(big coat)?'
"'Out wid yez,' says Harry, 'an' pray against the clipstick--the sky's
fallin'!'
"Begad, it was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife got out first, they
were so much alarmed by Harry's wild, thin face and piercin' eyes; so
out they went to see what was wonderful in the sky, an' kep lookin' in
every direction, but not a thing was to be seen, barrin' the sun shinin'
down wid great good-humour, an' not a single cloud in the sky.
"Paddy an' the wife now came in laughin' to scould Harry, who, no doubt,
was a great wag in his way when he wished. 'Musha, bad scran to you,
Harry--' and they had time to say no more, howandiver, for, as they were
goin' into the door, they met him comin' out of it, wid a reek of smoke
out of his tail like a limekiln.
"'Harry,' shouted Bridget, 'my sowl to glory, but the tail of your
cothamore's afire--you'll be burned. Don't you see the smoke that's out
of it?'
"'Cross yourselves three times,' said Harry, without stoppin' or even
lookin' behind him, 'for as the prophecy says, Fill the pot, Eddy--'
They could hear no more, for Harry appeared to feel like a man that
carried something a great deal hotter than he wished, as anyone might
see by the liveliness of his motions, and the quare faces he was forced
to make as he went along.
"'What the dickens is he carryin' in the skirts of his big coat?' asked
Paddy.
"'My sowl to happiness, but maybe he has stolen the pudden,' said
Bridget, 'for it's known that many a sthrange thing he does.'
"They immediately examined the pot, but found that the pudden was there,
as safe as tuppence, an' this puzzled them the more to think what it was
he could be carryin' about with him in the manner he did. But little
they knew what he had done while they were sky-gazin'!
"Well, anyhow, the day passed, and the dinner was ready an' no doubt but
a fine gatherin' there was to partake of it. The Prosbytarian ministher
met the Methodist praycher--a divilish stretcher of an appetite he had,
in throth--on his way to Jack Rafferty's, an' as he knew he could take
the liberty, why, he insisted on his dining wid him; for, afther all, in
thim days the clergy of all descriptions lived upon the best footin'
among one another not all at one as now--but no matther. Well, they had
nearly finished their dinner, when Jack Rafferty himself axed Katty for
the pudden; but jist as he spoke, in it came, as big as a mess-pot.
"'Gentlemen,' said he, 'I hope none of you will refuse tastin' a bit of
Katty's pudden; I don't mane the dancin' one that took to its thravels
to-day, but a good, solid fellow that she med since.'
"'To be sure we won't,' replied the priest. 'So, Jack, put a thrifle on
them three plates at your right hand, and send them over here to the
clargy, an' maybe,' he said, laughin'--for he was a droll, good-humoured
man--'maybe, Jack, we won't set you a proper example.'
"'Wid a heart an' a half, your riverence an' gintlemen; in throth, it's
not a bad example ever any of you set us at the likes, or ever will set
us, I'll go bail. An' sure, I only wish it was betther fare I had for
you; but we're humble people, gintlemen, an' so you can't expect to meet
here what you would in higher places.'
"'Betther a male of herbs,' said the Methodist praycher, 'where pace
is--' He had time to go no further, however; for, much to his amazement,
the priest an' the ministher started up from the table, jist as he was
going to swallow the first mouthful of the pudden, and, before you could
say Jack Robinson, started away at a lively jig down the floor.
"At this moment a neighbour's son came runnin' in, and tould them that
the parson was comin' to see the new-married couple, an' wish them all
happiness; an' the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he made his
appearance. What to think he knew not, when he saw the ministher footin'
it away at the rate of a weddin'. He had very little time, however, to
think; for, before he could sit down, up starts the Methodist praycher,
an', clappin' his fists in his sides, chimes in in great style along wid
him.
"'Jack Rafferty,' says he, and, by the way, Jack was his tenant, 'what
the dickens does all this mane?' says he; 'I'm amazed!'
"'Then not a particle o' me can tell you,' says Jack; 'but will your
reverence jist taste a morsel o' pudden, merely that the young couple
may boast that you ait at their weddin'; 'for sure, if you wouldn't, who
would?'
"'Well,' says he, to gratify them, I will; so, just a morsel. But, Jack,
this bates Banagher,' says he again, puttin' the spoonful of pudden into
his mouth; 'has there been drink here?'
"'Oh, the divil a spudh,' says Jack, 'for although there's plenty in
the house, faith, it appears the gentlemen wouldn't wait for it. Unless
they tuck it elsewhere, I can make nothin' o' this.'
"He had scarcely spoken when the parson, who was an active man, cut a
caper a yard high, an' before you could bless yourself, the three clargy
were hard at work dancin', as if for a wager. Begad, it would be
unpossible for me to tell you the state the whole meetin' was in when
they see this. Some were hoarse wid laughin'; some turned up their eyes
wid wondher; many thought them mad; and others thought they had turned
up their little fingers a thrifle too often.
"'Be Goxty, it's a burnin' shame,' said one, 'to see three black-mouth
clargy in sich a state at this early hour!'" 'Thunder an' ounze, what's
over them all?' says others; 'why, one would think they were bewitched.
Holy Moses, look at the caper the Methodist cuts! An' as for the
Recthor, who would think he could handle his feet at sich a rate! Be
this, an' be that, he cuts the buckle, an' does the threblin' step
aiquil to Paddy Horaghan, the dancin'-masther himself! An' see! Bad cess
to the morsel of the parson that's not too hard at "Pease upon a
Trancher," and it upon a Sunday, too! Whirroo, gintlemen, the fun's in
yez, afther all--whish! more power to yez!'
"The sorra's own fun they had, an' no wondher; but judge of what they
felt when all at once they saw ould Jack Rafferty himself bouncin' in
among them, an' footin' it away like the best of them. Bedad, no play
could come up to it, an' nothin' could be heard but laughin', shouts of
encouragement, an' clappin' of hands like mad. Now, the minute Jack
Rafferty left the chair, where he had been carvin' the pudden, ould
Harry Connolly come over and claps himself down in his place, in ordher
to send it round, of coorse; an' he was scarcely sated when who should
make his appearance but Barney Hartigan, the piper. Barney, by the way,
had been sent for early in the day, but, bein' from home when the
message for him came, he couldn't come any sooner.
"'Begorra' says Barney, 'you're airly at the work, gintlemen! But what
does this mane? But divel may care, yez shan't want the music, while
there's a blast in the pipes, anyhow!' So sayin' he gave them "Jig
Polthogue," and afther that, "Kiss my Lady" in his best style.
"In the manetime the fun went on thick and threefold, for it must be
remembered that Harry, the ould knave, was at the pudden; an' maybe, he
didn't sarve it about in double-quick time, too! The first he helped was
the bride, and before you could say chopstick she was at it hard and
fast, before the Methodist praycher, who gave a jolly spring before her
that threw them all into convulsions. Harry liked this, and made up his
mind soon to find partners for the rest; an', to make a long story
short, barrin' the piper an' himself, there wasn't a pair of heels in
the house but was busy at the dancin' as if their lives depended on it.
"'Barney,' says Harry, 'jist taste a morsel o' this pudden; divil the
sich a bully of a pudden ever you ett. Here, your sowl! thry a snig of
it--it's beautiful!'
"'To be sure I will,' says Barney. 'I'm not the boy to refuse a good
thing. But, Harry, be quick, for you know my hands is engaged, an' it
would be a thousand pities not to keep them in music, an' they so well
inclined. Thank you, Harry. Begad, that is a fine pudden. But, blood an'
turnips! what's this for?'
"The words was scarcely out of his mouth when he bounced up, pipes an'
all, and dashed into the middle of the party. 'Hurroo! your sowls, let
us make a night of it! The Ballyboulteen boys for ever! Go it, your
reverence!--turn your partner--heel and toe, ministher. Good! Well done,
again! Whish! Hurroo! Here's for Ballyboulteen, an' the sky over it!'
"Bad luck to sich a set ever was seen together in this world, or will
again, I suppose. The worst, however, wasn't come yet, for jist as they
were in the very heat' an' fury of the dance, what do you think comes
hoppin' in among them but another pudden, as nimble an' merry as the
first! That was enough; they had all heard of it--the ministhers among
the rest--an' most of them had seen the other pudden, an' knew that
there must be a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I said, in it comes,
to the thick o' them; but the very appearance of it was enough. Off the
three clergymen danced, and off the whole weddiners danced, afther them,
everyone makin' the best of their way home, but not a sowl of them able
to break out of the step, if they were to be hanged for it. Troth, it
wouldn't lave a laff in you to see the parson dancin' down the road on
his way home, and the ministher and Methodist praycher cuttin' the
buckle as they went along in the opposite direction. To make short work
of it, they all danced home at last wid scarce a puff of wind in them;
and the bride an' bridegroom danced away to bed."
Frank Webber's Wager.
_From "Charles O'Malley."_
BY CHARLES LEVER (1806-1872).
I was sitting at breakfast with Webber, when Power came in hastily.
"Ha, the very man!" said he. "I say, O'Malley, here's an invitation for
you from Sir George to dine on Friday. He desired me to say a thousand
civil things about his not having made you out, regrets that he was not
at home when you called yesterday, and all that."
"By the way," said Webber, "wasn't Sir George Dashwood down in the West
lately? Do you know what took him there?"
"Oh," said Power, "I can enlighten you. He got his wife west of the
Shannon--a vulgar woman. She is now dead, and the only vestige of his
unfortunate matrimonial connexion is a correspondence kept up with him
by a maiden sister of his late wife's. She insists upon claiming the
ties of kindred upon about twenty family eras during the year, when she
regularly writes a most loving and ill-spelled epistle, containing the
latest information from Mayo, with all particulars of the Macan family,
of which she is a worthy member. To her constant hints of the acceptable
nature of certain small remittances the poor General is never
inattentive; but to the pleasing prospects of a visit in the flesh from
Miss Judy Macan, the good man is dead."
"Then, he has never yet seen her?"
"Never, and he hopes to leave Ireland without that blessing?"
"I say, Power, and has your worthy General sent me a card for his ball?"
"Not through me, Master Frank. Sir George must really be excused in this
matter. He has a most attractive, lovely daughter, just at that budding,
unsuspecting age when the heart is most susceptible of impressions; and
where, let me ask, could she run such a risk as in the chance of a
casual meeting with the redoubted lady-killer, Master Frank Webber?"
"A very strong case, certainly," said Frank; "but still, had he confided
his critical position to my honour and secrecy, he might have depended
on me; now, having taken the other line, he must abide the consequences.
I'll make fierce love to Lucy."
"But how, may I ask, and when?"
"I'll begin at the ball, man."
"Why, I thought you said you were not going?"
"There you mistake seriously. I merely said that I had not been
invited."
"Then, of course," said I, "Webber, you can't think of going, in any
case, on my account."
"My very dear friend, I go entirely upon my own. I not only shall go,
but I intend to have most particular notice and attention paid me. I
shall be prime favourite with Sir George--kiss Lucy--"
"Come, come! this is too strong."
"What do you bet I don't? There, now, I'll give you a pony a-piece, I
do. Do you say done?"
"That you kiss Miss Dashwood, and are not kicked downstairs for your
pains; are those the terms of your wager?" inquired Power.
"With all my heart. That I kiss Miss Dashwood, and am not kicked
downstairs for my pains."
"Then I say, done!"
"And with you, too, O'Malley?"
"I thank you," said I, coldly; "I'm not disposed to make such a return
for Sir George Dashwood's hospitality as to make an insult to his family
the subject of a bet."
"Why, man, what are you dreaming of? Miss Dashwood will not refuse my
chaste salute. Come, Power, I will give you the other pony."
"Agreed," said he. "At the same time, understand me distinctly--that I
hold myself perfectly eligible to winning the wager by my own
interference; for, if you do kiss her, I'll perform the remainder of the
compact."
"So I understand the agreement," said Webber, and off he went.
I have often dressed for a storming party with less of trepidation than
I felt on the evening of Sir George Dashwood's ball. It was long since I
had seen Miss Dashwood; therefore, as to what precise position I might
occupy in her favour was a matter of great doubt in my mind, and great
import to my happiness.
Our quadrille over, I was about to conduct her to a seat, when Sir
George came hurriedly up, his face greatly flushed, and betraying every
semblance of high excitement.
"Read this," said he, presenting a very dirty-looking note.
Miss Dashwood unfolded the billet, and after a moment's silence, burst
out a-laughing, while she said, "Why, really, papa, I do not see why
this should put you out much, after all. Aunt may be somewhat of a
character, as her note evinces; but after a few days----',
"Nonsense, child; there's nothing in this world I have such a dread of
as this--and to come at such a time! O'Malley, my boy, read this note,
and you will not feel surprised if I appear in the humour you see me."
I read as follows:--
"Dear brother,--When this reaches your hand I'll not be far off. I'm
on my way up to town, to be under Dr. Dease for the ould complaint.
Expect me to tea; and, with love to Lucy, believe me, yours in haste,
"Judith Macan.
"Let the sheets be well aired in my room; and if you have a spare bed,
perhaps you could prevail upon Father Magrath to stop, too."
I scarcely could contain my laughter till I got to the end of this very
free-and-easy epistle, when at last I burst forth in a hearty fit, in
which I was joined by Miss Dashwood.
"I say, Lucy," said Sir George, "there's only one thing to be done. If
this horrid woman does arrive, let her be shown to her room, and for the
few days of her stay in town, we'll neither see nor be seen by anyone."
Without waiting for a reply he was turning away, when the servant
announced, in his loudest voice, "Miss Macan."
No sooner had the servant pronounced the magical name than all the
company present seemed to stand still. About two steps in advance of the
servant was a tall, elderly lady, dressed in an antique brocade silk,
with enormous flowers gaudily embroidered upon it. Her hair was powdered
and turned back, in the fashion of fifty years before. Her short, skinny
arms were bare, while on her hands she wore black silk mittens; a pair
of green spectacles scarcely dimmed the lustre of a most piercing pair
of eyes, to whose effect a very palpable touch of rouge on the cheeks
certainly added brilliancy. There she stood, holding before her a fan
about the size of a modern tea-tray, while at each repetition of her
name by the servant she curtseyed deeply.
Sir George, armed with the courage of despair, forced his way through
the crowd, and taking her hand affectionately, bid her welcome to
Dublin. The fair Judy, at this, threw her arms about his neck, and
saluted him with a hearty smack, that was heard all over the room.
"Where's Lucy, brother? Let me see my little darling," said the lady, in
a decided accent. "There she is, I'm sure; kiss me, my honey."
This office Miss Dashwood performed with an effort at courtesy really
admirable; while, taking her aunt's arm, she led her to a sofa.
Power made his way towards Miss Dashwood, and succeeded in obtaining a
formal introduction to Miss Macan.
"I hope you will do me the favour to dance next set with me, Miss
Macan?"
"Really, Captain, it's very polite of you, but you must excuse me. I was
never anything great in quadrilles: but if a reel or a jig----"
"Oh, dear aunt, don't think of it, I beg of you!"
"Or even Sir Roger de Coverley," resumed Miss Macan.
"I assure you, quite equally impossible."
"Then I'm certain you waltz," said Power.
"What do you take me for, young man? I hope I know better. I wish Father
Magrath heard you ask me that question; and for all your laced
jacket----"
"Dearest aunt, Captain Power didn't mean to offend you; I'm certain
he----"
"Well, why did he dare to--(sob, sob)--did he see anything light about
me, that he--(sob, sob, sob)--oh, dear! oh, dear! is it for this I came
up from my little peaceful place in the West?--(sob, sob, sob)--General,
George, dear; Lucy, my love, I'm taken bad. Oh, dear! oh, dear! is there
any whiskey negus?"
After a time she was comforted.
At supper later on in the evening, I was deep in thought when a dialogue
quite near me aroused me from my reverie.
"Don't, now! don't, I tell ye; it's little ye know Galway, or ye
wouldn't think to make up to me, squeezing my foot."
"You're an angel, a regular angel. I never saw a woman suit my fancy
before."
"Oh, behave now. Father Magrath says----"
"Who's he?"
"The priest; no less."
"Oh! bother him."
"Bother Father Magrath, young man?"
"Well, then, Judy, don't be angry; I only means that a dragoon knows
rather more of these matters than a priest."
"Well, then, I'm not so sure of that. But, anyhow, I'd have you to
remember it ain't a Widow Malone you have beside you."
"Never heard of the lady," said Power.
"Sure, it's a song--poor creature--it's a song they made about her in
the North Cork when they were quartered down in our county."
"I wish you'd sing it."
"What will you give me, then, if I do?"
"Anything--everything--my heart--my life."
"I wouldn't give a trauneen for all of them. Give me that old green ring
on your finger, then."
"It's yours," said Power, placing it gracefully upon Miss Macan's
finger; "and now for your promise."
"Well, mind you get up a good chorus, for the song has one, and here it
is."
"Miss Macan's song!" said Power, tapping the table with his knife.
"Miss Macan's song!" was re-echoed on all sides; and before the luckless
General could interfere, she had begun:--
"Did ye hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
Who lived in the town of Athlone,
Alone?
Oh! she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts,
So lovely the widow Malone,
Ohone!
So lovely the Widow Malone.
"Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more;
And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;
From the Minister down
To the Clerk of the Crown,
All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
All were courting the Widow Malone.
"But so modest was Mrs. Malone,
'Twas known
No one ever could see her alone,
Ohone!
Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So bashful the Widow Malone.
"Till one Mr. O'Brien from Clare,--
How quare,
It's little for blushing they care,
Down there,
Put his arm round her waist,
Gave ten kisses, at laste,--
'Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone,'
My own;
'Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone.'
"And the widow they all thought so shy,
My eye!
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh;
For why?
But 'Lucius,' says she,
'Since you've now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone,
Ohone!
You may marry your Mary Malone.'
"There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong;
And, one comfort, it's not very long,
But strong;
If for widows you die,
Larn to kiss, not to sigh,
For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,
Ohone!
Oh! they're very like Mistress Malone."
Never did song create such a sensation as Miss Macan's.
"I insist upon a copy of 'The Widow,' Miss Macan," said Power.
"To be sure; give me a call to-morrow--let me see--about two. Father
Magrath won't be at home," said she, with a coquettish look.
"Where pray, may I pay my respects?"
Power produced a card and pencil, while Miss Macan wrote a few lines,
saying, as she handed it--
"There, now, don't read it here before all the people; they'll think it
mighty indelicate in me to make an appointment."
Power pocketed the card, and the next minute Miss Macan's carriage was
announced.
When she had taken her departure, "Doubt it who will," said Power, "she
has invited me to call on her to-morrow--written her address on my
card--told me the hour she is certain of being alone. See here!" At
these words he pulled forth the card, and handed it to a friend.
Scarcely were the eyes of the latter thrown upon the writing, when he
said, "So, this isn't it, Power!"
"To be sure it is, man. Read it out. Proclaim aloud my victory."
Thus urged, his friend read:--
"Dear P.,--Please pay to my credit--and soon, mark ye--the two ponies
lost this evening. I have done myself the pleasure of enjoying your
ball, kissed the lady, quizzed the papa and walked into the cunning
Fred Power.--Yours,
"FRANK WEBBER.
"'The Widow Malone, Ohone!' is at your service."
Sam Wham and the Sawmont.
BY SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON (1810-1886).
"Knieving trouts" (they call it tickling in England) is good sport. You
go to a stony shallow at night, a companion bearing a torch; then,
stripping to the thighs and shoulders, wade in, grope with your hands
under the stones, sods, and other harbourage, till you find your game,
then grip him in your "knieve" and toss him ashore.
I remember, when a boy, carrying the splits for a servant of the family,
called Sam Wham. Now, Sam was an able young fellow, well-boned and
willing, a hard headed cudgel player, and a marvellous tough wrestler,
for he had a backbone like a sea serpent--this gained him the name of
the Twister and Twiner. He had got into the river, and with his back to
me was stooping over a broad stone, when something bolted from under the
bank on which I stood, right through his legs. Sam fell with a great
splash on his face, but in falling jammed whatever it was against the
stone. "Let go, Twister!" shouted I; "'Tis an otter, he will nip a
finger off you." "Whist!" sputtered he, as he slid his hand under the
water. "May I never read a text again if he isna a sawmont wi' a
shoulther like a hog!" "Grip him by the gills, Twister," cried I. "Saul
will I!" cried the Twiner; but just then there was a heave, a roll, a
splash, a slap like a pistol-shot: down went Sam, and up went the
salmon, spun like a shilling at a pitch-and-toss, six feet into the air.
I leaped in just as he came to the water, but my foot caught between
two stones, and the more I pulled the firmer it stuck. The fish fell
into the spot shallower than that from which he had leaped. Sam saw the
chance, and tackled to again; while I, sitting down in the stream as
best I might, held up my torch, and cried, "Fair play!" as, shoulder to
shoulder, through, out, and about, up and down, roll and tumble, to it
they went, Sam and the salmon. The Twister was never so twined before.
Yet, through cross-buttocks and capsizes innumerable, he still held on;
now haled through a pool; now haling up a bank; now heels over head; now
head over heels; now, head over heels together, doubled up in a corner;
but at last stretched fairly on his back, and foaming for rage and
disappointment; while the victorious salmon, slapping the stones with
its tail, and whirling the spray from its shoulders at every roll, came
boring and snoring up the ford. I tugged and strained to no purpose; he
flashed by me with a snort, and slid into deep water. Sam now staggered
forward with battered bones and pilled elbows, blowing like a grampus,
and cursing like nothing but himself. He extricated me, and we limped
home. Neither rose for a week; for I had a dislocated ankle, and the
Twister was troubled with a broken rib. Poor Sam! He had his brains
discovered at last by a poker in a row, and was worm's meat within three
months; yet, ere he died, he had the satisfaction of feasting on his old
antagonist, who was man's meat next morning. They caught him in a net.
Sam knew him by the twist in his tail.
Darby Doyle's Voyage to Quebec.
_From "The Dublin Penny Journal," 1832._
BY THOMAS ETTINGSALL (17----1850).