TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
This book is a collection of nineteen separate ‘Chap-books’, with
an introduction on the life of Dougal Graham.
The three Footnote anchors are denoted by [A], [B] and [C], and
they have been placed at the end of their section.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Many minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
John Cheap
The Chapman’s Library:
THE
_SCOTTISH CHAP LITERATURE_
OF LAST CENTURY, CLASSIFIED.
WITH LIFE OF DOUGAL GRAHAM.
COMIC AND HUMOROUS.
[Illustration: (a large asterisk)]
_GLASGOW_:
ROBERT LINDSAY, QUEEN STREET.
1877.
_CONTENTS._
The Life of Dougal Graham.
Witty Sayings and Exploits of George Buchanan.
Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Carew.
Daniel O’Rourke’s Voyage to the Moon.
The Comical Tricks of Lothian Tom, &c.
Comical History of the King and the Cobbler.
John Cheap, the Chapman.
Simple John and his Twelve Misfortunes.
The Wise Men of Gotham.
Mansie Waugh, Tailor in Dalkeith.
Jockey and Maggie’s Courtship.
The Coalman’s Courtship.
History of Buckhaven: Wise Willy and Witty Eppy.
The Dominie Deposed. Maggie Johnston’s Elegy.
A Groat’s Worth of Fun for a Penny.
The Comical Sayings of Paddy from Cork.
Fun upon Fun; or, Leper the Tailor, &c.
John Falkirk’s Cariches.
Grinning made Easy,--Funny Dick’s Jokes.
The Scotch Haggis; or, Choice Bon-Mots.
PREFACE.
A name is very often only a definition of a thing in one of its
aspects--generally the most obvious to ordinary observation,
though not always the most comprehensive or characteristic. The
name _Chap-book_ is an example of names of this class, and owes
its origin to the fact that the tracts which we now recognise
by it were first--and, indeed, during the whole time of their
circulation as popular literature--sold by chapmen, or pedlars.
With the extinction of these itinerants, the popular circulation of
chap-books has ceased; and it seemed as if--from the flimsy nature
of their get-up--this form of literature was about to vanish,
like the compositions of our earliest minstrels, when a taste for
collecting specimens sprung up among the curious in literature. To
meet the demand for _collections_ which the spread of this taste
originated, the present issue has been projected.
What purpose, it may be asked, does their preservation serve? Of no
class might this be more properly inquired than of the _Religious_,
which may be supposed to admit of less scope for originality of
treatment than any other; yet an examination of a few of the
tracts under this head soon shows us the popular creed in forms of
thought and illustration quite unexpected, and with a definiteness
and force the originality of which cannot be mistaken. The same
character, of course, applies in a more marked degree to classes
where the composer was less influenced by prepossessed ideas, and
where his only boundaries were the limits of his own imagination,
and the deference which he was careful to pay to the prejudices of
his readers.
That these carelessly got-up publications constituted the popular
literature of the peasantry and a large part of the urban
population of Scotland for about half a century, is a fact which
no student of our recent history will wisely ignore. They possess
one advantage over the sensational reading of the present day
penny journals, in that they represent the opinions and manners of
those who read them, and, consequently, have a truthfulness and
reality of which their London-manufactured substitutes are entirely
destitute. The Chap-book is a mirror of rural opinions and manners;
the Penny Sensational is only evidence of a vitiated popular taste.
These remarks are chiefly applicable to the chap-books of Scottish
production, which, along with those adopted from foreign sources,
but so naturalized as to language and characters as to pass for
productions of home growth--in reference to the purposes of this
issue--are by far the most important. Keeping this purpose in
view, there is no call here to apologise for their coarseness and
indelicacy, for which, on the score of taste and morals, from a
popular point of view, there is no defence; but their real value to
us consists in their being true delineations of the manners and
ways of thinking of low rural life, whose grossness was rather the
result of the buoyancy of animal vigour than of the indulgence of
vicious passions.
The English ones are very varied in character, and have been chosen
with considerable judgment, to suit the taste and understanding of
those for whom they were selected. Their circulation in Scotland
has been so large that we are justified in including them in a
collection of Scottish peasant literature.
The original Scottish chap-books attributed to the pen of Dougal
Graham are so decidedly superior, that a sketch of his life,
containing all that is known of him, has been considered the
most fitting introduction to the present issue. The earliest
literary inquiry into his history was made by Motherwell, the
poet, who contributed a sketch of him and his writings to the
_Paisley Magazine_ of January, 1829, based upon information
derived from George Caldwell, bookseller, Paisley, who knew Dougal
well, and was the chief publisher of his “penny histories.” Some
further information regarding him, and corrections of mistakes
in Motherwell’s article, are given in an appendix to the 1830
edition of M’Ure’s History of Glasgow, very possibly from the
pen of M’Vean, its publisher, who was a collector of Dougal’s
tracts. A more recent life of him--chiefly based on those already
mentioned--forms chap. iii. of _Scottish Chap-books_, by John
Fraser--a dissertation which brings into one view the gist of what
has been written on this subject by Scott, Motherwell, Strang,
Strathearn, and others.
That any other chapmen contributed to the series is not known, nor
very probable, if we except two or three pieces that have been
adopted from the writings of Wilson the ornithologist. That the
calling afforded excellent opportunities for observing country life
and manners is amply testified by those sketches of Graham’s, which
in their graphic pictures of low life and morals are unsurpassed,
unless in the _Jolly Beggars_. That a chapman’s opportunities
may be employed in observing the finer traits of humble life is
exemplified in the case of Alexander Laing of Brechin, whose
_Wayside Flowers_ contain touches of pathos, delicacy of sentiment,
and refinement of feeling that rank him as high above Dougal in
these respects as he is surpassed by him in force, breadth, and
keenness of wit and humour.
The present issue of the Chap-books is printed from plates that
have been used in producing the texts of chap circulation, and are
the veritable impressions of these, with “all their imperfections
on their heads.” The classification is an innovation, which, it
is expected, will at least please the studious collector; and the
extra margins, the want of which is the great difficulty in binding
stray collections, should be welcomed by all who dislike to see the
text stitched into the back of the binding.
THE LIFE
OF
DOUGAL GRAHAM.
It has been observed, by nearly every one who has written on the
subject of Scottish chap-books, that, as truthful delineations
of the manners and ways of thinking of native peasantry, they
excel those of most other nations. There is an equal unanimity
of opinion that this superiority of the Scottish chap-books is
due to the penetrating observation, the broad humour, and the
truthful adherence to nature of Dougal Graham--a genius of a
somewhat grotesque type, whose literary ambition it was to make his
writings “acceptable, especially, to those of common education”
like himself; and whose social aspirations were satisfied by the
appointment of _skellat_ bellman to the city of Glasgow.
Dougal was born in the small hamlet known by the Celtic name of
Raploch, situated at the western base of the romantic rock on which
stands Stirling Castle; and now in a most tumble-down condition,
characteristically abandoned to the natives of Erin. The exact
date of his birth is unknown, but is placed in or about the year
1724. Nothing is recorded of his boyhood and youth, except that
he learned no trade, it is said, on account of the poverty of his
parents, but probably as much on account of physical deformities,
which rendered him unsuitable for most mechanical labour. His
education does not appear to have gone beyond reading and writing;
for his composition shows no traces of his having been taught any
other grammar than that which regulates the conversation of the
class whose manners he so faithfully sketches. It is related that
he tried farm service for some time at Campsie, in the west of
Stirlingshire, but soon found it incompatible with his physical
constitution and the restlessness of his disposition.
If the date assigned to his birth be correct, he was only
twenty-one when the rebellion of 1745 awoke the martial ardour of
the youth of Scotland, and Dougal, notwithstanding his incapacity
for bearing arms, had his love of adventure fired by the popular
enthusiasm evoked by the romantic enterprise of “Prince Charlie.”
The Fords of Frew, on the Forth--the Rubicon crossed by the
Highland army in its march into the Lowlands--are only a few miles
to the west of Dougal’s birthplace; and it was here that he appears
to have embarked in the popular cause, with what purposes it would
be difficult to say. In his metrical History of the Rebellion,
although he writes in the first person, he makes no mention of any
adventures personal to himself; he records only what he saw, and
in the preface he says “that he had been an eye witness of most of
the movements of the Highland army from the crossing of the Fords
of Frew till the final defeat at Culloden.” Nor does he make any
allusion to the capacity in which he observed the movements of the
army; and, as it is every way improbable that he gave the Jacobites
any other assistance than that of sympathy, the conjecture almost
amounts to a certainty that he followed them as a sutler. He had
sufficient pride not to mention the fact in his writings; yet,
no doubt, a man of his genial and outspoken disposition must
often have referred to the incidents of his campaigning among
his boon companions. We are disposed to think, considering the
circumstances, that he must have been born earlier than 1724; for
the coolness and self-confidence, not to say the indifference,
with which he regarded the success or failure of either side,
the impartiality of his narrative, and, it is conjectured, his
dealing with either side, according as it suited his convenience
or his safety, argue greater experience of the world than could
reasonably be expected of a person of such limited education at
the age of twenty-one. It is true he was born within hearing of
the muster trumpet of Stirling Castle, and must, from his boyhood,
have been sufficiently familiar with the garrison exercises to
make him at home in the bustle of a camp; but there is the fact,
that, almost before the smoke of the rebellion was extinguished,
his metrical History, consisting of over five thousand lines,
Hudibrastic metre, is announced in the _Glasgow Courier_ as “A full
and particular account of the late rebellion, in the years 1745
and 1746, beginning with the Pretender’s embarking for Scotland,
and then, an account of every battle, siege, or skirmish that has
happened in either Scotland, or England; to which is added several
addresses and epistles to the Pope, Pagans, Poets, and Pretender;
all in metre; price fourpence.” After stating that any bookseller
of packman might have it on easier terms from James Duncan, or the
author, D. Graham, it is added:--“The like has not been done since
the days of David Lindsay.” The book appeared in September, 1746,
and has been so popular, that by 1828 it reached its twentieth
edition. The first edition is now supposed to be extinct; yet so
late as 1830 a copy was in the possession of Sir Walter Scott,
which he intended publishing, in facsimile, for the Maitland Club.
The statement in the advertisement, that dealers might have copies
from the author, points to his having a place of business or
residence in Glasgow; but this does not appear to have been the
case, then at least, for in the preface he tells his readers that
it was
“Composed by the Poet, Dougal Graham;
In Stirlingshire he lives at hame.”
The probability is that he made his father’s house at Raploch his
home, whence he started on his journeys, as a chapman, through the
counties of Stirling, Lanark, and Dumbarton, more rarely over the
three Lothians, and occasionally into Fifeshire. Glasgow would, of
course, be his purchasing market, which he would frequently visit
for replenishing his stock; and, while there, his resort would be
well known to his confrères in the “travelling line.” He continued
thus for several years, after the publication of his history,
compiling chap-books, and writing poems and songs, for which there
seems to have been an eager competition among the booksellers of
Glasgow, Paisley, Stirling and Falkirk, until, by his industry and
saving, he accumulated sufficient capital to set up a printing
office in the “Salt Mercat” of Glasgow.
Dougal did not make a fortune by his campaigning, any more than
the chiefs whose wake he generally followed; but he was at least
more fortunate than most of them, in getting back to where he might
begin. At first he appears to have encountered some hardships
for want of money, and, possibly from the dislike of Jacobitism,
and all who “_melled_ with the rebels,” for which Glasgow was
distinguished; and the exasperation caused by these difficulties he
ventilates on the heads of the Papists, to whom, with bad rhyme,
and worse reason, he attributes the general scarcity of money, and
his own in particular:
“You Papists are a cursed race,
And this I tell you to your face;
And your images of gold so fine,
Their curses fall on me and mine.
Likewise themselves at any rate,
For money now is ill to get.
I have run my money to an en’,
And have nouther paper nor pen
To write thir lines, the way you see me,
And there’s none for to supplie me.”
As may be inferred from his having soon after set up in business,
his finances did not remain long in the condition implied in the
above doggerel; and in 1752, in the preface to a second edition of
his History, he styles himself “merchant,” a title which ambitious
pedlars assumed on finding themselves progressing in business
and wealth, which many of them did, to the extent of making large
fortunes, and founding establishments whose present owners are
merchant princes of Glasgow.
Whether the phrase “me and mine” in the above quotation means
a wife and children, as it is usually understood, or dependent
parents, or whether mine is a mere expansion for rhyme’s sake,
is uncertain; for there is no authentic account of his having
ever married; but an advertisement which appeared in the _Glasgow
Journal_ of 14th June, 1764, _crying down the credit_ “of Jean
Stark, spouse of Dougal Graham, ale seller above the Cross,
Glasgow,” for having parted from her husband, has raised some
doubts about his having always retained his single blessedness.
There is, however, no other evidence than the coincidence of his
name with that of a less fortunate clansman, to identify the real
Dougal with the “ale seller above the Cross.” The fact that a
namesake was such, would naturally lead to a confounding of his
name with the better known of the two; and out of the confusion of
names would originate the tradition that Dougal the poet was Dougal
the ale seller.
When he learned printing, and the date of his setting up in that
art, in the Saltmarket, are not known. A second edition of his
“History of the Rebellion” having been published in 1752, it is
very natural to suppose that he learned type-setting and the
other details necessary for printing the class of publications
in which he dealt, during its progress through the press. Like
his better known predecessor, Ramsay, whom he resembled in many
traits of character, he relinquished the reputedly less respectable
profession as soon as he found that he could depend upon the more
dignified one of printer. It is obvious, also, that, to a person
of his constitution, travelling must have been attended with
difficulties which would create a strong desire to quit it as soon
as possible.
The next event in Dougal’s career of which we have any information,
and that which, it is most likely, he would himself consider the
crowning success of his life, is his appointment as bellman to
the city of Glasgow. Of this it might be thought that the date,
or a close approximation to it, might be found in some of the
public records of the city, for at that time the office was one
of considerable importance; and many duties connected with the
municipality, as the ringing of the Skellat bell and attending the
meetings of the Town Council, in the livery of his office, were
discharged by the bellman. The emoluments also were considerable,
for, besides his official salary of ten pounds, and many valuable
perquisites, the bellman was then the chief advertising medium. The
year 1772 is assigned as the most probable date of the election;
and as the candidates for the office were unusually numerous, the
competition was keener than ordinary. As the selection was to be
made after a public trial of the fitness of the candidates before
the magistrates, the arrangement was all in Dougal’s favour, for
he was just the man to undergo such an ordeal triumphantly. But
his connection with the Rebellion, and suspicions, not without
foundation, that he still sympathized with the Jacobite cause, were
election weapons not likely to be overlooked by his opponents, to
rouse the Hanoverianism of the magistrates against him, so that,
notwithstanding the toning down of political asperity, and Dougal’s
advances in popular favour, as a poet and a wit, it needed all his
address to overcome what George Caldwell, his Paisley publisher,
called the _ill brew_ (ill will) of the Glasgow bailies against
Highlanders and anybody that _melled_ (associated) with the rebels.
The trial of skill took place in the court behind the old Town’s
Hospital, near the Clyde; and the popular traditional account of
the event represents Dougal as the hero of the occasion. After the
other candidates had tried the strength of their lungs and the
reach of their voices on the announcement of “Fresh herrings at the
Broomielaw,” he sang out at the top of his voice, with simulated
gravity, in a manner that put them all in the shade--
“Caller herring at the Broomielaw,
Three a penny, three a penny.”
But remembering that it was not the season for fresh herring, he
added, with the comic confidence for which he was distinguished--
“But indeed, my friends, it is a’ a blawflum,
For the herring’s no catch’d and the boat’s no come.”
Dougal was elected unanimously, and the traditional fame of his
bellmanship leaves no doubt that he discharged the duties of the
office to the satisfaction of the magistrates, and the advantage
and entertainment of the public. He was imbued with all the love
of fun and drollery of an Irishman, and all the pawky sarcastic
humour, and independent sagacity of a Scot; and invariably drew
large crowds to hear his rhymed or otherwise queerly-worded
notices, to which his laugh-provoking manner gave additional point.
His appointment as bellman did not necessitate the giving up of his
business; and he still continued to write and print with unabated
vigour; indeed, some of the most popular productions of his pen are
assigned to this date. In 1774 he issued a third edition of his
_History of the Rebellion_, with “amendments,” and the addition of
“a description of the dangers and travels of the Pretender through
the Highland isles after the break at Culloden.” It extends to 189
pages, and contains plans of the battles of Prestonpans, Clifton,
Falkirk, and Culloden; with a full-length woodcut portrait of the
author, in his bellman costume, fronting the title-page; and bears
to have been printed by John Robertson, Glasgow. This edition,
there is every probability in supposing, was the last issued
during his lifetime, for between it and the second there is a
space of twelve years, and, allowing for his increased popularity,
six years is a short enough time to allow for the disposal of
it. We are unable to get any trace of the fourth--the third,
of which, probably, there was a much larger edition, being the
oftenest met with of the early editions; but the fifth, we learn
from Campbell’s History of Scottish Poetry, was issued by John
Robertson in 1787, eight years after the author’s death, and is,
no doubt, along with the fourth, a reprint of the third. Besides
the additions already indicated, this last has a new preface, very
much in Ramsay’s style, in which he gives his motives for having
written the book. “First, then, I have an itch for scribbling; and
having wrote the following for my pleasure, I had an ambition to
have this child of mine placed out in the world; expecting, if it
should thrive and do well, it might bring credit or comfort to the
parent. For it is my firm opinion that parental affection is as
strong towards children of the brain as those produced by ordinary
generation. I have wrote it in vulgar rhyme, being not only what
pleased my own fancy, but what I have found acceptable to the most
part of my countrymen, especially those of common education like
myself. If I have done well, it is what I should like; and if I
have failed, it is what mankind are liable to. Therefore, let
cavilers rather write a better one, than pester themselves and the
public with criticisms on my faults.”
The half-apologetic reason for having written in vulgar rhyme,
coupled with the addenda in the advertisement of the first
edition, “the like has not been done since the days of David
Lindsay,” almost lead to the inference that he was acquainted with
Lindsay’s works; while the reference to “those of common education
_like myself_,” does not support the assertion that “he got no
education.” The disappearance of the first and second editions
makes it impossible to ascertain the extent of the “amendments”
which he made on their texts; but they are said to be in the
way of toning down the Jacobite leanings, in deference to the
Hanoverianism of his patrons, the Glasgow magistrates. On this is
founded a charge of trimming, which, the impossibility presently
existing of comparing the two texts, prevents our either verifying
or refuting. We must therefore suspend our judgment until a copy of
either of the lost editions turns up--if that should ever happen.
Meanwhile, it may be observed that the edition “amended,” as he
himself calls it, was published two years after his appointment as
bellman, and could no way influence his preference to that office.
If made in remembrance of past favours, it at least shows a sense
of gratitude; but this is proverbially not a strong motive; and as
to future favours, there is every reason to think that Dougal’s
ambition in that direction was already satisfied. If we also take
into consideration that the History was written when he was little
over twenty-one, and published within a few months of the last and
misguided struggle of the clans, too soon to admit of the events
truthfully recorded being impartially judged, and before the lapse
of time admitted of their being seen in their true bearings, that,
nearly thirty years afterwards, “amendments” were made on some of
his early judgments, need excite no suspicion that they went beyond
the real change in his convictions.
We have no wish to claim for Dougal, and it would be unfair to
exact of him a high moral standard: he had been all his life
too much under the stern discipline of circumstances, and saw
too much of its levelling effects to have retained--if he ever
possessed--any sympathy for that scrupulosity of thought and
conduct which constitutes a high principled character. But we
see nothing in his behaviour which betrays any lack of spirit or
independence; the quotations from his preface are the expression
of sober self-respect, without egotism; conveyed in quaint, but
appropriate language, and full of good common sense.
We have dwelt upon the “_History of the Rebellion_,” not because we
think it the greatest--though by far the largest of his works--but,
because its history is almost the only authentic nucleus round
which the events of his life cluster; the only “child of his
brain,” of which he himself acknowledges the fatherhood. For
this reason, and because of the disappearance of first editions,
it has been found impossible to determine the date, or even his
authorship, of many popular chap-books ascribed to his pen.
Fortunately, the authorship of the best of them rests upon the
authority of Motherwell the poet, whose information, derived, as
it is, direct from his “intelligent” friend, George Caldwell, the
chief publisher of Dougal’s “_Penny Histories_,” is of the most
reliable kind. His article in the _Paisley Magazine_ of January,
1829, on “Dougald Graham” being the stimulus and groundwork of all
subsequent investigations on the subject.
The incidents of Dougal’s official life being committed to the
keeping of tradition, have faded out of public memory with the
generation whose sides were tickled by his jokes; but a list of
his chap-books made by Motherwell, lets us see how he employed
his literary leisure, and the date of publication of the last
but one on the list, brings us to the date of his exit from the
scene which his pen and his voice helped so much to enliven. It
is generally agreed that “_Jockie and Maggie’s Courtship_” is the
first of his original prose compositions; and that it was written
some time after his having set up in business as a printer. He
appears to have previously devoted his pen entirely to the service
of the poetic muses; and is the originator of those comic, but
harmless satires on the simplicity and imperfect English of
Highlanders, of which his _John Hielandman_ and _Turnimspike_ are
the prototypes. But, like his greater countryman, and it may be
added, his greatest extinguisher, Scott--and much about the same
age--after he had worked out the poetic vein, he discovered a prose
one, equally prolific, and of richer ore; but of which, like the
“Great Unknown,” he preferred to be the unknown excavator. It is an
odd coincidence that, like Scott, too, he frequently wrote under
cognomens, as _John Falkirk_, or _The Scots Piper_. The following
is Motherwell’s list of his prose tracts, with the dates of the
earliest editions which he was able to obtain:--_Leper the Tailor_,
Part II. only, being a first edition.
1. _Jockie and Maggie_, five parts, 1783; 2. _Paddy from Cork_,
1784; 3. _Lothian Tom_, six parts, 1793; 4. _John Cheap_ (The
Chapman), three parts, 1786; 5. _John Falkirk_, 1779; 6. _John
Falkirk’s Cariches_; 7. _Janet Clinker’s Orations_; sometimes
published under the title of _Granny M’Nab’s Lectures in the
Society of Clashing Wives_; 8. _Leper the Tailor_, parts I.
and II., 1779; 9. _Simple John and His Twelve Misfortunes_.
Motherwell is of opinion that _George Buchanan_, _The Coalman’s
Courtship_, and the _History of Buckhaven_, are his also; and
questions the existence of any of them before his time. These
three are also found attributed to him by M’Vean, a Glasgow
antiquarian bookseller, in a MS. list of Dougal’s publications
quoted by Dr Strang,[A] which, in addition to those in Motherwell’s
list, contains: _The History of the Haverel Wives_, _The Grand
Solemnity of the Tailor’s Funeral_, &c.; _The Remarkable Life and
Transactions of Alexander Hamwinkle_, &c.; _The Dying Groans of
Sir John Barleycorn_, &c.; _A Warning to the Methodist Preachers_;
_A Second Warning to the Methodist Preachers_. Mr Fraser, who has,
perhaps, given more consideration to the subject than any of his
predecessors, besides having the benefit of their labours,[B] gives
a classified list of his publications under four heads.
1. _The Works of Dougal Graham._ 2. _Works Probably Written by
Graham._ 3. _Works Compiled or Edited by Graham._ 4. _Works
attributed to Graham._ Under the first head he adopts Motherwell’s
list, substituting for _Paddy from Cork_ and _Simple John_,
_The Coalman’s Courtship_, and _Simple Tam_, which is the Scotch
introduction to _Simple John_; and adding, _The Grand Solemnity of
the Tailor’s Funeral_, _Turnimspike_, _John Hielandman_, _Proverbs
on the Pride of Women_, and _The History of the Haverel Wives_.
Under the second he gives: _Dugald M’Taggart_, in verse; _Verses on
the Popular Superstitions of Scotland_; _Rythmical Dialogue between
the Pope and the Devil_; _An Epitaph on the Third Commandment_;
_Alexander Hamwinkle_; _Warning to the Methodist Preachers_; and
_A Second Warning_. Under the third he places _Paddy from Cork_;
_Simple John_; _John Falkirk_; and _John Falkirk’s Cariches_;
and under the fourth, _Sir John Barleycorn_; _The History of
Buckhaven_; and _Verses on the Pride of Women_; he should also have
added _George Buchanan_. Of the _History of Buckhaven_; _George
Buchanan_; and _Simple John_, except the Scotch introduction,
Mr Fraser thinks it extremely improbable, judging from internal
evidence, that they were composed by Graham, though he may have
sold them to the publishers as his own composition. “For,” he adds,
regarding the two first, “there is not a single sentence in either
of them that might not have been written by anyone else.” Then why
not by Graham? We wonder whether Mr Fraser has read the _History of
Buckhaven_ through, or whether he is thinking of some other tract.
What Mr Fraser says as to their facetiæ--including that of _Paddy
from Cork_--being found in the facetiæ of almost every country
in Europe, may be true--as Motherwell also states in almost the
same words; but Mr Fraser does not contend for originality in the
incidents, if the composition be imbued with the national spirit
and adapted to the manner of thought and language of Scotchmen.
_George Buchanan_ is thoroughly Scotch in spirit, and its language
is such as an ordinary Scotchman of common education would use
in writing of events that happened out of Scotland, and where
the use of his native dialect was inappropriate. The same may
be said--of the language only--of _Paddy from Cork_, which Mr
Fraser places under the third head, and we see no improbability
in the composition of both tracts being Graham’s. Mr Fraser seems
to forget that Dougal could write in other styles than that of
_Jockie and Maggie_--that, no doubt, is his best--but his preface
to the third edition of his History, _Turnimspike_, &c., and
his denunciations of the Papists, display a versatility as to
style which makes it difficult to except almost anything in chap
literature from his authorship.
_Leper the Tailor_, Part II. (as has been already observed), the
only first edition in Motherwell’s list, bears date 1779; and on
the 20th July, of that year, Dougal died (if the date of his birth
given be correct) at the age of 55,[C] and while his literary
powers were in unabated vigour. The cause of his death is not
recorded, and no obituary of him appeared in any of the local
papers of the time; but an elegy “On the much-lamented Death of
the Witty Poet and Bellman,” from the pen of some unknown admirer,
has been preserved. We quote two stanzas which bear contemporary
evidence to his humanity and wit:
“Ye mothers fond! Oh! be not _blate_
To mourn poor Dougal’s hapless fate;
Oft times, you know, he did you get
Your wandered _weans_;
To find them out both _air_ and late
He spared no pains.”
“Of witty jokes he had such store,
Johnson could not have pleased you more;
Or, with loud laughter, made you roar
As he could do;
He still had something ne’er before
Exposed to view.”
To judge Dougal’s character by any fastidious
standard of manners and morals would be unfair; but,
making a reasonable allowance for the unfavourable
nature of the times, and his surroundings, there is
nothing known of him inconsistent with the character of
a well-intentioned, self-respecting citizen; who thought
it no sin to make his lines pleasanter for himself, by
contributing to the enjoyment of his fellow-countrymen.
His _History of the Rebellion_ abounds with instances
of the fairness and impartiality of his judgment,
and the humanity of his sentiments; and is
full of examples of his quaint and grotesque,
yet mostly shrewd reflections on events which he
seldom fails to place distinctly before his readers.
Dr Robert Chambers, whose opinion, as the writer of
an excellent history of the Rebellion, is entitled to
all respect, in his _Lives of Eminent Scotsmen_, says of
it:--“The poetry is of course in some cases a little
grotesque, but the matter of the work is valuable. It
contains--and in this consists the chief value of all
such productions--many minute facts, which a work
of more pretensions would not admit.”
Sir Walter Scott, writing to Dr Strang, of Glasgow,
in 1830, in reference to his notice of Graham, says:--“Neither
had I the least idea of his being the
author of so much of our Bibliotheque Blue as you
ascribe to him, embracing, unquestionably, several
coarse, but excessively meritorious, pieces of popular
humour. The _Turnimspike_, alone, was sufficient to
entitle him to immortality. I had in my early life a
great collection of these chap books, and had six
volumes of them bought before I was ten years old,
comprehending most of the rare and curious of our
popular tracts.” Motherwell, besides calling him the
“Scottish Rabelais” and the “Vulgar Juvenal of his
age,” in the article already referred to, reviewing his
history and his tracts, says:--“However slightingly
we esteem his metrical power, we really believe he
has conscientiously and honestly detailed the events
that came under his observation. It is not, however,
on the merits of this work that Graham’s fame rests.
Had he written only it, we believe he never would
have occupied our thoughts for a moment; but as one
who, subsequently, contributed largely to the amusement
of the lower classes of his countrymen, we love
to think of the facetious bellman. To his rich vein
of gross comic humour, laughable and vulgar description,
great shrewdness of observation, and strong
though immeasurably coarse sense, every one of us,
after getting out of toy books and fairy tales, has
owed much. In truth, it is no exaggeration, when we
state that he who desires to acquire a thorough
knowledge of low Scottish life, vulgar manners, national
characteristics, and popular jokes, must devote his days
and nights to the study of _John Cheap, the Chapman_,
&c., &c., &c., all the productions of Dougal’s fertile
brain, and his unwearied application to the cultivation of
vulgar literature. To refined taste Dougal had no
pretensions. His indelicacy is notorious, his coarseness
an abomination, but they are characteristic of the
class for whom he wrote. He is thoroughly imbued
with the national humours and peculiarities of his
countrymen of the humblest class; and his pictures of
their manners, modes of thinking, and conversation,
are always sketched with a strong and faithful pencil.
Indeed, the uncommon popularity his chap books
have acquired, entitles them in many a point of view
to the regard of the moralist and the literary historian.
We meet them on every stall and in every cottage.
They are essentially the library of entertaining knowledge
to our peasantry; and have maintained their
ground in the affections of the people, notwithstanding
the attempt of religious, political, or learned associations
to displace them by substituting more elegant
and wholesome literature in their stead.” It is now
about fifty years since Motherwell wrote the article
quoted; and the _Waverley Novels_, _Chambers’ Journal_,
and _The Tales of the Borders_ have accomplished what
the religious and learned societies failed in doing.
Of Dougal’s personal appearance some particulars
have been already noted, but an edition of _John
Falkirk’s Cariches_, which appeared soon after his
death, contains a prefatory notice, in which, under the
cognomen of _John Falkirk_, commonly called the
_Scots Piper_, the popular contemporary ideal of him
is given as “a curious, little, witty fellow, with a
round face and a broad nose. None of his companions
could answer the many witty questions he
proposed to them--therefore he became the wonder
of the age in which he lived. Being born of mean
parents, he got no education; therefore, his witty
invention was truly natural; and being bred to no
business, he was under the necessity of using his
genius in the composition of several small books, of
which the following Cariches was one, which he disposed
of for his support.”
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Glasgow and its Clubs.
[B] Scottish Chap-Books, by John Fraser, New York, 1873.
[C] Motherwell calculates his age to have been 65, supposing him to
have lived to 1787.
THE
WITTY AND ENTERTAINING
EXPLOITS OF
GEORGE BUCHANAN,
COMMONLY CALLED
THE KING’S FOOL.
[Illustration]
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
THE
WITTY EXPLOITS
OF
MR GEORGE BUCHANAN.
PART I.
Mr. George Buchanan was a Scotsman born, and though of mean
parentage, made great progress in learning. As for his
understanding and ready wit he excelled all men then alive in the
age, that ever proposed questions to him. He was servant or teacher
to king James the VI., and one of his private counsellors; but
publicly acted as his fool.
1. It happened one day that a young airy nobleman went into the
king’s garden to pull a flower for a young lady he fancied; George
followed at a distance, so when the young man found a flower he
fancied, he would not pull it himself, but to find it again,
without farther search, he covered it with his hat, and went away
for his sweatheart. No sooner was he gone, but up goes George,
lifts his hat, and pulls the flower, then eases himself on the
spot, covers it with the hat again, and away he goes. Soon after,
the young gentleman returned, leading his sweatheart to pull the
flower below the hat; but as soon as he lifted the hat, and saw
what was below it, he looked like a fool; and the lady flying in
a passion, sets off, and would never countenance him any more.
The young gentleman being sadly vexed an this affront given to him
by George, sent him a challenge to fight him, appointing day and
place where they were to meet. Being to fight on horseback, George
gets an old stiff horse, and for harnessing, covers him about with
blown bladders, with small stones in each, without either sword or
spear; and away to the field he goes, where the duel was appointed.
So when George saw his enemy coming against him, all in glittering
armour, armed with sword and spear, he made up to him with all
the speed his horse could carry him; when the small stones in the
bladders made such a rattling noise, that the gentleman’s fine
gelding would not stand the battle, but ran away, and threw his
master to the ground: which caused all the spectators to laugh,
and say, the gentleman was more fool than George. The gentleman
being still more enraged at this second affront, he would fight
with George on foot; but his friends persuaded him that it would
be no honour for him to fight and kill the king’s fool; and far
less to be killed by the fool. So they were advised both to agree.
But the gentleman would try another exploit with George, for to
have it said he was still the cleverest man, viz:--To hold him a
jumping-bout publickly, the next day thereafter. With all my heart,
says George, and we will end in and about where we began, they not
knowing his meaning in this. The place and hour being set, where
they were to meet next morning. George in the night-time, caused a
deep pit to be made, and the earth of it carried away; then filled
it up with dung from a p----, and covered it over with a green
turf, that it might not be known by the other ground. So, according
to promise, they both met in the morning against the appointed
time. Now, George being the oldest man, and by them counted the
greatest fool, the young spark permitted him to jump first, which
he according to order did, and jumped within a foot of the place
where the ground was falsified. The young man seeing this, made
his performance with great airs, and all his might, so that he
jumped a foot over George, but, up to the oxters among clean dung!
whereat, the whole multitude of spectators cried out with huzzas
and laughter. Now, says George, I told you we would end in and
about where we began, and that is in clean dirt.
2. On a time after this, the king and his court were going into
the country, and they would have George to ride before them in the
fool’s dress; whereunto he seemed unwilling, but it was the king’s
pleasure. So George was mounted upon an old horse, with a pair of
old riven boots, the heels hanging down, and a palmer coat, patched
over with pictures of divers kinds. George rode before them in this
posture which caused great laughter and diversion, until they came
to an inn, where they alighted to dine, and in the time they were
at dinner, George went into the stables, and with a knife cut all
their horses’ chafts, not sore, but so as they might bleed. Now, as
soon as dinner was over, and they mounted on their horses again,
George riding before them as usual, in his palmer coat and old
boots, they began to make their game of him: then George turning
about suddenly, and clapping his hands with a loud laughter, the
king asked him what made him laugh so? Laugh, says George, how can
I but laugh, when horses cannot hold their peace? O my sovereign,
says he, don’t you see how your horses have rent their chafts
laughing at my old boots! Then, every man looking at his horse’s
mouth, they were all in a rage against George. The king, causing
George to dismount directly, and charged him never to let him
see his face on English ground. Now, George knowing that nothing
could reconcile the king at this time, he came away to Scotland,
and caused them to make a pair of great boots, and put a quantity
of Scottish earth in each of them, and away he goes for London, to
see the king once more. He hearing the king and his court was to
pass through a town, George places himself up in an old window, and
sets up his bare a----, to the king and his court as they passed.
The king being greatly amazed to see such an unusual honour done
to him, was curious to know the performer: so he called unto him,
desiring him to come down; and finding it to be George, sir, says
the king, did not I charge you never to let me see your face again?
True my sovereign, says George, for which cause I let you see my
a----. But says the king, you was never to come on English ground
again. Neither I did, says George, pulling off his boots before the
king, behold, my Sovereign, it is all Scots earth I stand upon. The
king and his court being greatly diverted with this merry joke,
George was admitted again to the king’s favour.
3. After this there arose a debate betwixt the king and the queen
about votes in the parliament; as the king had two votes, the
queen would have one, and would needs be a parliamenter, or no
peace without preferment. This matter was committed to George by
the king; so it was agreed among the parliamenters, that the queen
should be admitted into parliament for a day. Accordingly she came,
and was received with all the honour and congratulations that
was due and becoming her high station: but before any matter of
consequence was brought to the board, George seated himself hard
by the queen’s seat; all being silent, he rose up very quickly,
lifted one of his legs, let a loud f----t, which set the whole
house a-laughing; whereat the queen was greatly offended, and said,
go, take the rogue and hang him, to which George answered, a fine
parliamenter indeed, to hang a man for a sinless infirmity, and
that’s a f----t. The queen being enraged at the affront put on her
first appearance in parliament, went off in a passion, and never
would countenance them more. But yet to be revenged on George, she
would never give the king rest, till he delivered George into her
hands, that he might be punished at her pleasure; which the king
accordingly commanded to be done, knowing that George would rescue
himself by some intrigue or other. No sooner was he delivered into
her hands, but she and her maids of honour pronounced his doom,
which was as follows:--As he had affronted the queen among so great
an equipage, who ought to be honoured in chief above all women
in the nation, that he should be stoned to death by the hands of
women. Now the time being come that he had to die, according to
their appointment, he was taken into a park, where a great number
of women were waiting for him, with their aprons full of stones,
to fall upon him, and put him to death according to the queen’s
appointment.
GEORGE’S SPEECH TO HIS EXECUTIONERS.
Here’s a female band with bags of stones
To kill a man for rumple groans:
I’m clean of rapine, blood, and thefts,
Could I convert my f----s to rifts?
Since I, the first for f----s do die,
Close up the place from whence they fly,
To commit my crime, I think ye’ll scarce,
If once you do cork up your a----.
And now since women stones do carry,
Men need not in the world tarry,
Judge if such women be chaste complete,
With forty stones between their f----;
But since ’tis so ye will come on,
The greatest w---- throw the first stone.
When he had ended with these words, “The greatest w---- throw the
first stone,” every one put it to another to cast the first stone,
but knowing they would attain the character of a w---- for so
doing, they all refused till the dying hour was past, and then he
took a protest against them, and by that means he gained his life.
After this he was admitted into the queen’s favour and presence,
and attended the court as formerly.
4. About this time, the French king, in order to pick a quarrel
with the court of Britain, sent a letter to the king, desiring it
to be read before the parliament: and the writing was as follows;
“Will I come? Will I come? Will I come?”--This letter being read
before the king and his courtiers, they all concluded that the
French king designed to invade England; therefore they ordered
an answer to be wrote, upbraiding him with the breach of peace,
and putting him in mind of the last treaty. The answer being read
before the king and his nobles, they all agreed that it should be
sent off. But George, smiling, and shaking his head, cried out,
Many men, many minds,
Who knows what he designs?
Then they asked George what the French king meant by such a letter?
to which he answered, I suppose he wants an invitation to come
over to dine with you, and then return in a friendly manner; but
you are going to charge him with a breach of peace, before he has
given any signal of offence or war: his letter is indeed dark and
mystical, but send him an answer according to his question. Now,
George being ordered to write the answer, it was as follows:--“And
ye come--And ye come--And ye come.” This being sent to the French
king, he admired it beyond expression, saying, it was an answer
more valiant and daring than he expected. So the enmity he intended
was extinguished, and turned into love.
5. It happened once, that a malignant party in Scotland sent up a
great spokesman to the king and parliament, for the reducing of the
church; George hearing of his coming, went away and met him on the
bridge, and the salutation that he gave him was the cutting off his
head, and throwing it over the bridge! He then ran to the king with
all his might, and fell down before him, pleading most heartily for
a pardon, or without it he was a dead man. The king most seriously
asked him what he had done now? To which he answered, he had only
thrown the Scots Bishop’s hat over the bridge, which made the king
to laugh, to hear him ask pardon for such a small fault; but he had
no sooner got the pardon sealed by the king’s hand, than he said,
indeed my sovereign, I threw his hat over the bridge, but his head
was in it. O Geordie, Geordie, says the king, thou wilt never give
over till thou be hanged.
6. A nobleman in England agreed with the king how to put a trick
upon George, to try his manly courage, in sending him to a certain
place for a bag of money. On his way home, through St James’ park,
they caused a sturdy fellow to go and set upon him by the way, and
take the money from him. The fellow being armed with sword and
pistol, came up quickly, and attacked George with these words, You,
sir, deliver what money you have, or you are a dead man. To which
George answered, sir, I have some indeed, but ’tis not my own, and
therefore do not like to part with it: nevertheless, since being
determined as you are, to exchange blows for it, pray do me the
favour to fire your pistol through the flap of my cloak, that the
owners may see I have been in danger of my life before I parted
with it, which he accordingly did. No sooner had he fired the
pistol, than George whipt out his hanger from below his cloak and
with one stroke cut off his right hand, wherein he held his sword,
so that both his sword and the hand fell to the ground; but George
lifted his hand and carried it to the king. No sooner did he come
before them, but they asked him, saying, well, George, did you see
any body to trouble you by the way? None, said he, but one fellow,
who was going to take the money from me, but I made him give me his
hand he would not do the like again. You did? says the fellow’s
master. Yes, I did, says George; let work bear witness, throwing
down the fellow’s hand on the table before them all.
7. Now, this last exploit of George’s caused many of the English
to hate him; and, among the rest, a young nobleman fell a joking
of George, saying, he would be as famous a champion for Scotland
as Sir William Wallace was. Ay, ay, says George, Wallace was a
brave man in his time.--True indeed, says the young nobleman, but
when he came to London, we did him all manner of justice, and for
honour of the Scots, we have his effigy in the s---- to this very
day. And do you know the reason of that, says George? No, I don’t,
says he. Well, I’ll tell you, says George: he was such a terror
to Englishmen, when he was alive, that the sight of his picture
yet makes them p---- themselves. The English took this answer as a
great affront, and forthwith caused Wallace’s picture to be taken
out of all their s----.
8. A young English girl falling in love with a Scotchman, she
petitioned him several times for to marry her: which he refused.
So, to be revenged on him, she went to a Justice, and swore a rape
against him, which is death by the law. George hearing of this,
went to the prison where the young man was, and instructed him how
to behave before the judge. So in the time of the trial George
came in while the judge was crying to the man, but never a word
he could get him to answer, to tell whether he was guilty or not.
After the justice had given him over for deaf and dumb, others fell
a shouting in his ears, but never a word he would speak. Then the
judge, perceiving George, called him, saying, George, do you know
what is the matter with this man? Yes, I do very well, says George.
What is it? says the judge. Why, says George, the woman made such a
noise and crying when he was ravishing her, it has put the poor man
quite deaf, I assure you. Is it so? says the justice. No, no, says
the woman, my Lord Justice, you may believe me, I lay as mute as
a lamb, and never spoke a word all the time. Very well confessed,
said the justice, and you have sworn a rape upon him. Take the
w---- to prison, and let the poor man go about his business, and so
it ended.
PART II.
George happened one time to be in company with a bishop, and so
they fell to dispute anent education, and he blanked the bishop
remarkably, and the bishop himself owned he was worsted.--Then
one of the company addressed himself to him in these words: thou,
Scot, said he, should not have left thy country. For what? says he,
because thou has carried all the wisdom that is in it thither with
thee. No, no, says he, the shepherds in Scotland will dispute with
any bishop in London, and exceed them very far in education. The
bishops then took this as an affront, and several noblemen affirmed
it to be as the Scot had said: bets were laid on each side, and
three of the bishops were chosen, and sent away to Scotland to
dispute it with the shepherds, accompanied with several others,
who were to bear witness of what they should hear pass between
them. Now, George knowing which way they went, immediately took
another road and was in Scotland before them. He then made an
acquaintance with a shepherd on the border whose pasture lay on
the wayside where the bishops were to pass: and there he mounted
himself in shepherd’s dress: and when he saw the bishops appear,
he conveyed his flock to the roadside, and fell a chanting at a
Latin ballad. When the bishops came up to George, one of them asked
him in French what o’clock it was? To which he answered in Hebrew,
it is directly about the time of the day it was yesterday at this
time. Another asked him, in Greek, what countryman he was? To which
he answered in Flemish, if ye knew that, you would be as wise as
myself. A third asked him, in Dutch, where was you educated? To
which he answered, in Earse, herding my sheep between this and
Lochaber. This they desired him to explain into English, which he
immediately did. Now, said they one to another, we need not proceed
any farther. What, says George, are you butchers? I’ll sell you a
few sheep. To this they made no answer, but went away shamefully,
and said, they believed the Scots had been through all the nations
in the world for their education, or the devil had taught them.
Now, when George had ended this dispute with the bishops, he
stripped off his shepherd’s dress, and up through England he goes,
with all the haste imaginable, so that he arrived at the place from
whence they set out, three days before the judges, and went every
day asking if they were come, so that he might not be suspected.
As soon as they arrived, all that were concerned in the dispute,
and many more, came crowding in, to hear what news from the
Scottish shepherds, and to know what was done. No sooner had the
three gentlemen declared what had past between the bishops and the
shepherds, whom they found on the Scots border, but the old bishop
made answer, and think you, said he, that a shepherd could answer
these questions? It has been none else but the devil; for the Scots
ministers themselves could not do it; they are but ignorant of such
matters, a parcel of beardless boys. Then George thought it was
time to take speech in hand. Well, my lord bishop, says George, you
call them a parcel of ignorant beardless boys. You have a great
long beard yourself, my lord bishop, and if grace were measured
by beards, you bishops and the goats would have it all, and that
will be quite averse to Scripture. What, says the bishop, are you
a Scot? Yes, says George, I am a Scot. Well, says the bishop,
and what is the difference between a Scot and a sot? Nothing at
present, says George, but the breadth of the table, there being a
table betwixt the bishop and George. So the bishop went off in a
high passion, while the whole multitude were like to split their
jaws with laughter.
2. About this time there was an act of parliament for the benefit
of murderers, that any person, who committed murder, if they
forfeited five hundred marks, which went under the name of Kinboot,
because, so much of this went to the murdered person’s nearest
relations, as the price of blood, the murderer got a remit. Now
George knowing this to be contrary to Moses’ laws, was very much
grieved to see so many pardons sealed by the king’s hand for
murder, almost one every week; it being so usual for the king to
subscribe them, that he would not read them, nor enquire what they
were; for which cause, George writes a writ to the crown, and
sent it to the king to be subscribed, which he actually did, and
never looked what it was, returned it to George. No sooner had he
received it, but he goes to the king and told him it was not time
for him to be sitting there, whereat, the king greatly amazed,
started up; then George in great haste, sets himself down in the
king’s chair, forthwith declaring himself king, saying, you who
was king must be my fool, for I am now the wisest man. The king
at this was greatly offended, until George shewed him his seal
and superscription. But from that day forth the king knew what he
subscribed.
3. The next pardon that came to be sealed by the king, was a
gentleman who had killed two men before, and had got pardons for
them by money. This being the third, the king was very silent in
looking over the petition: George standing by, asked the king what
he was going to seal now? To which he answered, it is a remit for a
man who has killed three men at sundry times, I gave him two remits
before. O! says George; he has killed but one man. And who killed
the other two says the king. You did, says George, for if you had
given him justice when he had killed the first, he had killed no
more. When the king heard these words he threw down the pen, and
declared that such an act to save a murderer, should be null ever
after by him.
4. One day, George having no money, he goes away and gets a pick
and a spade, and then falls a digging at a corner of the king’s
palace; which the king perceiving from his window, calls what he
was wanting there? Are you going to undermine my house, and make
it fall? No, my sovereign, says George, but it is verily reported
that there is plenty of money about this house, and where can it
be? says George, I cannot find it, for it is not within the house
to do me service, then surely it must be below it. O George! says
the king, that is a crave after the new fashion, what money you
want I’ll order for you. Then, my sovereign, says George, I’ll dig
no more.
5. One time George being in the country, he came to an inn, where
he alighted to refresh himself and his horse. The innkeeper charged
him double price for every thing he called for.--George never
grumbled at this, but gave him all demands, and away he goes on
his journey. At the inn where he quartered the following night
he was used after the same manner, if not worse. Having little
farther to go, he returned next day, and came that night to the inn
where he refreshed himself the day before. So, when he alighted,
the boy asked him what he would give his horse? What you will,
said he. When he had gone to his room, the waiter enquired what
he would have to drink? What you will, says he. The master of the
inn came into his room before supper, and enquired what he would
have for supper? What you will landlord, says he. After supper,
and a hearty bowl to put all over, he went to bed. On the morrow,
he rose very early, and called for the boy to make ready his horse
in all haste, for he was designed to mount and go directly. Soon
after, he went into the stable where the boy was, calling for his
horse, when he mounted with all the speed he could, and gave the
boy a piece of money, saying, here my boy, this is for taking care
of my horse; I have paid for all I have ordered in the house, and
off he goes. About mid-day he alighted again at an inn to refresh
himself and his horse, and there he chanced to be in company with
his other landlord where he was the night before, and charged him
with the double reckoning: so he addressed himself to him in the
following manner.--Sir, says he, I do believe I was in your house
yesternight; O yes Sir, says he, I mind of you pretty well. And
where was you last night? Last night, says George, I was in one of
the finest inns, and the civilest landlord I ever had in my life:
they brought all things that I stood in need of unto me, without
calling for them; and when I came off this morning, they charged me
nothing, and I paid nothing but sixpence to the boy for dressing my
horse.--Blood and wounds! said the old fellow, then I’ll go there
this night. Ay, says George, do; and mind this, when they ask you
what you will have for yourself and your horse, answer nothing but
What you will, Sir. George smiling within himself, to think how he
had got the one extortioner to take amends of the other. So this
innkeeper set off on his journey, and rode so late that night that
he might reach the cheap inn, that most of the people were gone to
bed before he arrived. As soon as he dismounted from his horse,
the boy enquired at him, What shall I give your horse, master? To
which he answered, What you will, boy. The boy hearing this, runs
away, (leaving him and his horse to stand at the door,) up stairs
to his master’s room, crying, master, master, What-you-will is come
again:--O the rogue, cries he, where is he?--I’ll cane him--I’ll
what you will him by and by. Then to him he runs with his cane,
licks, and kicks him until he was scarce able to mount his horse,
and would give him no entertainment there, which caused him to
ride the whole of a cold winter night, after he had got his bones
all beat and bruised. So the one pursued the other as a murderer;
and his defence was, that he was a cheat and a scorner of his
house, until the truth was found out.
6. About this time, the French king sent, and demanded from the
king of England, three men of different qualities. The first was
to be a mighty strong man; the second a very wise man; and the
third, a very great fool; so that he might have none in all France
to match them. So, accordingly, there were two men chosen; the one
a strong man, and the other a very wise man, but George was to act
as the fool; nevertheless he was the teacher of the other two. On
their way to France George asked the strong man, what will you
answer the French king, when he asks if you be a strong man? Why,
says he, I’ll say I am. Then, says George, he’ll possibly get a
stronger man than you, who will kill you, and affront your country:
what shall I say then, said the strong man?--Why, says George, tell
him you are strong enough untried. Then said he to the wise man,
and what will you say to the king when he asks if you are a wise
man? Why, I’ll tell him I am, and answer him all the questions I
know:--Very well, says George, but what if he asks you what you
do not know? then you’ll affront your country, and be looked upon
as a greater fool than me: well, and what shall I answer then?
said the wise man. Why, says George, tell him he is only a wise
man that can take care of himself: and I shall come in after you,
and take care of you altogether. As soon as they arrived at the
king of France’s palace, the king sent for them, to try them. The
strong man was first called for, and in he went; then the king
asked him if he was a strong man? to which he answered, O king! I
am strong enough untried. Very well, said the king. After him the
wise man was called; and the king asked him if he was a wise man?
to which he answered, he is only a wise man that can take care of
himself. Very well, says the king. On which, George pushed up the
door, and in he went with loud laughter, and p---- directly in his
Majesty’s face, which blinded both his eyes, and put the whole
court in amaze. Now, now, said his Majesty, it is true enough what
the wise man says, for if I had taken care of myself, I need not
have been p---- upon by the English fool. O ho, says George, fools
always strive to make fools of others, but wise men make fools of
themselves. By this, his Majesty seemed to think he was made the
greatest fool, and charged them to go home, for he wanted no more
of England’s strength, wisdom, or folly.
7. One night, a Highland drover chanced to have a drinking-bout
with an English captain of a ship, and at last they came to be
very hearty over their cups, so that they called in their servants
to have a share of their liquor. The drover’s servant looked like
a wild man, going without breeches, stockings, or shoes, not so
much as a bonnet on his head, with a long peeled rung in his hand.
The captain asked the drover, how long it was since he catched
him? He answered, it is about two years since I hauled him out of
the sea with a net, and afterwards ran into the mountains, where
I catched him with a pack of hounds. The captain believed it was
so, but says he, I have a servant the best swimmer in the world.
O but, says the drover, my servant will swim him to death. No, he
will not, says the captain, I’ll lay two hundred crowns on it. Then
says the drover, I’ll hold it one to one, and staked directly, the
day being appointed when trial was to be made. Now the drover,
when he came to himself, thinking on what a bargain he had made,
did not know what to do, knowing very well that his servant could
swim none. He hearing of George being in town, who was always a
good friend to Scotsmen, he went unto him and told him the whole
story, and that he would be entirely broke, and durst never return
home to his own country, for he was sure to lose it. Then George
called the drover and his man aside, and instructed them how to
behave, so that they should be safe and gain too. So accordingly
they met at the place appointed. The captain’s man stript directly
and threw himself into the sea, taking a turn until the Highlandman
was ready, for the drover took some time to put his servant in
order. After he was stripped, his master took his plaid, and rolled
a kebbuck of cheese, a big loaf, and a bottle of gin in it, and
this he bound on his shoulders, giving him directions to tell his
wife and children that he was well, and to be sure he returned with
an answer against that day se’nnight. As he went into the sea, he
looked back to his master, and called out to him for his claymore.
And what waits he for now? says the captain’s servant. He wants
his sword, says his master. His sword, says the fellow: What is he
to do with a sword? Why, says his master, if he meets a whale or a
monstrous beast, it is to defend his life: I know he will have to
fight his way through the north seas, ere he get to Lochaber. Then
cried the captain’s servant, I’ll swim none with him, if he take
his sword. Ay, but says his master, you shall, or lose the wager;
take you another sword with you. No, says the fellow I never did
swim with a sword, nor any man else, that ever I saw or heard of, I
know not but that wild man will kill me in the deep water; I would
not for the whole world, venture myself with him and a sword. The
captain seeing his servant afraid to venture, or if he did, he
would never see him again alive; therefore he desired an agreement
with the drover, who at first seemed unwilling, but the captain
putting it in his will, the drover quit him for half the sum. This
he came to through George’s advice.
8. George was met one day by three bishops, who paid him the
following compliments; says the first, good-morrow, father Abraham;
says the second, good-morrow, father Isaac; says the third,
good-morrow father Jacob. To which he replied, I am neither father
Abraham, father Isaac, nor father Jacob; but I am Saul, the Son of
Kish, sent out to seek my father’s asses, and, lo! I have found
three of them. Which answer fully convinced the bishops that they
had mistaken their man.
9. A poor Scotchman dined one day at a public house in London
upon eggs and not having money to pay, got credit till he should
return. The man being lucky in trade, acquired vast riches; and
after some years happening to pass that way, called at the house
where he was owing the dinner of eggs. Having called for the
innkeeper, he asked him what he had to pay for the dinner of eggs
he got from him such a time? The landlord seeing him now rich, gave
him a bill of several pounds; telling him, as his reason for so
extravagant a charge, that these eggs had they been hatched, would
have been chickens; and these laying more eggs, would have been
more chickens: and so on multiplying the eggs and their product,
till such time as their value amounted to the sum charged. The man
refusing to comply with this demand, was charged before a judge. He
then made his case known to George, his countryman, who promised
to appear in the hour of cause, which he accordingly did, all in
a sweat, with a great basket of boiled pease, which appearance
surprised the judge, who asked him what he meant by these boiled
pease? says George I am going to sow them. When will they grow?
said the judge. They will grow, said George, when sodden eggs grow
chickens. Which answer convinced the judge of the extravagance of
the innkeeper’s demand, and the Scotsman was acquitted for twopence
halfpenny.
George, one day easing himself at the corner of a hedge, was espied
by an English squire who began to mock him asking him why he did
not keckle like the hens? But George, whose wit was always ready,
told him he was afraid to keckle, lest he would come and snatch up
the egg, which rebuff made the squire walk off as mute as a fish.
George was professor of the College of St Andrews, and slipt out
one day in his gown and slippers, and went on his travels through
Italy, and several other foreign countries and after seven years,
returned with the same dress he went off in; and entering the
college, took possession of his seat there; but the professor in
his room quarreling him for so doing. Ay, says George, it is a very
odd thing that a man cannot take a walk out in his slippers, but
another will take up his seat. And so set the other professor about
his business.
Two drunken fellows one day fell a beating one another on the
streets of London, which caused a great crowd of people to throng
together to see what it was. A tailor being at work up in a garret,
about three or four stories high, and he hearing the noise in the
street, looking over the window, but could not well see them; he
began to stretch himself, making a long neck, until he fell down
out of the window, and alighted on an old man who was walking on
the street; the poor tailor was more afraid than hurt, but the
man he fell on died directly. His son caused the tailor to be
apprehended, and tried for the murder of his father; the jury could
not bring it in wilful murder, neither could they altogether free
the tailor; the jury gave it over to the judges, and the judges to
the king. The king asked George’s advice in this hard matter. Why,
says George, I will give you my opinion in a minute; you must cause
the tailor to stand in the street, where the old gentleman was when
he was killed by the tailor, and then let the old gentleman’s son
the tailor’s adversary, get up to the window from whence the tailor
fell, and jump down, and so kill the tailor as he did his father.
The tailor’s adversary hearing this sentence past, he would not
venture to jump over the window, and so the tailor got clear off.
George went into the mint one day, when they were melting gold. One
of them asked George, if he would have his hat full of gold? George
readily accorded, but it burnt the bottom out of his hat, as they
knew it would, and for the bout foiled George. However, George, to
be up with them, bought a fine large hat, and caused a plate of
copper to be put betwixt the hat and the linen; and returning next
day they jestingly asked him, if he would have another hat full
of gold? He said he would: They gave it red hot, and George now
laughed at them in his turn; telling them, that his new hat was a
good one, and stood fire better than the old one, and so carried it
off honestly, and being afterwards prosecuted for to return it, he
excused himself, telling the judge, that he took nothing but was
given him, and therefore he was honourably acquitted, and the other
heartily laughed at.
George being now far advanced in years, and being weary of the
great fatigue and folly of the court fashions, a short time before
his death, he had a great desire to visit his native country,
and the place of his nativity. Therefore he petitioned the king
for permission to do so which was granted. So he set out for
Scotland, and went to the parish of Buchanan, in Dumbartonshire,
where he visited all his relations and friends.--But George staying
longer from court than the time allowed, the king sent him several
messages to return, to which he returned no answer. At last the
king sent him a letter threatening, that if he did not appear
before him in the space of twenty days he would send his Lyon
Heralds for him; to which George returned the following answer.
My honour’d Liege, and sovereign King,
Of your boasting great I dread nothing:
On your feud or favour I’ll fairly venture;
Or that day I’ll be where few kings enter.
And also gave him many good admonitions and directions concerning
the government of his kingdom and the well being of his soul; which
drew tears from the king’s eyes when he read it.
WILL SCOTT
A celebrated attendant upon the Sheriff, well known for his
activity in the execution of his orders, as well as for taking
a bit comfortable guzzel when finances would afford it, was one
Sabbath day snugly seated in the pew behind the Bailies at church.
Will had not been there long till he was soon lull’d into sweet
slumbers, and fancied himself seated along with his companions over
a good Imperial Half-mutchkin, and in a short time the reckoning
came a-paying, when some of the party insisted it was already
paid; however, Will happened not to be of that opinion, and true
to his integrity, bawled out with all his might in the midst of the
sermon, “No, no, by my faith it’s no pay’t, we have had just a’e
half-mutchkin, an’ twa bottles o’ ale and there’s no a fardin o’t
pay’t.”
GRAVE-DIGGER OF SORN.
The Grave-digger of Sorn, Ayrshire, was as selfish and as mean a
sinner as ever handled mattock, or carried mortcloth. He was a very
quarrelsome and discontented old man, with a voice like the whistle
of the wind thro’ a key-hole. On a bleak Sunday afternoon in the
country, an acquaintance from a neighbouring parish accosted him
one day, and asked how the world was moving with him, “Oh, very
puirly, sir, very puirly indeed,” was the answer, “the yard has
done naething ava for us this summer, if ye like to believe me, I
havna buried a levin’ soul this sax weeks.”
THE END.
A BRIEF RELATION
OF THE
ADVENTURES
OF
BAMFYLDE MOORE CAREW,
WHO WAS FOR MORE THAN FORTY YEARS
KING OF THE BEGGARS.
[Illustration]
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
ADVENTURES
OF
BAMFYLDE MOORE CAREW.
Mr. Bamfylde Moore Carew was the son of a clergyman near Tiverton,
in Devonshire, and born in 1693. He was tall and majestic, his
limbs strong and well proportioned, his features regular, and
his countenance open and ingenious, bearing the resemblance of
a good-natured mind. At twelve years old he was put to Tiverton
school, where he soon got a considerable knowledge of the Latin
and Greek tongues, so as to be fitted for the University, that in
due time he might be fitted for the church, for which his father
designed him; but here a new exercise engaged his attention,
namely, that of hunting, in which he soon made a prodigious
progress. The Tiverton scholars had command of a fine cry of
hounds, which gave Carew a frequent opportunity of exercising
his beloved employment, and getting acquainted with John Martin,
Thomas Coleman, and John Escott, young gentlemen of the best rank
and fortune. One day a farmer came to the school and complained
of a deer, with a collar round his neck, that he had seen running
through his grounds, and had done him much damage, desiring them
to hunt it down and kill it. They, wishing for no better sport, on
the next day put the old farmer’s request into execution, in doing
of which they did much damage to the neighbouring grounds, whose
owners, together with Colonel Nutcombe, to whom the deer belonged,
came and complained to the schoolmaster of the injuries they had
suffered by his scholars: they were very severely reprimanded,
and hard threatened for the same. The resentment of the present
reproof, and the fear of future chastisement, made them abscond
from the school; and going into a brick alehouse, about half a
mile from Tiverton, there they accidentally fell in company with
some gypsies, who were then feasting and carousing. This company
consisted of seventeen, who were met on purpose for festivity
and jollity; which, by plenty of meat, fowl, flowing cups of
beer, cider, &c., they seemed to enjoy to their hearts’ content.
In short, the freedom, mirth, and pleasure that appeared among
them, invited our youngsters to enlist into their company; which
on communicating to the gypsies, they would not believe them, as
thinking they jested; but on tarrying with them all night, and
continuing in the same mind next morning, they at length thought
them serious, and encouraged them; and, after going through the
requisite ceremonials, and administering to them the proper oath,
they admitted them into their number.
The reader will no doubt wonder to hear of the ceremonials and
oaths among gypsies and beggars, but that will cease on being
informed, that these people are subject to a form of government
and laws peculiar to themselves, and pay due obedience to one
who is styled their king; to which honour Carew in a short time
arrived, after having by many acts proved himself worthy of it. The
substance of them is this:--strong love and mutual regard for each
member in particular, and the whole community in general; which
being taught them in their infancy, grows up with them, prevents
oppression, frauds, and overreaching one another, which is common
among other people, and tends to the very worst of evils. This
happiness and temper of mind so wrought on Carew, as to occasion
the strongest attachment to them for forty years, refusing very
large offers that had been made to him to quit their society.
Being thus initiated into the ancient society of gypsies, who
take their name from Egypt, a place well known to abound in
learning, and the inhabitants of which country travel about from
place to place to communicate knowledge to mankind.--Carew did
not long continue in it before he was consulted in important
matters; particularly Madam Musgrove, of Monkton, near Taunton,
hearing of his fame, sent for him to consult him in an affair of
difficulty. When he was come, she informed him, that she suspected
a large quantity of money was buried somewhere about her house,
and if he would acquaint her with the particular place, she would
handsomely reward him. Carew consulted the secrets of his art on
this occasion, and, after a long study, he informed the lady, that
under a laurel tree in the garden lay the treasure she sought for;
but that she must not seek it till such a day and hour. The lady
rewarded him with twenty guineas; but, whether Carew mistook his
calculation, or the lady mistook her lucky hour, we cannot tell;
but truth obliges us to say, the lady having dug below the root of
the laurel tree, she could not find the treasure.
When he was further initiated, he was consulted in important
matters and met with better success; generally giving satisfaction
by his wise and sagacious answers. In the mean time his parents
sorrowed after him, as one that was no more, having advertised
him in all the public papers, and sent messengers after him to
almost every part of the kingdom; till about a year and a half
afterwards, when Carew, hearing of their grief, and being struck
with tenderness thereat, repaired to his father’s house. He was so
disguised they did not know him, but when they did their joy was
beyond expressing, tenderly embracing him, bedewing his cheeks with
tears and kisses; and all his friends and neighbours shewed every
demonstration of joy at his return. His parents did every thing
to render home agreeable to him; but the uncommon pleasure he had
enjoyed in the community he had left, their simplicity, freedom,
sincerity, mirth, and frequent change of habitation, and the secret
presages of the honour he has since arrived at, sickened and palled
all other diversions, and at last prevailed over his filial duty;
for one day without taking leave of his friends or parents, he went
back to them again, where he was heartily welcomed, both to his
own and their satisfaction, they being glad to regain one who was
likely to become so useful a member of their community.
_Carew’s first adventure in his new profession._
Carew being again initiated among them, at the first general
assembly of the gypsies, took the oaths of allegiance to their
sovereign, by whom he was soon sent out on a cruise against
their enemies. Carew now set his wits to work how to succeed:
so equipping himself with an old pair of trowsers, a piece of a
jacket, just enough to cover his nakedness, stockings full of
holes, and an old cap, he forgot both friends and family, and
became nothing more or less than an unfortunate shipwrecked
seaman. In this, his first excursion, he gained much credit,
artfully imitating passes and certificates that were necessary
for him to travel unmolested. After a month’s travel he happened
to meet with his old school-fellow Coleman, who had once left the
gypsies’ society, but for the same reason as himself, returned to
them again. Great was their joy at meeting, and they agreed to
travel some time together; so entering Exeter, they in one day
raised a contribution of several pounds.
Having obtained all he could from this stratagem, he then became a
plain, honest farmer, whose grounds had been overflowed, and cattle
drowned; his dejected countenance and mournful tale, together
with a wife and seven helpless infants being partakers of his
misfortunes, gained him both pity and profit.
Having obtained a considerable booty by these two stratagems,
he returned to his companions, where he was received with great
applause; and, as a mark of their respect, seated him next the
king. He soon became a great man in the profession, and confined
not himself from doing good to others, when it did not infringe
upon the community of which he was a member.
His next stratagem was to become a mad-man; so stripping himself
quite naked, he threw a blanket over him, and then he was, “Poor
mad Tom, whom the foul fiend has led through fire and through
flame! through fire and whirlpool, over bog and quagmire; that hath
laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew; set ratsbane
for his porridge, and made him proud at heart to ride on a bay
trotting-horse over four-inch bridges; to curse his own shadow for
a traitor; who eats the swimming-frog, the toad, the tadpole, the
wall-newt, and the water-newt; that in the fury of his heart, when
the foul fiend rages, swallows the old rat and ditch dog; drinks
the green mantle of the standing pool;
And mice and rats, and such like gear,
Have been Tom’s food for seven long year.
O do de, do de, do de! bless thee! from whirlwind, star-blasting,
and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend
vexes--There I could have him now--and there!--and there!--and
here again!--and there!--Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold
wind--Tom’s a cold!--who gives any thing to poor Tom?”
In this character, with such-like expressions, he entered the
houses of both small and great, claiming kindred to them, and
committing all kinds of frantic actions, such as beating himself,
offering to eat coals of fire, running against the wall, and
tearing to pieces whatever garments were given to him to cover his
nakedness; by which means he raised considerable contributions.
He never was more happy than when he was engaged in some adventure;
therefore he was always very diligent to enquire when any
accident happened, especially fire, to which he would immediately
repair, and, getting information of the causes, names, trades,
and circumstances of the unhappy sufferers, he would assume
one of them, and burning some part of his clothes, by way of
demonstration, run to some place distant, pass for one of them,
gain credit, and get much profit. Under this character he had once
the boldness to address a justice, who was the terror and professed
enemy to all the gypsies, yet he so well managed the affair,
that in a long examination he made him believe he was an honest
miller, whose house, mill and substance had been consumed by fire,
occasioned by the negligence of the apprentice; and accordingly,
got a bountiful sum for his relief, the justice not in the least
suspecting a defraud.
He had such wonderful facility in every character he assumed, that
he even deceived those who thought themselves so well acquainted
with him, that it was impossible for him to impose on them.
Coming one day to ‘Squire Portman’s house at Blandford, in the
character of a rat-catcher, with a hair cap on his head, a buff
girdle about his waist, a little box by his side, and a tame rat
in his hand, he goes boldly up to the house, where he had been
well known before, and meeting the ’squire, Parson Bryant, and
one Mr. Pleydell, of Milbourn, and some other gentlemen, he asked
them if they had any rats to kill. “Do you understand the business
well?” says the ’squire. “Yes, an please your honour,” replied
Carew, “I have been a rat-catcher for many years, and have been
employed in his Majesty’s yards and ships.” “Well,” says the
’squire, “go in and get some victuals, and after dinner we will
try your abilities.” He was accordingly called into the parlour,
where were a large company of gentlemen and ladies. “Well, honest
rat-catcher,” says the squire, “can you lay any scheme to kill the
rats without hurting my dogs?” “Yes, yes,” cries Carew, “I can lay
it where even the rats cannot climb to reach it.”--“What countryman
are you?”--“A Devonshireman, an please your honour.” “What is your
name?” Here our hero began to perceive that he was discovered, by
the smilings and whisperings of several gentlemen, and he very
composedly answered,--“My name is Bamfylde Moore Carew.” This
occasioned much mirth, and Mr. Pleydell expressed extraordinary
pleasure. He had often wished to see him, but never had.--“Yes
you have,” replied Carew, “and given me a suit of clothes. Do you
not remember meeting a poor wretch one day at your stable door,
with a stocking round his head, an old mantle over his shoulders,
without shirt, stockings, or scarce any shoes, who told you he was
a poor unfortunate man, cast away upon the coast, with sixteen
more of the crew, who were all drowned; you, believing this story,
generously relieved me with a guinea and a good suit of clothes.”
“I well remember it,” said Mr. Pleydell, “but, on this discovery,
it is impossible to deceive me so again, come in whatever shape
you will.” The company blamed him for thus boasting, and secretly
prevailed upon Carew to put his art in practice to convince him of
the fallacy thereof: to which he agreed, and in a few days after
appointing the company present to be at Mr. Pleydell’s house, he
put the following scheme into execution.
He shaved himself closely, and clothed himself in an old woman’s
apparel, with a high-crowned hat, and a large dowdy under his chin;
then taking three children from among his fraternity, he tied two
on his back and one under his arm. Thus accoutred, he comes to Mr.
Pleydell’s door, and pinching one of the brats, set it a roaring;
this gave the alarm to the dogs, who came out with open mouths, so
that the whole company was soon alarmed. Out came the maid, saying,
“Carry away the children, good woman, they disturb the ladies.”
“God bless their ladyships,” said Carew, “I am the poor unfortunate
grandmother of these helpless infants, whose mother and all they
had were burnt at the dreadful fire at Kirkton, and hope the
good ladies, for Heaven’s sake, will bestow something on the poor
famishing, starving infants.” In goes the maid with this affecting
story to the ladies, while Carew keeps pinching the children to
make them cry, and the maid soon returned with half-a-crown and
some good broth, which he thankfully received, and went into the
court-yard to sit down to sup them, as perceiving the gentlemen
were not at home. He had not long been there before they came, when
one of them accosted him thus: “Where do you come from, old woman?”
“From Kirkton, please your honours,” said he, “where the poor
unhappy mother of these helpless infants was burnt in the flames,
and all she had consumed.” “There has been more money collected for
Kirkton than ever Kirkton was worth,” said the gentleman. However,
they gave the supposed old grandmother a shilling, commiserating
the hard case of her and her poor helpless infants, which he
thankfully received, pretending to go away; but the gentlemen were
hardly got into the house, before their ears were suddenly saluted
with a “tantivy, tantivy,” and a “halloo” to the dogs; on which
they turned about, supposing it to be some other sportsmen; but
seeing nobody, they imagined it to be Carew, in the disguise of the
old Kirkton grandmother; so bidding the servants fetch him back, he
was brought into the parlour among them all, and confessed himself
to be the famous Mr. Bamfylde Moore Carew, to the astonishment and
mirth of them all; who well rewarded him for the diversion he had
afforded them.
In like manner he raised a contribution twice in one day of Mr.
Jones, near Bristol. In the morning, with a sooty face, leather
apron, a dejected countenance, and a woollen cap, he was
generously relieved as an unfortunate blacksmith, whose all had
been consumed by fire. In the afternoon he exchanged his legs for
crutches, and, with a dejected countenance, pale face, and every
sign of pain, he became a disabled tinner, incapable of maintaining
a wife and seven small children, by the damps and hardships he had
suffered in the mines; and so well acted his part, that the tinner
got as well relieved in the afternoon as the blacksmith in the
morning.
These successful stratagems gained him high applause and honour in
the community of gypsies. He soon became the favourite of their
king, who was very old and decrepid, and had always some honourable
mark of distinction assigned him at their assemblies.
Being one morning near the seat of his good friend Sir William
Courtney, he was resolved to pay him three visits that day. He
therefore puts on a parcel of rags, and goes to him with a piteous,
mean, dismal countenance, and deplorable tale, and got half-a-crown
from him, telling him he had met with great misfortunes at sea.
At noon he puts on a leather apron scorched with fire, and with
a dejected countenance goes to him again, and was relieved as an
unfortunate shoemaker, who had been burnt out of his house and
all he had. In the afternoon he goes again in trimmed clothes,
and desiring admittance to Sir William, with a modest grace and
submissive eloquence, he repeats his misfortunes, as the supercargo
of a vessel which had been cast away, and his whole effects lost.
Sir William, seeing his genteel appearance and behaviour, treated
him with respect, and gave him a guinea at his departure. There
were several gentlemen at dinner with Sir William at that time,
none of whom had any knowledge of him except the Rev. Mr. Richards,
who did not discover him till he was gone; upon which a servant was
despatched to desire him to come back, which he did; and when he
entered the room they were very merry with him and requested him to
give an account how he got his fine clothes, and of his stratagems,
with the success of them. He asked Sir William if he had not given
half-a-crown in the morning to a beggar, and about noon relieved
a poor unfortunate shoemaker. “I did,” said Sir William. “Behold
him before you,” said Carew, “in this fine embroidered coat, as
a broken merchant.” The company would not believe him; so, to
convince them, he re-assumed those characters again, to their no
small mirth and satisfaction.
_Carew made King of the Beggars._
On the death of the king of the gypsies, named Clause Patch, our
hero was a candidate to succeed him, and exhibited to the electors
a long list of bold and ingenious stratagems which he had executed,
and made so graceful and majestic an appearance in his person,
that he had a considerable majority of voices, though there were
ten candidates for the same honour; on which he was declared duly
elected, and hailed by the whole assembly--King of the Gypsies. The
public register of their acts being immediately committed to his
care, and homage done him by all the assembly, the whole concluded
by rejoicings.
Though Mr. Carew was now privileged, by the dignity of his office,
from going on any cruise, and was provided with every thing
necessary, by the joint contribution of the community, yet he did
not give himself up to indolence. Our hero, though a king, was
as active in his stratagems as ever, and ready to encounter any
difficulty which seemed to promise success.
Mr. Carew being in the town of South Molton, in Devonshire, and
having been ill-used by an officer there, called the bellman,
resolved on the following stratagem, by way of revenge. It was at
that time reported that a gentleman of the town, lately buried,
walked nightly in the church-yard; and as the bellman was obliged
by his nightly duty to go through it just at the very hour of one,
Mr. Carew repaired thither a little before the time, and stripping
in his shirt, lay down upon the gentleman’s grave. Soon after,
hearing the bellman approach, he raised himself up with a solemn
slowness, which the bellman beholding, by the glimmerings of the
moon through a dark cloud, was terribly frightened, so took to his
heels and ran away. In his fright he looked behind him, and seeing
the ghost following him, dropped his bell and ran the faster; which
Carew seized on as a trophy, and forbore any further pursuit. The
bellman did not stop till he reached home, where he obstinately
affirmed he had seen the gentleman’s ghost, who had taken away the
bell, which greatly alarmed the whole town.
Coming to the seat of ’Squire Rhodes, in Devonshire, and knowing
he had lately married a Dorsetshire lady, he thought proper to
become a Dorsetshire man of Lyme, the place of the lady’s nativity;
and meeting the ’squire and his bride, he gave them to understand
that he was lost in a vessel belonging to Lyme, Captain Courtney
commander. The ’squire and his lady gave him half-a-crown each, for
country sake, and entertained him at their house.
Our hero exercising his profession at Milbury, where the ’squire’s
father lived, and to whom the son was come on a visit, Mr. Carew
made application to him, and knocking at the door, on its being
opened, saw the young ’squire sitting alone, whom Mr. Rhodes
interrupted by saying he was twice in one day imposed on by that
rogue Carew, of whose gang you may likely be: besides, I do not
live here, but am a stranger. In the mean time comes the old
’squire, with a bottle of wine in his hand, giving Carew a wink to
let him understand he knew him, and then very gravely enquired into
the circumstances of his misfortunes, and also of the affairs and
inhabitants of Dartmouth, from whence he pretended to have sailed
several times, of all which he gave a full and particular account:
whereupon the old ’squire gave him half-a-crown, and the young one
the same; on which Carew and the old man burst into laughter, and
discovered the whole affair, at which ’Squire Rhodes was a little
chagrined at being imposed on a third time; but on recollecting the
expertness of the performer, was well satisfied, and they spent the
remainder of the day in mirth and jollity.
At Bristol he dressed himself like a poor mechanic, and then
going out into the streets, acted the religious madman, talking
in a raving manner about Messrs. Whitfield and Wesley, as though
he was disordered in his mind by their preaching; calling in a
furious manner, every step, upon the Virgin Mary, Pontius Pilate,
and Mary Magdalene, and acting every part of a man religiously
mad. Sometimes walking with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and
then on a sudden he would break out in some passionate expressions
about religion. This behaviour greatly excited the curiosity and
compassion of the people; some of them talked to him, but he
answered every thing they said in a wild and incoherent manner;
and as compassion is generally the forerunner of charity, he was
relieved by most of them.
Next morning he appeared in a morning gown, still acting the
madman, and addressed himself to all the posts of the street, as
if they were saints, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven,
in a fervent but distracted manner, and making use of so many
extravagant gestures, that he astonished the whole city. Going
through Castle Street, he met the Rev. Mr. B----e, whom he accosted
with his arms thrown round him, and insisted, in a raving manner,
he should tell him who was the father of the morning star; which
frightened the parson so much, that he took to his heels and ran
for it, Carew running after him, till the parson was obliged to
take shelter in a house.
Having well recruited his pocket by this stratagem, he left Bristol
next day, and travelled towards Bath, acting the madman all the way
till he came to Bath: as soon as he came there, he enquired for
Dr. Coney’s, and being directed to his house, found two brother
mendicants at the door. After they had waited some time, the
servant brought out each of them a halfpenny, for which his brother
mendicants were very thankful. But Carew gave his halfpenny to one
of them; then knocking at the door, and the maid coming out again,
“Tell your master” says he, “I am not a halfpenny man, but that my
name is Bamfylde Moore Carew, king of the mendicants;” which being
told, the doctor came out with one of his daughters, and gave him
sixpence and a mug of drink, for which he returned them thanks.
Mr. Carew happening to be in the city of Wells on a Sunday, was
told the bishop was to preach that morning: on which he slipped on
a black waistcoat and morning gown, and ran out to meet the bishop
as he was walking in procession, and addressed himself to him as a
poor unhappy man, whose misfortunes had turned his brains; which
the bishop hearing gave him half-a-crown.
It was in Newcastle-upon-Tyne that he became enamoured with the
daughter of Mr. G----y, an eminent apothecary and surgeon there.
This young lady had charms sufficient to captivate the heart of
any man susceptible of love; and they made so deep an impression
upon him, that they wholly effaced every object which before had
created any desire in him, and never permitted any other to raise
them afterwards; for, wonderful to tell! we have, after about
thirty years’ enjoyment, seen him lament her occasional absence
almost with tears, and talk of her with all the fondness of one
who has been in love with her but three days. Our hero tried all
love’s persuasions with his fair one in an honourable way; and as
his person was very engaging, and his appearance genteel, he did
not find her greatly averse to his proposals. As he was aware that
his being of the community of gypsies might prejudice her against
him, without examination he passed with her for the mate of a
collier’s vessel, in which he was supported by Captain L----n, in
whose vessel they set sail; and the very winds being willing to
favour these happy lovers, they had an exceedingly quick passage to
Dartmouth, where they landed. In a few days they set out for Bath,
where they lawfully solemnized their nuptials with great gaiety and
splendour; and nobody at that time could conjecture who they were,
which was the cause of much speculation and false surmises.
Some time after this, he took his passage at Folkstone, in Kent,
for Boulogne, in France, where he arrived safe, and proceeded to
Paris, and other noted cities of that kingdom. His habit was now
tolerably good, his countenance grave, his behaviour sober and
decent--pretending to be a Roman Catholic, who had left England,
his native country, out of an ardent zeal for spending his days in
the bosom of the Catholic church. This story readily gained belief:
his zeal was universally applauded, and handsome contributions
made for him. But, at the time he was so zealous a Roman Catholic,
with a little change of habit, he used to address those English he
heard of in any place, as a protestant, and shipwrecked seaman;
and had the good fortune to meet with an English physician at
Paris, to whom he told this deplorable tale, who not only relieved
him very handsomely, but recommended him to that noble pattern of
unexhausted benevolence, Mrs. Horner, who was then on her travels,
from whom he received ten guineas, and from some other company with
her five more.
It was about this time he became acquainted with the Hon. Sir
William W----m, in the following manner:--Being at Watchett, in
Somersetshire, near the seat of that gentlemen, he resolved to
pay him a visit. Putting on, therefore, a jacket and a pair of
trousers, he made the best of his way to Sir William’s seat, and
luckily met Sir William, Lord Bolingbroke, and several other
gentlemen and clergy, with some commanders of vessels, walking in
the park. Carew approached Sir William with a great deal of seeming
fearfulness and respect; and with much modesty acquainted him he
was a Silverton man, that he was the son of one of his tenants
named Moore--had been to Newfoundland, and in his passage homeward,
the vessel was run down by a French ship in a fog, and only he
and two more were saved; but being put on board an Irish vessel,
were carried into Ireland, and from thence landed at Watchett. Sir
William hearing this, asked him a great many questions concerning
the inhabitants of Silverton, who were most of them his own
tenants, and of the principal gentlemen in the neighbourhood;
all whom Carew was well acquainted with, and therefore gave
satisfactory answers. Sir William at last asked him, if he knew
Bickley, and if he knew the parson thereof? Carew replied, that he
knew him very well, and so indeed he might, as it was no other than
his own father! Sir William then enquired what family he had, and
whether he had not a son named Bamfylde, and what became of him.
“Your honour,” replied he, “means the beggar and dog-stealer--I
don’t know what has become of him, but it is a wonder if he is not
hanged by this time.” “No, I hope not,” replied Sir William, “I
should be glad, for his family’s sake, to see him at my house.”
Having satisfactorily answered many other questions, Sir William
generously relieved him with a guinea, and Lord Bolingbroke
followed his example; the other gentlemen and clergy contributed
according to their different ranks. Sir William then ordered him
to go to his house, and tell the butler to entertain him, which he
accordingly did, and set himself down with great comfort.
Having heard that young Lord Clifford, his first cousin, (who
had just returned from his travels abroad,) was at his seat at
Callington, about four miles from Bridgewater, he resolved to pay
him a visit. In his way thither resided parson C----, who being
one whom nature had made up in a hurry without a heart, Mr Carew
had never been able to obtain any thing of him, even under the most
moving appearance of distress, but a small cup of drink. Stopping
now in his way, he found the parson was gone to Lord Clifford’s;
but being saluted at the door by a fine black spaniel, with almost
as much crustiness as he would have been had his master been at
home, he thought himself under no stronger obligation of observing
the strict laws of honour, than the parson did of hospitality; and
therefore soon charmed the crossness of the spaniel, and made him
follow him to Bridgewater.
Having secured the spaniel, and passed the night merrily at
Bridgewater, he set out the next morning for Lord Clifford’s, and
in his way called upon the parson again, who very crustily told him
he had lost his dog, and supposed some of his gang had stolen him:
to which Mr. Carew very calmly replied, What was he to his dog, or
what was his dog to him? if he would make him drink it was well,
for he was very dry: at last with the use of much rhetoric, he got
a cup of small drink; then, taking leave of him, he went to the
Red-Lion, in the same parish, where he staid some time. In the mean
time, down ran the parson to my Lord Clifford’s, to acquaint him
that Mr. Carew was in the parish, and to advise him to take care of
his dogs; so that Mr. Carew, coming down immediately after, found
a servant with one dog in his arms, and another with another: here
one stood whistling and another calling, and both my lord and his
brother were running about to seek after their favourites.
Mr. Carew asked my lord what was the meaning of this hurry, and
if his dogs were cripples, because he saw several carried in the
servant’s arms; adding, he hoped his lordship did not imagine he
was come to steal any of them. Upon which his lordship told him,
that parson C---- had advised him to be careful, as he had lost his
spaniel but the day before. “It may be so,” replied he, “the parson
knows but little of me, or the laws of our community, if he is
ignorant that with us ingratitude is unknown, and the property of
our friends always sacred.” His lordship, hearing this, entertained
him very handsomely, and both himself and his brother made him a
present.
On his return home, he reflected how idly he had spent the prime
of life; and recovering from a severe illness, he came to a
resolution of resigning the Egyptian sceptre. The assembly finding
him determined, reluctantly acquiesced, and he departed amidst the
applause and sighs of his subjects.
Our adventurer, finding the air of the town not rightly to agree
with him, and the death of some of his relations rendering his
circumstances quite easy, he retired to the western parts, to a
neat purchase he had made, and there he ended his days, beloved and
esteemed by all; leaving his daughter (his wife dying some time
before him) a genteel fortune; who was married to a neighbouring
young gentleman.
ANECDOTES.
AN IRISH WAGER.
Two natives of the Emerald Isle, who were travelling together,
finding their means run short, and being in want of a “dhrop of
the craythur,” devised the ways and means for raising a supply.
Catching a frog in a ditch, one of them went on with it in advance
of his companion, and stopping at the first public-house he came
to, asked the landlord if he could tell what sort of an animal that
was? “What sort of an animal?” exclaimed Boniface, “why, you booby,
it’s a frog, to be sure.” “Booby here, booby there,” said Pat, “it
strikes me you’re mistaken, for as ’cute as you think yourself,
I’ll bet you the price of a pint of whisky it’s a mouse; and I’ll
lave it to the first traveller that comes up to decide between
us.” “Agreed,” said the landlord. Pat’s confederate came up; and
being required to say what sort of an animal it was, after much
examination and deliberation, declared it to be a mouse; and thus
the landlord, in spite of the evidence of his senses, had to pay
the wager.
A SAD MISTAKE.
A farm servant in Strathearn having intimated to his master that
it was his intention “to take unto himself a wife,” and being
rather a bit of a favourite, was ordered to take a greybeard and
go to Perth for a gallon of whisky, for the purpose of adding to
the hilarity of the occasion. The lad willingly did as ordered;
and when the marriage company were about starting to meet the
bride, stalked majestically into the middle of the room, with glass
in hand, and the greybeard under his arm, and filling a bumper,
handed it to the nearest person, who hurriedly swallowed it, but
instantly shaking his head, gravely remarked, that it was “shurely
some o’ the new-fangled mixture graith.” Being in too great haste
to give the observation that attention it merited, the second was
instantly filled and tasted; but how aghast did the company look
when the recipient roared out in a voice of horror, “L--d, Jock,
that’s uily!” And “uily” it was. The bridegroom, on going to St.
Johnston, had taken the wrong jar, and having requested the shopman
to “fill that wi’ the _auld thing_,” the wary functionary, to catch
the plain meaning, smelled the jar, and implemented the order
accordingly. Although the mistake was felt severely at the time,
we are happy to say that a good horse speedily bore the needful
from a neighbouring public-house, and everything afterwards went on
with a spirit which, instead of being damped, appeared to have been
augmented by the mischance.
SCOTCH ANECDOTE.
An anxious Scotch mother was taking leave of her son on his
departure for England, and giving him all good advice. “My dear
Sauny, my ainly son, gang south and get all the siller from the
southerns, take every thing you can, but the English are a braw
boxing people, and take care of them Sauny. My dear son Sauny,
never fight a bald man, for you cannot catch hold of him by the
hair of his head.”
AMERICAN WIT.
“Master, if that house cost five hundred dollars, and a barrel of
nails five dollars, what would a good sizeable pig _come to_? Do
you give it up? Well, he’d _come to_ a bushel of corn.”
A BRIGHT IDEA.
“What is light?” asked a school-master of the booby of the class.
“A sovereign that isn’t full weight is _light_.”
FINIS.
Daniel O’Rourke’s
WONDERFUL
VOYAGE TO THE MOON.
ALSO,
Master and Man;
OR,
The Adventures of Billy Mac Daniel.
[Illustration]
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
DANIEL O’ROURKE’S
Wonderful Voyage to the Moon.
People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O’Rourke
but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils,
above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept
under the walls of the Phooka’s tower. I knew the man well; he
lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right hand side of
the road as you go towards Bantry. An old man was he at the time
that he told me the story, with gray hair, and a red nose; and it
was on the 25th of June, 1813, that I heard it from his own lips,
as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine an
evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to visit the caves
in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at Glengariff.
‘I am often axed to tell it, sir,’ said he, ‘so that this is not
the first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from beyond
foreign parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go,
before Buonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there
was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and
simple, high and low, rich and poor. The ould gentlemen were the
gentlemen, after all, saving your honour’s presence. They’d swear
at a body a little, to be sure, and, may be, give one a cut of a
whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end;--and
they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and
thousands of welcomes, and there was no grinding for rent, and few
agents; and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not
taste of his landlord’s bounty often and often in the year;--but
now it’s another thing; no matter for that, sir, for I’d better be
telling you my story.
‘Well, we had every thing of the best, and plenty of it; and we
ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same
token danced with Peggy Barry, from the Bothereen--a lovely young
couple they were, though they are both long enough now. To make
a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as
tipsy almost, for I can’t remember ever at all, no ways, how I left
the place; only I did leave it that’s certain. Well, I thought,
for all that, in myself, I’d just step to Molly Cronohan’s, the
fairy woman, to speak a word about the bracket heifer that was
bewitched; and so as I was crossing the stepping stones at the ford
of Ballyashenogh, and was looking up at the stars and blessing
myself--for why? it was Lady-day.--I missed my foot, and souse I
fell into the water. ‘Death alive!’ thought I, ‘I’ll be drowned
now!’ However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the
dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never
the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island.
‘I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I
wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining
as bright as day, or your fair lady’s eyes, sir, (with your pardon
for mentioning her,) and I looked east and west, and north and
south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog; I
could never find out how I got into it, and my heart grew cold
with fear, for sure and certain I was that it would be my barrin
place. So I sat down upon a stone which, as good luck would have
it, was close by me, and I began to scratch my head and sing the
Ullagon--when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked
up, and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down
between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came
with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and what was
it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of
Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, ‘Daniel
O’Rourke,’ says he, ‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, I thank you,
sir,’ says I: ‘I hope you’re well;’ wondering out of my senses all
the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. ‘What brings
you here, Dan?’ says he. ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ says I: ‘only I
wish I was safe home again.’ ‘Is it out of the island you want to
go, Dan?’ says he. ‘’Tis sir,’ says I: so I up and told him how I
had taken a drop too much, and fell into the water; how I swam to
the island; and how I got into the bog and did not know my way out
of it. ‘Dan,’ says he, after a minute’s thought, ‘though it is very
improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day, yet as you are a decent
sober man, who tends mass well, and never flings stones at me or
mine, nor cries out after us in the fields--my life for yours,’
says he; ‘so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you’d
fall off, and I’ll fly you out of the bog,’--I am afraid, says I,
your honour’s making game of me; for who ever heard of riding a
horseback on an eagle before? ‘Pon the honour of a gentleman, says
he, putting his right foot on his breast I am quite in earnest: and
so now either take my offer or starve in the bog--besides, I see
that your weight is sinking the stone.
It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute
going from under me. I had no choice: so thinks I to myself, faint
heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance;--I thank
your honour, says I, for the load of your civility: and I’ll take
your kind offer: I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle,
and held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the
air like a lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve
me. Up--up--up--God knows how far up he flew. Why, then said I to
him--thinking he did not know the right road home--very civilly,
because why?--I was in his power entirely;--sir, says I, please
your honour’s glory, and with humble submission to your better
judgment, if you’d fly down a bit, you’re now just over my cabin,
and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your worship.
Arrah, Dan, said he, do you think me a fool? Look down in the next
field, and don’t you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be
no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard, that I
picked up off a could stone in a bog. Bother you, said I to myself,
but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he
kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down,
and all to no use. Where in the world are you going, sir? says I
to him.--Hold your tongue, Dan, says he; mind your own business,
and don’t be interfering with the business of other people.--Faith,
this is my business, I think, says I. Be quiet, Dan, says he; so I
said no more.
At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you
can’t see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time,
a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way
(drawing the figure on the ground, with the end of his stick.)
Dan said the eagle. I’m tired with this long fly; I had no notion
’twas so far. And my lord, sir, said I, who in the world axed you
to fly so far--was it I? did not I beg, and pray, and beseech you
to stop half an hour ago? There’s no use talking, Dan, said he; I’m
tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon
until I rest myself. Is it sit down on the moon? said I; is it upon
that little round thing, then? why; then, sure I’d fall off, in a
minute, and be kilt and split, and smashed all to bits; you are a
vile deceiver,--so you are. Not at all, Dan, said he: you can catch
fast hold of the reaping-hook, that’s sticking out of the side of
the moon, and ’twill keep you up. I won’t, then, said I. May be
not, said he, quite quiet. If you don’t, my man, I shall just give
you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the
ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a
drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning. Why, then, I’m in a
fine way, said I to myself, ever to have come alone with the likes
of you, and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he’d
know what I said, I got oft his back with a heavy heart, took a
hold of the reaping-hook, and sat down upon the moon, and a mighty
cold seat it was, I can tell you that.
When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and
said, Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke, said he; I think I’ve
nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year, (’twas true
enough for him, but how he found it out is hard to say,) and in
return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the
moon like a cockthrow.
Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you? says
I. You ugly unnatural baste, and is this the way you serve me at
last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all your
breed, you blackguard. ’Twas all to no manner of use: he spread
out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like
lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and
bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never
saw him from that day to this--Sorrow fly away with him! You may
be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out
for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the
middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been
opened for a month before. I suppose they never thought of greasing
’em, and out there walks who do you think but the man in the moon
himself? I knew him by his busk.
Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke, said he; How do you do? Very
well, thank your honour, said I. I hope your honour’s well. What
brought you here, Dan? said he. So I told him how I was a little
overtaken in liquor at the master’s, and how I was cast on a
dissolute island, and how I lost my way in the bog and how the
thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of
that he had fled me up to the moon.
Dan, said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I
was done, you must not stay here. Indeed, sir, says I, ’tis much
against my will I’m here at all; but how am I to go back? That’s
your business, said he, Dan: mine is to tell you that here you
must not stay, so be off in less than no time. I’m doing no harm,
says I, only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.
That’s what you must not do, Dan, says he. Pray, sir, says I, may
I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor
traveller lodgings; I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re troubled with
strangers coming to see you, for ’tis a long way. I’m by myself,
Dan, says he; but you’d better let go the reaping-hook. Faith, and
with your leave, says I, I’ll not let go the grip, and the more
you bids me, the more I won’t let go: so I will. You had better,
Dan, says he again. Why, then, my little fellow, says I, taking the
whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, there are two
words to that bargain; and I’ll not budge, but you may if you like.
We’ll see how that is to be, says he; and back he went, giving the
door such a great bang after him, (for it was plain he was huffed,)
that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it.
Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back
again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without
saying a word, he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook
that was keeping me up, and whap! it came in two. Good morning to
you, Dan, says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw
me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; I
thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel. I
had no time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over
and over, and rolling and rolling at the rate of a fox-hunt. God
help me, says I, but this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to
be seen in at this time of night; I am now sold fairly. The word
was not out of my mouth when whiz! what should fly by close to my
ear but a flock of wild geese; all the way from my own bog of
Ballyasheenough, else how should they know me? the ould gander,
who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, Is
that you, Dan? The same, said I, not a bit daunted now at what he
said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of bedevilment, and,
besides, I knew him of ould. Good morrow to you, says he, Daniel
O’Rourke: how are you in health this morning? Very well, sir, says
I. I thank you kindly, drawing my breath, for I was mightily in
want of some. I hope your honour’s the same. I think ’tis falling
you are, Daniel, says he. You may say that sir, says I. And where
are you going all the way so fast? said the gander. So I told him
how I had taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I
lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to
the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. Dan, said he,
I’ll save you: put your hand out and catch me by the leg, and I’ll
fly you home. Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,
says I, though all the time I thought in myself that I don’t much
trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the gander by the
leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops.
We flew, and we flew and we flew, until we came right over the
wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand,
sticking up out of the water. Ah! my lord, said I to the goose,
for I thought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way,
fly to land if you please. It is impossible, you see, Dan, said he,
for a while, because you see we are going to Arabia. To Arabia!
said I; that’s surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh!
Mr Goose: why then, to be sure, I’m a man to be pitied among
you.--Whist, whist, you fool, said he, hold your tongue: I tell you
Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one
egg is like another, only there is a little more sand there.
Just as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding so
beautiful before the wind: Ah! then, sir, said I, will you drop me
on the ship, if you please? We are not fair over it, said he. We
are, said I. We are not, said he: If I dropped you now, you would
go splash into the sea. I would not, says I; I know better than
that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.
If you must, you must said he. There, take your own way; and he
opened his claw, and faith he was right--sure enough I came down
plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom
I went, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked
up to me, scratching himself after his night’s rest, and looked
me full in the face, and never the word did he say; but lifting
up his tail, he splashed me all over again with the cold salt
water, till there wasn’t a dry stitch upon my whole carcase; and
I heard somebody saying--’twas a voice I knew too--Get up, you
drunken brute, out of that: and with that I woke up, and there was
Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing all over
me;--for, rest her soul! though she was a good wife, she never
could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own.
Get up, said she again; and of all places in the parish, would no
place sarve your turn to lie down upon but under the ould walls
of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it. And
sure enough I had; for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with
eagles, and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales,
driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom
of the great ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it
be before I’d lie down in the same spot again, I know that.
Master and Man;
OR,
The Adventures of Billy Mac Daniel.
Billy Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook
his brogue at a patron, emptied a quart, or handled a shillelagh;
fearing for nothing but the want of drink; caring for nothing but
who should pay for it; and thinking of nothing but how to make fun
over it; drunk or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with
Billy Mac Daniel; and a mighty easy way it is of either getting
into or of ending a dispute. More is the pity that, through the
means of his thinking, and fearing, and caring for nothing, this
same Billy Mac Daniel fell into bad company; for surely the good
people are the worst of all company any one could come across.
It so happened that Billy was going home one clear frosty night not
long after Christmas; the moon was round and bright; but although
it was as fine a night as heart could wish for, he felt pinched
with the cold. By my word, chattered Billy, a drop of good liquor
would be no bad thing to keep a man’s soul from freezing in him;
and I wish I had a full measure of the best.
Never wish it twice, Billy, said a little man in a three-cornered
hat, bound all about with gold lace, and with great silver buckles
in his shoes, so big that it was a wonder how he could carry them
and he held out a glass as big as himself, filled with as good
liquor, as ever eye looked on or lip tasted.
Success, my little fellow, said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing daunted,
though well he knew the little man to belong to the good people;
here’s your health, any way, and thank you kindly; no matter who
pays for the drink; and he took the glass and drained it to the
very bottom, without ever taking a second breath to it.
Success, said the little man: and you’re heartily welcome, Billy;
but don’t think to cheat me as you have done others,--out with your
purse and pay me like a gentleman.
Is it I pay you? said Billy; could I not just take you up and put
you in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?
Billy Mac Daniel, said the little man, getting very angry, you
shall be my servant for seven years and a day, and that is the way
I will be paid; so make ready to follow me.
When Billy heard this, he began to be very sorry for having used
such bold words towards the little man; and he felt himself, yet
could not tell how, obliged to follow the little man the live-long
night about the country, up and down, and over hedge and ditch, and
through bog and brake without any rest.
When morning began to dawn, the little man turned round to him and
said, You may now, go home, Billy, but on your peril don’t fail to
meet me in the Fort-field to-night; or if you do, it may be the
worse for you in the long run. If I find you a good servant, you
will find me an indulgent master.
Home went Billy Mac Daniel, and though he was tired and weary
enough never a wink of sleep could he get for thinking of the
little man; but he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got
in the evening, and away he went to the Fort-field. He was not long
there before the little man came towards him and said, Billy, I
want to go a long journey to night; so saddle one of my horses and
you may saddle another for yourself, as you are to go along with
me, and may be tired after your walk last night.
Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him
accordingly: But, said he If I may be so bold, sir, I would ask
which is the way to your stable, for never a thing do I see but the
fort here, and the old thorn-tree in the corner of the field, and
the stream running at the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog
over against us.
Ask no questions, Billy, said the little man, but go over to that
bit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find.
Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at;
and he picked out two of the stoutest rushes he could find, with
a little bunch of brown blossom stuck at each side of each, and
brought them back to his master.
Get up, Billy, said the little man, taking one of the rushes from
him and stridding across it.
Where shall I get up, please your honour? said Billy.
Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure, said the little man.
Is it after making a fool of me you’d be, said Billy, bidding
me get a horse-back upon that bit of a rush? May be you want to
persuade me that the rush I pulled but while ago out of the bog
over there, is a horse?
Up! up! and no words, said the little man, looking very angry; the
best horse you ever rode was but a fool to it. So Billy, thinking
all this was in joke, and fearing to vex his master, straddled
across the rush; Borram! Borram! Borram! cried the little man
three times, (which, in English, means to become great,) and Billy
did the same after him; presently the rushes swelled up into fine
horses, and away they went full speed; but Billy, who had put the
rush between his legs, without much minding how he did it, found
himself sitting on horseback the wrong way, which, was rather
awkward, with his face to the horse’s tail; and so quickly had his
steed started off with him, that he had no power to turn round, and
there was therefore nothing for it but to hold on by the tail.
At last they came to their journey’s end, and stopped at the gate
of a fine house: Now, Billy, said the little man, do as you see me
do, and follow me close: but as you do not know your horse’s head
from his tail, mind that your own head does not spin round until
you can’t tell whether you are standing on it or on your heels for
remember that old liquor, though able to make a cat speak, can make
a man dumb.
The little man then said some queer kind of words, out of which
Billy could make no kind of meaning; but he contrived to say them
after him for all that and in they both went through the key-hole
of the door, and through one key-hole after another, until they got
into the wine-cellar which was well stored with all kinds of wine.
The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and Billy,
no way disliking the example, did the same. The best of masters
are you, surely, said Billy to him; no matter who is the next; and
well pleased will I be with your service if you continue to give me
plenty to drink.
I have made no bargain with you, said the little man, and will
make none; but up and follow me. Away they went, through key-hole
after key-hole; and each mounting upon the rush which he left at
the hall door, scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like
snow-balls, as soon as the words, Borram, Borram, Borram, had
passed their lips.
When they came back to the Fort-field, the little man dismissed
Billy, bidding him to be there the next night at the same hour.
Thus did they go on, night after night, shaping their course one
night here, and another night there--sometimes north, and sometimes
east, and sometimes south, until there was not a gentleman’s
wine-cellar in all Ireland they had not visited, and could tell the
flavour of every wine in it as well--ay, better than the buttler
himself.
One night when Billy Mac Daniel met the little man as usual in the
Fort-field and was going to the bog to fetch the horses for their
journey, his master said to him, Billy, I shall want another horse
to-night, for may be we may bring back more company with us than
we take. So Billy, who now knew better than to question any order
given to him by his master, brought a third rush, much wondering
who it might be that would travel back in the company, and whether
he was about to have a fellow servant. If I have, thought Billy,
he shall go and fetch the horses from the bog every night; for I
don’t see why I am not, every inch of me, as good a gentleman as my
master.
Well, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, and never
stopped till they came to a snug farmer’s house in the country
Limerick, close under the old castle of Carrigoggunniel, that was
built, they says by the great Brian Bora. Within the house there
was a great carousing going forward, and the little man stopped
outside for some time to listen; then turning round all of a
sudden, said, Billy, I will be a thousand years old to-morrow!
God bless us, sir, said Billy, will you?
Don’t say these words again, Billy, said the little man, or you
will be my ruin for ever.--Now, Billy, as I will be a thousand
years in the world to-morrow, I think it is full time for me to get
married.
I think so too, without any kind of doubt at all, said Billy, if
ever you mean to marry.
And to that purpose, said the little man, have I come all the way
to Carrigoggunniel: for in this house, this very night, is young
Darby Riley going to be married to Bridget Rooney; and as she is
a tall and comely girl, and has come of decent people, I think of
marrying her myself, and taking her off with me.
And what will Darby Riley say to that? said Billy.
Silence! said the little man, putting on a mighty severe look;
I did not bring you here with me to ask questions; and without
holding farther argument, lit began saying the queer words, which
had the power of passing him through the key-hole as free as air,
and which Billy thought himself mighty clever to be able to say
after him.
In they both went; and for the better viewing the company, the
little man perched himself up as nimbly as a cock-sparrow upon
one of the big beams which went across the house overall their
heads, and Billy did the same upon another facing him; not being
much accustomed to roosting in such a place, his legs hung down
as untidy as may be, and it was quite clear he had not taken
pattern after the way in which the little man had bundled himself
up together. If the little man had been a tailor all his life, he
could not have sat more contented by upon his haunches.
There they were, both master and man, looking down upon the fun
going forward--and under them were the priest and piper--and the
father of Darby Riley, with Darby’s two brothers and his uncle’s
son--and there were both father and the mother of Bridget Rooney,
and proud enough the old couple were that night of their daughter,
as good right they had--and her four sisters with bran new ribbons
in their caps, and her three brothers all looking as clean and
clever as any three boys in Munster--and there were uncles and
aunts, and gossips and cousins enough besides to make a full house
of it--and plenty was there to eat and drink on the table for
every one of them, if they had been double the number.
Now it happened, just as Mrs Rooney had helped his reverence to
the first cut of the pig’s head which was placed before her,
beautifully bolstered up with white savoys, that the bride gave a
sneeze which made every one at the table start, but not a soul said
“God bless us.” All thinking that the priest would have done so, as
he ought if he had done his duty, no one wished to take the word
out of his mouth, which unfortunately was preoccupied with pig’s
head and greens. And after a moment’s pause the fun and merriment
of the bridal feast went on without the pious benediction.
Of this circumstance both Billy and his master were no inattentive
spectators from their exalted stations. Ha! exclaimed the little
man, throwing one leg from under him with a joyous flourish, and
his eye twinkled with a strange light, whilst his eyebrows became
elevated into the curvature of Gothic arches--Ha! said he, leering
down at the bride, and then up at Billy, I have half of her now,
surely. Let her sneeze but twice more, and she is mine, in spite of
priest, mass-book and Darby Riley.
Again the fair Bridget sneezed; but it was so gently, and she
blushed so much, that few except the little man took, or seemed to
take any notice; and no one thought of saying, “God bless us.”
At this critical moment the bride gave a third sneeze, and Billy
roared out with all his might, “God save us!” No sooner was it
uttered, than the little man, his face glowing with rage and
disappointment, sprung from the beam on which he had perched
himself, and shrieking out in the shrill voice of a cracked
bagpipe, I discharge you my service, Billy Mac Daniel--take that
for your wages, gave poor Billy a most furious kick in the back,
which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling upon his face and
hands right in the middle of the supper table.
If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every one of the
company into which he was thrown with so little ceremony; but when
they heard his story, Father Cooney laid down his knife and fork,
and married the young couple out of hand with all speed; and Billy
Mac Daniel danced the Rinka at their wedding, and plenty did he
drink at it too, which was what he thought more of than dancing.
FINIS.
THE
COMICAL TRICKS
OF
LOTHIAN TOM,
WITH A
SELECTION OF ANECDOTES.
[Illustration]
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
THE
COMICAL TRICKS
OF
LOTHIAN TOM.
This Thomas Black, vulgarly called Lothian Tom, because he was of
that country, was born about four miles from Edinburgh; his father
being a wealthy farmer, gave him a good education, which he was
very awkward in receiving, being a very wild mischievous boy.
When he was about ten years of age, he was almost killed by the
stroke of a horse’s foot, which his father had who had a trick of
kicking at every person that came behind him. But when Tom got heal
of the dreadful wound, whereof many thought he would have died, to
be even with the horse, he gets a clog, or piece of tree which was
full of wooden pins, such a thing as the shoe makers use to soften
their leather on, and with a rope he tied it to the couple-bauk in
the stable directly opposite to the horse’s tail, then gets on the
bauk, and gives it a swing, so that the pikes in the end of it,
came with full drive against the horse’s backside, which made him
fling, and the more he flung and struck at it, it rebounded back,
and struck him again; the battle lasted with great fury for a long
time, which was good fun for Tom, until his father hearing some
noise in the stable, came to know the matter, and was surprised to
see the poor animal tanning his own hide, with his legs all cut
and bloody! he cut the rope and the battle was ended; but the poor
horse would never afterwards kick at any thing that came behind him.
It happened one day that Tom went a fishing, and brought home a
few small fish, which his grandmother’s cat snapt up in the dark.
So Tom to have justice of the cat for so doing, catches her, and
put her into a little tub, or cog, then sets her adrift in a small
mill-dam, ordering her to go a fishing for herself; then set two or
three dogs upon her, and a most terrible sea fight ensued, as ever
was seen on fresh water; for if any of the dogs, when attempting to
board her, set up their noses, baudrins came flying to that place,
to repulse them with her claws; then the vessel was like to be
overset by the weight of herself, so she had to flee to the other,
and finding the same there from thence to the middle, where she sat
mewing always turning herself about, combing their noses with her
foot. The old woman being informed of the dangerous situation of
her dearly beloved cat, came running with a long poll to beat off
the dogs and haul her ashore. What now, says Tom, if you be going
to take part with my enemies, you shall have part of their reward;
then gives the old woman such a push that she tumbled into the dam
over head and ears, beside her beloved cat, and would undoubtedly
have perished in the water had not one of the people who was there
looking at the diversion, come to her relief.
After this Tom was sent to school to keep his hand out of an ill
turn; and having an old canker’d, crab-witted fellow for his
dominie, they were always at variance; for if Tom had got his
whips, which he often deserved, he was sure to be revenged upon his
master again for it. So Tom perceived his master had a close-stool
in a little closet within the school, where he went and eased
himself when need was: Tom gets a penny-worth of gun-powder, and
sprinkled it on the ground directly before the seat, and lays a
little of it along in a train to the fireside; then perceiving when
his master went into it, and as he was loosing down his breeches
sets fire to the train, which blew it all about his master’s
backside, which scorched him terribly, besides the fright, for
which Tom was severely whipt. Yet, in a little after, he began to
study revenge on his master.
So it happened one day as Tom was in the master’s house, his wife
was stooping into a big meal-barrel, to bring out some meal: then
he takes her by the feet, and coups her up into the barrel with
her head down and her bare backside uppermost; then runs into the
school, crying O master, master! the de’il’s looking out o’ your
meal stand; wi’ a fat face and a black ill-farr’d mouth; yon’s
just Auld Nick if he be living. So the master ran out with all
speed he could, for to see what it was; and found it to be his own
wife, speechless, and almost smothered to death; but as she could
not tell who did it, Tom got clear off: yet he was not satisfied
without some more revenge on the old fellow: and knowing his master
had a fashion, when he was going to whip the boys if they would
not loose their breeches willingly, he drew his knife and cut them
threw the waistband behind: So Tom goes to a butcher, and gets a
raw pudding, and fills it with blood and water, and puts it within
the waistband of his breeches, then goes to the school next day,
and as his master was sitting with his back to the fire, Tom lights
a piece of paper, and sets his wig in a low, which burnt for some
time unperceived, until the flames came fizzing about his ears;
he first put out the flames by tramping on the wig, and being
informed that Tom did it, flies to him in a rage, ordering him to
loose his breeches, but Tom told him he was never so mad.--Then
he drew his knife, whips poor Tom over his knee, and with a great
struggle cuts the waistband of his breeches; but thro’ pudding
and all, so that the blood gushed out, and Tom cried out Murder!
Murder! Murder! and down he fell.
The poor Dominie ran out of the school crying and wringing his
hands. Word flew about that he was sticked by the Dominie, which
made the people come running from several parts of the country
round about to see how it was: but upon searching him, they found
the empty pudding, which discovered all the fraud. Then two men
had to get horses and ride after the poor Dominie, who had by this
time got two or three miles away; and when he saw them riding after
him crying to stop and come back again, he ran the faster until he
could run no more, but fell down on the road, and prayed them to
let him go, for, if he was taken back, he was sure to be hanged:
and would not be persuaded that Tom was alive, until they forced
him back, and he saw him. But he would be Tom’s teacher no longer;
so Tom’s father had to seek another master for him.
PART II.
There was a young woman, servant to Tom’s father, whom Tom had
offended by some of his tricks, and she, to be up with Tom again,
one night spread a handful of short nettles in his bed, between the
sheets which stung his legs and thighs so much, that he was obliged
to quit his bed for some part of the night; for such he resolved
to be revenged, whenever a proper opportunity offered. It happened
in a few days after, that she was invited to a wedding, where the
dancing and diversions induced her to stay all night, and on coming
home in the morning, she fell a washing some clothes. But being
fatigued with her night’s diversion and for want of rest, fell fast
asleep with her hands extended in the tub, and standing on her
feet, with her belly leaning on the tub; Tom perceiving this, slips
her petticoat and smoke over her head, facing the highway; several
people passing by, while she continued in this posture, some of
them were diverted with the sight, and others were ashamed at it;
but a poor cadger had the misfortune to be coming that way at the
time, and his horse taking fright at this unusual sight threw of
his creels, and broke the poor man’s eggs all to smash; which so
enraged him that he lashed her buttocks with his whip, in such an
unmerciful manner, that with the smart and shame together, she had
not the least inclination to sleep for the remaining part of the
day.
Tom being grown up to years and age of man, thought himself wiser
and slyer than his father: and there were several things about the
house which he liked better than to work; so he turned to be a
dealer amongst brutes, a cowper of horses and cows, &c., and even
wet ware, amongst the brewers and brandy shops, until he cowped
himself to the toom halter, and then his parents would supply him
no more. He knew his grandmother had plenty of money, but she would
give him none; but the old woman had a good black cow of her own,
which Tom went to the fields one evening and catches, and takes her
to an old waste house which stood at a distance from any other, and
there he kept her two or three days, giving her meat and drink at
night when it was dark, and made the old woman believe somebody had
stolen the cow for their winter’s mart, which was grief enough to
the old woman, for the loss of her cow. However she employs Tom to
go to a fair that was near by, and buy her another; she gives him
three pounds which Tom accepts of very thankfully, and promises
to buy her one as like the other as possibly he could get; then
he takes a piece of chalk, and brays it as small as meal, and
steeps it in a little water, and therewith rubs over the cows face
and back, which made her baith brucket and rigget. So Tom in the
morning, takes the cow to a public house within a little of the
fair, and left her till the fair was over, and then drives her home
before him; and as soon as they came home, the cow began to rout
as it used to do, which made the old woman to rejoice, thinking it
was her own cow but when she saw her white, sighed and said, Alas!
thou’ll never be like the kindly brute my Black Lady, and yet ye
rout as like her as ony ever I did hear. But says Tom to himself,
’tis a mercy you know not what she says, or all would be wrong yet.
So in two or three days the old woman put forth her bra’ rigget
cow in the morning with the rest of her neighbour’s cattle, but it
came on a sore day of heavy rain, which washed away all the white
from her face and back; so the old woman’s Black Lady came home
at night, and her rigget cow went away with the shower, and was
never heard of. But Tom’s father having some suspicion, and looking
narrowly into the cow’s face, found some of the chalk not washed
away and then he gave poor Tom a hearty beating, and sent him away
to seek his fortune with a skin full of sore bones.