his fist. “Put it there,” says King John, howldin’ out his hand.
So the Mayor spit in his own fist, an’ the pair shuk hands quite
cordial.
All would have gone well then but for the iligant beard an’ whiskers
the Mayor wore. The sighth of them fairly tormented King John, an’
the bla’guard broke out in him again as he looked at his worship an’
saw him sthrokin’ the fine silky hairs which (savin’ your presence)
nearly shut out the view of the honest man’s stomach.
“I’ll take me oath ’tis a wig,” says the King to himself; “an’ faith
if the wig isn’t stuck mighty fast to his chin the tug I’ll give it
will soon laive it in fragments on the deck.”
So the King goes over to the Mayor an’ purtended to be admirin’ the
beautiful goold chain his worship carried round his neck, an’ while
a cat would be lickin’ her ear he gives the beard such an onmerciful
dhrag that he tore a fistful of it clane out of the dacent man’s chin.
The Mayor set up a screech—an small blame to him—that you’d hear from
this to Mullinavat, an’ begor the crowd ashore thought ’twas bein’
murdhered he was; so King John, fearin’ the Corporation might thry to
sink himself an’ the ship if they knew he was afther damagin’ their
mayor, thought ’twas the best of his play to knuckle undher at wance.
He begs the Mayor’s pardon in a mortial funk, an’ says he to him,
“We’d best be gettin’ ashore immajertly the both of us.”
The poor Mayor of coorse couldn’t afford to show timper agen a king,
so brushin’ the scaldin’ tears off his cheek he made up his mind to
pocket his pride; but at the same time says he to himself, “I’ll
tache this unmannerdly cub a lesson before he’s many hours ouldher.”
“All right, your majesty,” says he, aloud, to the King, “I quite
agrees wud you that ’tis betther the pair of us should go ashore at
wance; but come here,” says he, takin’ King John to the bulwarks
of the ship an’ pointin’ over the side. “Now I ax you,” says he,
“how are you to get ashore wud at laiste a fut of wather inside the
little vessel still, an’ fifty yards, more or less, of dirty soft mud
forenenst you?”
Begor, the King seemed puzzled at this; but he knew there was no
time to be lost, for the crowd ashore was beginnin’ to grow bigger,
and it was aisy to see that throuble was brewin’, for a few of the
quay boys were peltin’ an odd pavin’-stone at the ship. “I laive it
to you, Misther Mayor,” says he; “but whatever you do, don’t keep me
standin’ here in the cowld, for I have a wake chest, an’ my inside is
complately out of ordher afther the voyage.”
“Begor!” says the Mayor, dodgin’ a box of a pavin’-stone that came
aboord that minute, “I dunno what’s best to be done. You’d get your
death if you wor to thramp it ashore in them patent leather boots of
yours. I’ll tell you what I’ll propose,” says he.
“That’s what I’m waitin’ for you to do,” says the King, intherruptin’
him; “an’ if you don’t be quick about it, maybe ’tis hot wud a stone
I’ll be, an’ in that case,” says he, “’twill be me duty as a king
to bombard the city wud cannon-balls. D’ye mind me now?” says he,
beginnin’ to show timper agen.
“I do,” says the Mayor. “Sure, if you didn’t take the words out of my
mouth, I was goin’ to say that I’d carry you safe ashore on my own
two showldhers.”
“Very well,” says King John; “but if you wish for paice an’ quietness
you’d betther stir your stumps quick, for I tell you I won’t stand
here to be made a cockshot of by these Watherford bla’guards.”
“Come on, thin,” says the Mayor.
So wud that the sailors fixed what they calls a cradle, an’ a few
frinds of the King lifted him up on the showldhers of the Mayor, an’
down the pair wor lowered into the little wash of wather inside the
ship.
“Howld a tight grip of me now,” says the Mayor, makin’ a start; “for
’tis an onsartin sort of a journey. There’s a dale of shifthin’ sands
about here, an’ if I wor to make a false step or lose my bearin’s,
maybe they’d never hear of your majesty again in England; p’raps ’tis
swallyed up in the mud the pair of us ’ud be, an’ I have a heavy
family dependin’ on me.”
“I’ll keep a study grip,” says the King; “an’ for your own sake, an’
the sake of your heavy family, I’d recommend you to pick your steps
as if ’twas threadin’ on eggs you wor.”
“Never fear,” says the mayor. “Is the crown fixed firm on your head?”
“’Tis,” says King John.
“The raison I axed you,” says the Mayor, “is that I thought ’twas a
thrifle too big for you. I noticed it wobblin’ about on your head
afther you came up from the cabin.”
“Well, to tell you the thruth, an’ ’tisn’t often I do the like,” says
the King, “I didn’t laive my measure for that crown; but I’ve rowled
a sthrip of newspaper inside the rim of it, an’ it doesn’t fit at all
bad now,” says he, shakin’ his head, an’ fixin’ an eye-glass into his
eye.
“Did you buy it ready-made? pardon me for axin’,” says the Mayor.
“No,” says King John; “but it belonged to my big brother, Richard.”
“I’ve heard tell of him,” says the Mayor. “The ‘Lion Heart’ they
called him, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” says King John; “but between yerself and meself”—for he was
mighty jealous of his brother, an’ indeed, he hadn’t a good word to
throw to a dog—“’twas a ‘thrick’ lion he tore the heart out of.”
“Is that so?” says the Mayor.
“’Tis,” says King John. “You see,” says he, “himself an’ Blondin wor
great chums intirely, an’ Blondin bein’ a circus man—”
“I know,” intherrupted the Mayor. “He crossed over the Falls of
Niagry on a rope, didn’t he?”
“He did,” says King John. “’Tis round his neck I’d like to have had
the rope, for ’tis an onaisey time of it he gave meself be rescuin’
my brother. I made sure they’d cooked his goose in that Austrian
castle, but nothin’ would suit his chum Blondin, if you plaize,
except whistlin’ some of his ould circus tunes outside the walls,
until the King of Austria let him in. Well, Blondin brought in a
thrick lion wud him that he used to be showin’ off at the fairs.
‘Look here,’ says he to the King of Austria, ‘that man you’re keepin’
down in the cellar is a match for a lion.’ ‘Prove it,’ says the King
of Austria. ‘I will,’ says Blondin. ‘Well, take the muzzle off yer
baste,’ says the King of Austria, ‘an’ let the pair of ’em have a
fair stand-up fight; an’ if King Richard bates the lion I’ll give him
his liberty.’ ‘Done!’ says Blondin; so wud that he brings the lion
down into the cellar, an’ of coorse my brother knew ’twas only an
ould painted jackass without a tooth in his head, so he makes wan
grab at the unfortunate animal an’ tore the heart clane out of him.”
“Oh, murdher!” says the Mayor. “An’ that’s why they call him the
‘Lion Heart,’ is it?”
“It is,” says King John.
“An’ what’s that they calls yerself?” says the Mayor, who knew well
that King John didn’t like to be reminded of the nickname he was
known undher in the English Coorts, an’ wanted to take a rise out of
him on the quiet.
“I’ll tell you what, my bucko,” says King John, for he felt the Mayor
all of a thremble undher him, an’ he knew it was smotherin’ a laugh
in his sleeve he was, “I’ll tell you what, my bucko,” says he, “you’d
betther give me none of your sauce. Only for the onnathural way I’m
placed now, perched up here like a canary-bird, I’d soon let you know
who you wor thryin’ to poke your fun at. D’ye mind me now?”
“Begonnies!” says the Mayor, “’tis no fun, I can tell you, to be
endeavourin’ to get safe ashore wud such a precious load on me
showlders. If yer Majesty thinks ’tis for a lark I’m carryin’ you,
let me tell you that you’re intirely mistaken. Oh murdher!” says he,
dhroppin’ on wan knee, “but ’tis into a boghole we are!”
Of coorse he knew there wasn’t a boghole wudin a mile of him, but he
wanted to divart the King’s mind from what he was afther sayin’ about
his nickname, for ’tis in dhread he was that maybe he was carryin’
the joke too far.
“Boghole!” bawls the King, nearly jumpin’ out of his skin wud the
fright. “Let me down, you scoundhrel,” says he. “I see now that ’tis
a thraisonable plot you have agen me afther all. I wondhered why it
was you worn’t makin’ a sthraight coorse for the firm shore.”
An’ sure enough the Mayor had gone a dale out of his road just in
ordher to have a rise out of King John, to pay him off for havin’
given his beard the tug.
The pair of ’em wor now standin’ close to the mouth of the pill, an’
the mud all round was as soft as butthermilk, an’ the poor Mayor was
more than half-way up to his knees in it; but he knew every inch of
the ground, an’ wasn’t in the laiste danger or dhread of himself of
coorse, if King John fell from his showlders there ’ud be an end of
him, for he’d rowl down into the wathers of the pill before the Mayor
could have time to get a grip of him.
“Go straight for the shore this minute, I command you,” says the King.
The Mayor saw that his Majesty was in a fair rage, so he made up his
mind not to play any more thricks on him but to make a short cut
through the mud to the Corporation.
“Howld your grip now,” says he, givin’ the King a sudden hoist to
straighten him on his back; an’ before the words wor well out of his
mouth off tumbles King John’s crown an’ down it rowls into the pill.
“Oh murdher!” says the mayor, forgettin’ himself complately, an’
going to dhrop the King into the mud. “’Tis lost the crown is!
There’s twenty fut of wather there if there’s an inch, an’ there
isn’t a diver on the face of the earth would take a headher into it,
the wathers are that filthy!”
“What are you doin’, you ruffian?” screams the King, catchin’ a grip
of the Mayor’s whisker wud wan hand an’ of the goold chain wud the
other. “Dhrop me at the peril of your life, you onnathural mousther,”
says he.