main business; they do use the sweepings in tanning. I pays a shilling a
bushel for'em if they be clean, and so turns an honest penny.--Tinkering
isn't half what it was, since iron crocks have come in so much. To be
sure, the maidens do save the broken spoons for me to melt and mould
again when I comes round; and there's a cullender or so, now and then,
to solder;--but what's that?--I'm a tradesman, as well as the pedlar,
and what's more, a mechanic; but if my trade won't support me, why
should I support my trade, eh?--Well, what did I do; but take to
waddling, as we call it, for wood-ashes to sell to the soap-makers,
and pigeon-cleanings for the tanners; and so I contrives, one way and
another, to make a pretty good bit of bread.”
“Is this a specimen?” said the Irishman, taking up the tinker's
loaf.--“If it is, faith! then, the world's but a middling oven for you.”
“Stop!--here!” cried the tinker, as Doherty was about to roll the loaf
along the grass: “Don't do that;--my poney is the biggest thief as ever
I knowed,--that is, for a horse. He'd snap it up in no time.”
“Would he?--Then I honour him for his talent; though the less we say
about his taste the better. Who taught him them tricks?”
“Why, I did--that is, partly--but somebody stole him from me.”
“Musha! then the man who did that, wouldn't scruple to rob a thief of
his picklock. Well!”--
“Well, he got into the riders' hands;--them chaps that goes about to
fairs, and revels, you know.”
“Yes, I know;--and they finished his education; and when you got him
again he was quite accomplished, without any trouble or expense to
yourself. Tinker, you're a lucky man! I don't think you and I would ever
quarrel upon a point o' conscience.”
“No, no;--that wouldn't be natural.”
“Friends,” observed the Scotchman, “we're wasting time; and time, to
a prudent mon, is siller:--ye're wasting it in idle discourse. The
harrings--”
“Oh! dirty butter upon your herrings and every one of them! Would you
pick a quarrel with me again?” vociferated Darby. “Tinker, bring me
one of your second-hand kettles, or crocks, and let's make soup or
something, and go to breakfast. If you'll club your herrings, your meal,
and your bread,--why then I'll be my whiskey.”
The pedlar acquiesced with the best grace a man, who is compelled to
give his consent to a proposition, possibly could: a debate ensued, as
to the best mode of cooking the food; it was, at length, decided that
the meal should be boiled in a gallon of water, and that the herrings
should be broiled, and then put into the pot to give the mess a flavour.
“If that won't make it salt enough,” said Darby, “a bit of burnt stick
will do the business royally. The finest salt in the world is the ash of
an ash stick. Now, boys,” continued he, “see, here's the whiskey bottle.
I'll just hitch it up, by the string that holds it about my neck, to the
branch above us here;--so that, when we sit down, we can swing it one to
the other, drink, and let go again, without any fear of its being upset
Oh, then! discretion's a jewel any day in the year.”
Doherty now began the culinary task, in which he exhibited a
considerable degree of dexterity, considering his bodily deficiencies.
While his only hand was employed in preparing the herrings for the
gridiron, with which the tinker had furnished him, his wooden leg was
whirled rapidly round the crock, to mix up the poor ingredients that
served as the basis of his broth. An onion, which the tinker found in
his coat-pocket, was shred and thrown in, with a few wild herbs, which
the pedlar, with his pack safely strapped to his back, condescended to
gather from the adjoining hedge-row. A steam, at length, began to rise
from the crock, which the parties interested in the contents, found most
grateful to their olfactories: the broiled herrings were immersed in
the broth; Doherty drove them, vigorously, two or three times round the
crock; and matters approached fast to a crisis. The cook exerted himself
to his utmost; and, in the enthusiasm of the moment, perhaps rather
over-zealously, took his wooden leg out of the broth and thrust
it beneath the crock to stir up the embers, when some one, who had
approached unperceived by either of the party, gently touched Darby's
elbow. He turned half round, and beheld a little girl smiling by his
side.
“Will you please to tell me, if I am in the right road to the revel,
sir?” said the little girl, in a very winning and innocent tone.
“Is it the road to the revel, darling?” said Darby; “Why, then”--Here
Darby stopped short, and his eye wandered over the features and person
of the young inquirer. She was apparently about ten years of age; her
skin was remarkably fair; and her eyes, as Darby afterwards said, were
as blue and beautiful as little violets. She was dressed in a black
stuff frock, a tippet of the same material, and a seal-skin cap, with a
gold band and tassel, which seemed to have been very recently tarnished
by the weather. She wore gloves, but had neither shoe nor stocking; and
the sight of her delicate, white, little feet, as she held them up, one
after the other, toward the fire to warm them, convinced Darby that she
had but very lately been compelled to walk barefooted.
“Oh! sir, you're burning your wooden leg!” said the little girl, while
Darby was gazing at her, and wondering who and what she could be; and
so absorbed was the worthy ballad-singer in the interesting speculation,
that he had, in fact, forgotten to withdraw his leg from beneath the
crock, where he had just placed it, as will be recollected, when the
little girl touched his elbow. At the moment she advised him of the
fact, Darby received a hint or two that corroborated her assertion;--the
flame had twined up the stem, and rather warmed his stump, and the fire
blazed with such vigour, recruited as it was by the supply, that the
broth boiled over. His two companions, who were close at hand, both
observed this latter circumstance an instant after the child had spoken;
the pedlar cried aloud to Darby to save the broth, and the tinker
shouted with glee to see the Irishman sacrificing his trusty support for
the common good. Doherty did not lose his presence of mind: he withdrew
his leg from the fire, and popped it into the pot;--thus extinguishing
the stump, withdrawing the additional stimulus to the fire, and breaking
down the rebellious head of the herring-broth, by that single and simple
act.
The child could not refrain from giggling, miserable as she evidently
was, at the scene; and Darby looked alternately at her and his leg, when
he withdrew it from the pot again, in so droll a manner, that the
little girl burst into a fit of laughter, which the Irishman, very
good-naturedly, subdued, or rather, smothered with kisses.
“Well, my pretty little maid!” said he; “and where have you come from,
agrah! eh?”
“Oh! a long--long way; it's farther than I thought it was when I began.”
“And what do you want at the revel?”
“I mustn't tell you.”
“Eh, then! why not, eh?”
“If I was to tell you why I mustn't, you'd know what I wanted at the
revel.”
“And where's your stockings and shoes? Have you put them in your pocket,
as the girls do in Ireland?”
“No, indeed;--I wore them out yesterday.”
“And how far have you walked barefoot?”
“Oh! ever so far!”
“And how far's that?”
“I can't tell.--Is this the road to the revel?”
“It is;--but what hurry? Won't you wait and take pot-luck with us?”
“I'm hungry, thank you, sir, but I don't think I could eat any
pot-luck,--it smells so odd; I never tasted pot-luck in my life; but I
thank you, sir, for all that, you know.”
“Now, do you hear that? Do you hear the innocence of her? God send we'd
better for you!--though you won't tell us where you come from.”
“I shouldn't wonder but she hath been stole away,” said the tinker;
“stole away, and carried afar, and now hath got liberty, and is seeking
home again. That's nature, you know:--a pigeon would do it; a carrier, a
horseman, a dragoon, or a middling good tumbler even; and why shouldn't
a child?”
“Wha may ye be in mourning for, my wee lassie?” inquired the pedlar. He
was proceeding to ask something about her father and mother, when Darby
put his hand on the pedlar's mouth, and whispered “Wisht! wisht! why
not now, eh?--Aisy, or well quarrel. Don't you know, you old snail, you!
that a child in black should never be axed who it's worn for? May be her
mother's dead,” continued he, raising his voice, and fondling the child
as he spoke; “and your goose of a question raised her dead ghost up to
the little one's memory. Look there--see that now--if the tears ar'n't
running out of her eyes: may be she hasn't a father;--and you--ye
spalpeen, to hurt her feelings that way I Oh! fie upon you, sir!”
“Eh, mon! dinna prate; it's your ain sel' that did the business.--Come
hither, lassie! lassie, come hither!--Could you eat--that is, ha' ye
appetite for--a bit of a harring, daintily broiled? An' ye could stomach
it, I hae just ane in my pack, and I'll broil it mysel', and ye shall
eat it wi' a bit o' biscuit, I think there may be in the pack too.”
The child smiled in the pedlar's face, and, with a nod, signified that
she would accept his offer. The pedlar then produced a fine herring from
a corner of his pack, and after a diligent search, discovered a piece
of biscuit, which he gave the little girl, who curtsied as she took
it These transactions by no means gratified Mr. Doherty: he was in a
passion with the pedlar; first, for possessing a fourth herring; and
secondly, for alluring their little guest with it from his arms: he also
considered the North-Briton's emphatic offer to broil it himself, as a
sneer upon his own culinary achievements. Darby was actually at a
loss for words to express his feelings, and he had recourse to action:
thrusting his hand deep into his bosom, and twisting his hip to meet
it, he seemed to be diving into some pouch, that was rarely visited, and
difficult of access. In rather more than a minute, his hand re-appeared,
with a little odd-shaped bundle of rags in its clutch. With the aid of
his teeth, he contrived to take off several pieces of ribbon and linen,
and, at length, a small metal snuff-box, in the shape of a high-heeled
and sharp-toed shoe, emerged from the mass He opened it and took out
a sixpence. “There,” said he, (for he had now recovered his speech,)
throwing the coin toward the pedlar, “take the price of your herring
and biscuit, and give me the change.--She shan't be behoulden to
you!--Little one!” continued he, addressing the child, “don't listen to
him; don't bite at his bait, nor don't go wid him, darling.--Will I tell
you what he is?--He's one o' them people that cuts the long hair off
the girls' heads, and gives them gew-gaws for it He'll take you under a
hedge, or, may be, when you're asleep, pull out a big pair of shears and
clip off all them pretty locks, Which he'd make shillings of again, from
the hair-merchants; for I see you've longer hair than most maids of your
age; and, faith! it's beautiful, and he knows it He's looking at it as a
cat would at a mouse.--He's a bad man, my dear.”
“Is he?” said the little girl, apparently half alarmed, but still
feeling rather inclined to doubt Darby Doherty's account of the
pedlar;--“Is he a bad man?--Then why do you stay with him?”
“I won't--no, not while you'd whistle, after I've ate his
herrings;--that is, if you'll come wid me.--Will you?”
“Perhaps,” replied the little girl, “he'll say you are a bad man; and
then what can I do?”
At this the tinker laughed and muttered something about nature. The
pedlar still held the child, and putting his hand under her chin, turned
her face upwards, and then looking down upon her, spoke thus;--“My wee
woman, I hae eleven bairns, some younger than yoursel', and I wouldna
harm sic a puir, wee, defenceless child as thee, for the worth of an
ingot of pure gold; it would weigh down my heart on a death-bed, and
carry my soul into the sorrowfu' pit I'm a tradesman, and traffic in
hair, as he has just told you, and have a family,--eleven bairns,
a wife, myself, a daft brither, my first wife's aged and bed-ridden
mither, and a sister's son, as wee and as fatherless as ye seem
yoursel';--saxteen mouths to find food for to-day and to-morrow, and
every morn that I rise. I travel far and near to get it.”
“Just like a good cock-pigeon,” interrupted the tinker; “I've known an
old bird feed the young squeakers in one nest, and his mate to boot,
while she was setting over her eggs in another:--tightish work!--but
there--it's natural.”
“And I dinna scruple,” continued the pedlar, without noticing the
interruption of his companion; “I dinna scruple to do my best, and
barter, as well as I can, in order to get bread and cheese;--but not
with the like o' thee, cherub. I canna' take thee by adoption, for I hae
eleven o' my ain.--I'll hold out no temptation o' that sort; but I'll
carry thee, on the head o' my pack, safe and clear to the revel, if
there's ony there ye hae a wish to see.”
“For that matter,” cried the tinker, “she can ride a-top of my poney,
with the pots and that.”
“Oh! don't be bothering!” shouted Doherty; “she shall ride upon my
wooden leg, or anywhere about me, for have her I will; to the revel
she goes wid me, right or wrong, in spite of man or baist, tinkers,
tay-kettles, pedlars, packs, pilfering ponies, and the whole fratarnity
of ye.--I've said it, and so it shall be.--How do I know,--answer me
this,--how do I know that she isn't the child I lost long ago, eh?--That
was a girl, and isn't this a girl? Now don't be trying to bother my
brains with a reply.--Darby Doherty is my name, and I'm to be found
any day, here or there, one place or another, if you go the right
road.--Pedlar, stop thief! the tinker has stole a herring out of the
pot.”
“Ay, truly, it's time to fall to,” quoth the tinker.
“Wait a moment!” exclaimed the Irishman; “one moment, and we'll all
begin amicably. Hear what I've to say:--I've spoken what I thought about
my honourable friend the pedlar's scheme on the little one; and why
mayn't I indulge in an idea that the worthy tinker, in offering to let
his poney carry her, doesn't speculate--bad luck to his black paws,
how he's streaked the broth!--doesn't speculate upon the value of the
child's ear-rings and little necklace?--So, for these reasons, I'll let
neither of you have her:--now I'm aisy.”
“Why, do you mean to throw out hints--” said the tinker, laying his
herring on the grass, and advancing with a formidable frown and clenched
fists toward Darby; “dost thee mean--”
“Now don't babble; the question's settled,” said Darby; “don't prate, or
we'll quarrel.”
“And I'll be jiggered if we don't,--whether thee likes or not. I'll
stand up for my own character;--it's nature:--so ax pardon, or strip.”
“Strip! How the devil do you think I'd ever get my rags on again, eh?
Ha! ha!”
“Come, come; a joke won't carry it off; it's too heavy. Talk to I about
her rings!--I--I--I--Oh! d--n thee! I'll thrash thee!”
The ballad-singer held up his stumps, and hopping back two paces, cried,
“What, would you assault one with not a plural offensive or defensive
about him?”
“Oh! dang that!--thee'rt right, though;--it's natural Here, pedlar,
help me to tie up my leg and arm, and put thy neckerchief athirt my
eye:--fair play's the word.”
The little girl now screamed loudly, and beseeched the pedlar to
interfere. “Oh! pray, dear Mr. Pedlar, don't let them fight! Oh! he's
going to kill the poor man with the little wooden leg!”
“Do ye hear--do ye hear?” exclaimed the pedlar, “how the bit
creature--the cause o' your quarrel--”
“Oh! pray let me run away,” sobbed the child; “and then perhaps they'll
be friends;--do let me go!”
“Stay, darling,” quoth Doherty; “rather than frighten the child, I'll
consent to apologize:--the heat of the argument made me singe the
whiskers of my friend the tinker's honour;--but if the child wasn't
where she is, and we were after breakfast, just now, right or wrong,
tinker, we'd quarrel.”
“But not fight, it strikes me,” muttered the pedlar.
Calm was again restored, and the trio sat down to their breakfast. The
tinker's loaf was divided; each man devoured his herring, and the
soup was dipped out of the crock, and drank from a little second-hand
saucepan, which alternately served each of the party. Darby's bottle,
which was suspended from the branch above, before the meal was half
concluded, had neatly proved an apple of discord between the tinker and
the pedlar. Darby began, by taking a tolerably good sup of the contents;
he then swung the bottle to the pedlar, who held it so long to his lips,
that the honest tinker became alarmed lest he should not obtain his
share. The pedlar did not withdraw the bottle from his mouth; and when
he raised it to an angle of nearly forty-five degrees with the horizon,
the tinker could no longer sit easy on the turf. He started up, rushed
across the crock, which he upset in his transit, seized the pedlar by
the throat with one hand, and clutched the bottle with the other.
“Hold hard!” said he; “not a drop more goeth down thy gullet! Quit
thy hold o' the bottle, or I'll choke thee I--I will, faith!--it's
natural:--thou hast had my bread, let me share in the whiskey.”
The residue of the broth made the fire hiss and send forth fumes, the
odour of which was truly disgusting. The little girl screamed again,
and Darby Doherty was in high hopes that the brawny pedlar would have
resented the tinker's attack on his person: but he was disappointed.
“You'll excuse me,” said the tinker, bowing as he succeeded in obtaining
possession of the bottle. “You'll excuse me, but, truly--”
“Dinna mention it, friend,” quoth the pedlar. “I was wrong--I forgot
mysel';--it was vara well of ye to look to your ain:--I forgot mysel',
and should have taken it down to the ultimate drop; it glides away like
a joyful dream. It's Farintosh, I doubt: and vara excellent gude as I've
tasted for mony a day.”
The child was much amazed to see storm and calm succeed each other so
rapidly; she felt alarmed at those whom chance had made her associates
and would-be protectors; but appetite mastered fear, and she soon dried
her eyes, and ate the remainder of a piece of the herring which the
pedlar had broiled for her while his companions were debating, and the
biscuit he had discovered in his pack.
After breakfast, the question as to who should take the child to the
revel, was again started. Each of the men spoke resolutely; and a third
quarrel was already budding, when the little girl stood up between the
brawlers, and proposed that, as all three of them were so kind as to
wish to take her, and neither of them would let her go with either of
the others, she should walk on alone; or, that all of them should go
with her together.
An immediate assent was given to this proposal; the motion, as Darby
said, was carried by acclamation; and preparations were immediately
made for starting. While the pedlar was buckling on his pack, the
poney neighed; and the tinker exclaimed, “Who comes hither, I wonder,
a-horseback?”
“Faith, no one that I see or hear, a-horseback or a-foot,” replied the
Irishman.
“Ay, but there do, though, sure as death,” said the tinker; “my poney
yean't no false prophet I'll lay pints round, a horse is coming: I won't
swear for a man,--mind me;--but a horse I be sure of:--and, look--dang
me if 'tean't Parson Hackle!”
“And who's he, then?” inquired the Irishman, as a tall, thin,
middle-aged man, in a black coat, with long leathern leggings,
reaching from his toes to his hips, and mounted on a fat, ambling, old
coach-horse, turned from the high-road, into the lane. “I'll just make
my obedience and compliments to him as he goes by.”
“Thee'st better not,” said the tinker.
“Why not, then?--May be he'd drop me a keenogue and be civil.”
“Not he, friend; he's a magistrate, and though a good man in the main,
mortally hates beggars.”
“Beggars!” exclaimed the Irishman; “sir, I'm a wandering minstrel--one
of the tribe of Orpheus of ould; who, as the song says, the stones
followed; and who, moreover, could move stocks themselves with his
music:--maning, I suppose, that he often got pelted by bad boys,
and whistled himself out of the stocks, with no thanks to the
beadle.--Musha! that I mightn't, then!”
“Well! I can only tell thee, lad,” said the tinker, “Parson Hackle looks
as black at a ballad-singer, as his brother, the 'squire, do at a man who
happens to be misfortunate wi' a maiden.”
“Bad luck to the pair o' them then!”
“So say I,” quoth the tinker; “I ha' been in their clutches afore now,
and I'll warrant the person you spoke of couldn't ha' bought his liberty
wi' an old song, if he got into their wooden gaiters.”
“Oh! sir, sir! pray--dear sir!” said the little girl, who had several
times in vain attempted to make herself heard, during the preceding
dialogue between Darby and the tinker, “did you say the gentleman's name
was Hackle?”
“Yea, I did, troth!” replied the tinker; “Parson Hackle.”
“Parson Hackle!” repeated the little girl; “where is he going?”
“Down to the revel, I reckon,” said the tinker, “like we be; only he
goeth a-horseback, and we poor folks a-foot; and he goeth to help to
keep the peace, and we, mayhap, to help to break it. I can't answer for
myself, much more for my friends, after one o'clock.”
The tinker was right in his supposition that the reverend gentleman
was on his way to the scene of the revel, and necessity compels us to
accompany him; leaving the little girl and her three friends, to follow
us at their leisure. The Reverend Reginald Hackle rode on at a quicker
pace than his steed was accustomed to: Reginald partook, in some degree,
of the hereditary impatience of the Hackles; the humour broke out but
rarely, for Reginald's life was as seldom ruffled, as the gentle stream
which glode along by the garden-hedge of his quiet abode: but he was now
on his way to pass a few hours with his brother Archibald, whom he
had not seen for a number of years; and the old horse, unused to such
exertions as those to which his reverend rider, on this occasion, urged
him, smoked like a dumpling recently lifted from a crock, by the time he
reached the village.