"Ah, God help us, but 'tis a bad night for poor sailors," said Padna
Dan, as he pulled his chair close to the glowing hearth where faggots
blazed and a kettle sang. "The strand will be strewn with wreckage
to-morrow, and there will be more widows and lonely mothers in the
world than ever there was before, and all because the winds have
no mercy, and the sea has no mercy, and there's no mercy anywhere
but in the heart of God. There's a peal of thunder now, and if the
clouds burst and the rain comes, there won't be a sheaf of corn left
standing in Castlebawn to-morrow."
"There will, please God," said Micus, as he stirred the fire.
"'Tis like you to have the good word," said Padna, "but I'm sick and
tired of this country altogether. When we have a fine summer we have
a bad autumn, and when we have a good spring we have a wet summer, and
when we have a hard winter we have nothing at all. I can't understand
these things. 'Pon my word, I can't."
"No, nor any one else, either," said Micus. "How is it that decent
fathers and mothers rear worthless children, and worthless children
rear decent fathers and mothers? Or how is it that grass grows in
the fields, and the lark sings in the sky, and the trees lose their
leaves in winter? Or how is it that the world isn't under water long
ago after all the rain we've had since Cromwell went to hell? Or how
is it that people will spend half their lifetime educating themselves,
and then go to war and kill people they had no quarrel with at all?"
"Didn't I tell you I can't understand these things?" said Padna,
rather piqued. "Sure if I could, I'd be a philosopher, and if I was
a philosopher, I wouldn't have to worry about anything."
"And why?" said Micus.
"Because philosophers are people with easy minds and usually they
have all they want."
"And what's a pessimist?" said Micus.
"A pessimist is a philosopher before he gets a good job," answered
Padna.
"And what am I then?"
"What are you? You're a philosopher, of course."
"Bedad, I suppose I am," said Micus. "It takes all kinds of people
to make a world, anyway."
"It does," said Padna. "Philosophers, pessimists, suffragettes,
and policemen."
"The world is a strange place."
"Indeed it is, and a beautiful place, when you haven't to work for
a living."
"And life is a strange thing."
"Life is a wonderful thing, a queer and bewildering thing, but a
magnificent thing withal, when you're not married."
"'Tis, but no one makes the most of it. Some make it short by trying
to make it long, and others make it long by trying to make it short."
"Suicide is a cowardly thing if you're married, and a brave thing
if you're not, but there's nothing worse than selfishness, except
being an Orangeman. They're more proud than the peacocks themselves,
and no one would bother with peacocks only for their fine feathers."
"I never ate peacocks," said Micus, "but I'd rather a good piece
of bacon and cabbage than the finest turkey that was ever killed,
cooked, and eaten."
"Good green cabbage is a wholesome thing and bacon is better, but
when a man has neither, there's nothing like a good smoke."
"That's the worst of this country," said Micus. "Some things are
better than others, and a little of anything only gives you an appetite
for more, and too much is as bad as too little. Too little makes one
peevish and selfish, and too much makes one foolish. When you're happy,
you start thinking about the days of sorrow and mourning you had,
and when you're unhappy you start thinking about the days of joy
and pleasure, and no matter what way you are, you want to be some
other way. Sure this is no place for a man to live, if he wants to
enjoy himself."
"And where would you live if not in your native land? The savage
loves his native heath."
"I know he does, but the real estate men love it better, and that's
why land is so dear in America. The Land of Peace and Plenty is the
only place to live."
"The Land of Peace and Plenty! Where's that?"
"Oh! 'tis leagues and leagues and leagues from anywhere you know."
"And how did you get there?"
"In a ship, of course. When I was a boy, I sailed over the ocean
for six months without finding a single night, nothing but days all
the time, until you forgot what darkness was like. Well, one night at
twelve o'clock, though 'twas broad daylight, mind you, one of our crew,
Martin O'Farrell, was playing 'The Boys of Wexford' on a gadget, when
lo and behold! a sea serpent puts his head out of the waters and ses:
'Bravo, Martin,' ses he. 'That's the finest tune in all the world,
but play me a four-hand reel,' ses he, '"The Kerryman's Daughter,"
for choice, and I'll dance for you until old Ireland is free.' And
Martin started to play 'The Kerryman's Daughter' and the sea serpent
started to dance, and he kicked up such a devil of a row, and lashed
and splashed the waters until our ship got tossed about so badly that
she finally foundered, and not a soul was saved but myself."
"And how did you save yourself?"
"Well, when I saw the way things were, I thought to myself that there
was trouble ahead, so I lashed a knife to each of my feet, and one
on each of my hands, the way you'd see fins on a fish. I put three
on my back and so many on my head that you'd think I was a porcupine,
and when I looked to the west, I saw land about two or three hundred
miles away. 'Fortune favors the brave as well as the foolish,' ses I,
and then I started out for the shore."
"You did, is it?"
"If I didn't, how could I be telling you all about it? Well, the sea
was alive with hungry sharks, but every time one swallowed me up, I cut
my way through and escaped, only to be swallowed again, but even that
had its advantages. I was carried nearer the shore each time, until
finally I reached terra firma, as safe and as sound as a Protestant."
"How many sharks did you kill?"
"Just enough to teach the others how to behave themselves."
"And when you reached the shore, what did you do?"
"I dried my clothes on the hot sand, shaved myself with one of the
knives I had on my head, and used a pool of water for a looking glass,
and when I combed my hair, every lady in the land fell in love with
me, but I only fell in love with one."
"And what kind was she?" asked Padna.
"She was a lady of great beauty," said Micus, "and as she passed by
she looked into my eyes, and though I might live for ten thousand
years I will never forget her. Sure no words that ever were spoken
could describe her queenly gait and inspiring glances. She seemed to
have come from some place not yet discovered by man, and looked as
lonesome and as beautiful as a lily in a cabbage garden."
"And why did you not follow her and find out something about her?"
"Ah me, sure she disappeared for ever, before I could find any word at
all to say. I have seen other beautiful women, but they had only the
beauty of flowers which fade and die. But her beauty was the beauty
which lives and never dies."
"I suppose it must be that same thing which all the people does be
talking about, but don't know what it is at all, at all."
"Sure if you knew all about anything, you wouldn't be talking
about it."
"That's true."
"Love is the most beautiful thing in all the world, and it isn't so
much anything else as a divine state of mind."
"So 'twas in the Land of Peace and Plenty that you fell in love with
a beauty who came into your life for a moment and went out of it
for ever?"
"Yes," said Micus.
"An' that's why you've remained an old bachelor, was it?"
"That's the one and only reason."
"I am sorry for you," said Padna.
"You needn't be sorry," said Micus. "If a bachelor has sorrows, he
has joys as well, and 'tis better to keep what you have than to lose
what you haven't."
"How could you lose what you haven't?"
"Well, you might get it if you tried hard enough, and then only find
discontent and disillusionment."
"I'd like to go to the Land of Peace and Plenty. It must be a
wonderful place."
"A wonderful place it is, then, surely, and nearly as wonderful as
the sun itself."
"When the earth goes too near the sun it is too hot, and when it goes
too far away from the sun it is too cold, but in the Land of Peace
and Plenty, I suppose it must be always beautiful."
"Indeed and it is."
"What do all the people do there?"
"In the Land of Peace and Plenty, nobody does anything but enjoy
themselves."
"And if the Land of Peace and Plenty is such a wonderful place,
how is it that the great powers of the world don't go to war for
it?" asked Padna.
"Sure they did go to war for it long before you began to make
mistakes," answered Micus, "and great battles were fought there
too. And after the greatest battle of all was ended, the King ses
to all the High Generals: 'Fellow warriors and likewise courageous
omadhauns,' ses he, 'what are we fighting for, anyway? The world
is large enough for us all, and there's enough of dead men already,
and those that aren't dead are alive, and those that are alive are
nearly dead, but all the same,' ses he, 'I must compliment you on
the magnificent way you slaughtered my fellow countrymen and your
own fellow men, though why you did so, or wanted to do so, God alone
knows.'"
"Every man is entitled to as much enjoyment as he can afford," said
Padna. "Sorrow is the price of pleasure, and the sport of nations is
the curse of mankind."
"We won't discuss international politics. The world was best when
people left others to mind their own business."
"Proceed about the King of the Land of Peace and Plenty," said
Padna. "Interruptions and digressions are bad unless they're for
one's good."
"That's true, but half a loaf is better than no bread when a man
isn't hungry."
"Two heads are better than one," said Padna, "and two fools, if
they are any way sensible at all, are better than a wife with a
bad temper. But comparisons are odious, as the whale said to the
grasshopper. Go on with your story."
"Well, the King ses to the Generals, after they had all forgotten what
he first started talking about: 'I demand,' ses he, 'in the name of
justice, common sense, and humanity, that we will be allowed time to
bury our dead, and that there will be no thunderous cannonading of
artillery, no charges of cavalry, infantry, nor anything else that
might be a breach of the etiquette of war, until our last man is
buried.' And then and there the Generals agreed, and from that day
to this, there was never a sound, except of music, heard in the Land
of Peace and Plenty."
"I don't quite understand," said Padna.
"Well," said Micus, "don't you see, when the last man was buried,
some one else died, and as there will be always some one dying, there
will be always some one to be buried in the Land of Peace and Plenty."
"All the water is boiled out of the kettle," said Padna.
"There's plenty more in the well," said Micus.