name,--would you?'--And thin he fell laughing, as though his little face
would have tumbled to pieces: and, faith! of all the faces I ever set
eyes on, I never saw the likes of his for a roguish look.--'You wouldn't
have me call you out of your name, would you, Mick?' says he again.
“'Why, thin, no I wouldn't, and that's truth,' says I; 'but what's your
own name? I'd like to know, so I would,' says L “'I dare say you would,'
says he.
“'And after that,' says I, 'I'd be glad if you'd tell me a small trifle
about yourself, and how you live in your little house there, whin you
shut down the roof of it; and thin--'
“'Bad manners to you Mick,' says he; 'don't be prying into a person's
domestic arrangements.'--Them were his words. 'Mind your own business,'
says he; 'and ax me no questions about mee-self; for, may be, I won't
answer them.'
“'But, sir,' says I, thinking to get all I could out of him, before I
ate him; 'sir,' says I, 'it isn't every day one sees, betuxt a pair of
oysther-shells--'
“'Oh! Mick!' says he, 'there's more out o' the way things than meeself,
in the sea.'
“'I shouldn't wonder, sir,' says I.
“'There is, Mick,' says he; 'take my word for it.'
“'I'm sure of it, sir,' says I; 'and yet people says there's no mermaids
even: now meeself saw one once, and she'd a fish's tail, and big fins
below; and above she was as like a man, as one brogue is like another.
Now, sir, I'd like to know your opinion.'
“'Mick,' says he; 'was it in the bay yourself saw the mermaid?'
“'Faith! and it was,' says I.
“'Just four years ago,' says he, 'Mick?'
“'Just,' says I; 'come St. Breedien's day; for it was the very week
Jimmy Gorman was drowned, so it was: his wife married Tim Carroll, tin
months after his wake,--for we waked Jimmy, though he wasn't at home,
and drank long life to our absent friend, in the pitcher o' pothien he
left in the cupboard,--so we did:--and she has now three children, by
Tim; and Maurien, the little one, is two months ould, barring a week, or
thereaway; and three nines is twinty-siven, and tin is tin more,--that's
thirty-siven, and three months betuxt and betune each o' the children,
makes nine more, that's forty-six: thin there's Maurien, she's
two months ould, as I said; so that, taking them together, there's
forty-eight months, one up or one down, and that many months is four
years:--so that, by the rules of multiplication and population, Jimmy's
dead four years--don't you see?'
“'Arrah! don't be preaching,' says he; 'sure, meeself knew Jimmy well.'
“'Ah! and is it yourself?' says I; 'and was he on visiting terms wid
ye?'
“'I knew him better than ever you did in your life, Mick,' says he.
“'Not a bit of it,' says I; 'did you ever spend your money wid him, like
meeself, at the sheebeen-house?--or at the pattarn there above, with the
penny-whiff woman? Did you ever once trate him to a glass o' whiskey,
sir?' says I;--'not yourself, in starch.'
“'Mick,' says he, 'Jimmy and I lay in one bed for seven months.'
“'In one bed!'
“'Yes.'
“'In a bed of oysthers, may be!'
“'It was,' says he.
“'Oh! thin, well and good, sir,' says I; 'but what has Jimmy to do with
the mermaid?'
“'Mick,' says he, 'the mermaid yourself saw below in the bay was him.'
“'Is it Jim?--And now I recollect--what's as true as that my daddy
Jack's a corpse,--the mermaid, sure enough, had a carrotty pole, and two
whiskers, and a big jacket, to say nothing of the bradien, though they
wouldn't believe me,--so they wouldn't; but betuxt ourselves, sir, by
this pipe in my fist, she was dacently clothed as meeself, barring the
breeches. Oh! thin, divil a saw saw I of breeches about her; and her
legs,--sure, and wasn't her legs a fish? and didn't meeself say so?'
“'Very well, Mick,' says he; 'I'll explain it to you:--a big blackguard
of a shark, that was on a travelling tour, happened to be going that way
when Jim's boat was upset, and gobbled him up just as he got into the
water: but, lo and behould! whin he'd got Jim's legs down his throat,
and came to his bradien and big belly, divil a swallow could the shark
swallow him:--and there Jim stuck so fast, that if the shark had taken
fifty emetics before-hand, he couldn't have cast him up.--With that,
Jim, finding his situation unpleasant, began to kick; and the shark,
with that, tickled Jim's ribs with his teeth; but he couldn't bite
clane through his big coat,--and the more Jim kicked, the more the shark
tickled him; and up they wint, and down they wint; and my belief is,
that Jim would have bate him, but the fish got suffocated, and sunk,
just as Jim was gitting a pull at the whiskey-bottle, which he carried
in his side pouch; and down they wint together, so sudden, that Jim,
taken up as he was with the taste of the crature, didn't know he was
drowned till they were both at the bottom.'
“'Was Jimmy and the shark, the mermaid meeself saw thin?' says I.
“'They was, Mick.'
“'Thin bad luck to the pair o' them,' says I, 'for two impostors!--And
how did your honour know this?'
“'Wasn't I in the shark's belly all the time?' says he.--'Didn't he
gobble me up with a salmon, that tried to take refuge in the place where
meeself and a few friends laid tin days before?--A lobsther lived in
Jim's pocket for a month; and he and all his family used to go out three
days a week to pull Jim's nose, for fishing up two of their cousins
once,--so they did.--I'd thank ye for a pinch of snuff.'
“'And welcome, sir,' says I, houlding over the snisheen; 'meeself likes
to hear news of my friends, sir,' says I; 'would your honour plaze to
take a shaugh o' the doothien too?' And politeness, you know, made me
offer him the pipe.
“'Mick,' says he; 'is it meeself, or the likes o' me, that smokes?--I
never took a goll o' the peepa in all my life:--and over and above that,
Mick, I'd feel mightily obliged to you, if you'd blow your smoke higher,
or be just ginteel and agreeable enough to sit the other side o' me: if
you don't, you're a dirty blackguard, and bad luck to you, sir,' says
he; 'for I've no chimney to my house.' With that, I just knocked out the
backy from the pipe, and tould him, I didn't mind meeself, and I'd put
away smoking at once.
“'Mick,' says he, 'you'd nothing but ashes in your doothien; so the
divil's thanks to you!'
“'Sir,' says I, not noticing what he said,' that's a mighty nate little
house you have of your own; I'd like to know who built it.' “'Faith!
thin I did meeself, Mick,' says he; 'but I'd like your big finger the
better, if it was outside my door.'
“'Sir,' says I, 'if I'd such a nate little cabin, I'd marry Molly Malony
at once. Doesn't your honour ever think of getting a wife?--or, may be,
you're a widower?'
“'Mick,' says he, 'oysthers don't marry.'
“'Ye live mighty like a hermit, in your cell there,' says I.
“'Mighty like,' says he.
“'I suppose, you have your beads too, and you count them,' says I.
“'I suppose I don't,' says he; 'for I've but one.'
“'Troth, and that's a thumper thin,' says I, peeping into his little
parlour: and there, sure enough, was a pearl big enough to be the making
of me, and all the seed and breed of me, past, present, and to come,
hanging by a bit of sea-weed round his neck.
“'Do you know what, Mick?' says he; I'm sick o' the world, Mick; and I'm
half inclined to give you lave to ate me.'
“'Sir,' says I, taking off my hat, 'I'm much obliged to you for nothing
at all. It's meeself manes to ate your honour, with or without lave,--so
I do.'
“'Is it yourself, Mick?'
“'Faith! and it is thin,--though I say it; for I'm hungry:--and, after
that, I mane to take the big pearl, I see there about your neck.'
“'Mick, you're a reprobate!--Sure, you would'nt be so un-genteel, as to
ate a gentleman against his own inclination, would you?'
“'Meeself would thin, and think it no sin, in case the gentleman was a
plump little oysther, like your honour.'
“'Then, Mick, I wish you good evening!'
“'Oh, joy!' says I, seeing how he was going to shut himself in; 'it's of
no use, sir, to do so:--I've a knife in my pocket, and it's not burglary
in this country to break into the house of an oysther.'
“'Mick,' says he; 'an oysther's house is his castle.'
“'Castle I' says I; 'is it a castle?--two shells, with a little face in
the middle o' them, a castle?--Thin what's my cabin below but a palace?'
“'A pig's palace, it is, Mick,' says he.
“'Musha! bad luck thin,' says 1, 'to every bit of you--'
“'Ah! Mick,' says he, interrupting me, 'if I was half your size, I'd
bate you blue, so I would.--You're a dirty cur, and so was your father
before you.'
“'Say that again,' says I; 'say my father was a cur, sir, again, and I'd
be obliged to you:--just say it now, and see how soon I'll break every
bone in your skin.'
“'Bone!' says he; 'sorrow the bit of bone is in me at all!' says
he.--'Do you know anything of anatomy, Mick?'
“'An atomy!--that's a thing smaller than a mite, isn't it?'
“'Arrah! no, man: don't you know what nerves and muscles manes?'
“'Nerves meeself knows little about; but is it muscles? Och! thin,
didn't I get a bag-full below on the beach, this day se'nnight? Tell me,
sir, if you plaze,--is a muscle any relation to your honour?'
“'Ah! Mick,' says he; 'would you insult me?--sure we trace our pedigree
up to the days of King Fergus; and the muscles wasn't known for whole
ages after: they're fishes of yesterday,--mushrooms o' the
ocean:--d--n the one o'thim knows whether or no he ever had a
great-grandmother!--Mick, this is a bad upstart world we live in.'
“'It is,' says I; 'people thinks o' nobody but just their ownselves; and
doesn't mind what inconvaniency they puts their fellow-cratures to, so
as they ar'n't harried thimselves.'
“'True,' says he, 'Mick:--did you ever rade o' the Romans?'
“'I'm a Roman meeself, sir.'
“'Phugh!' says he; 'it's of rulligion ye're spaking!--I mane the ould
Romans,--Romulus and Rebus,--Brutus and Brian Bora,--that sacrificed
themselves for the good of their country:--thim's the examples we ought
to follow, Mick! We should help our fellow-cratures too, in necessity,
if it lies in our power; and not stand, shilly-shally, thinking and
turning it over whether it will be to our advantage or not.'
“'Sir,' says I, 'your honour spakes my own sintimints; and sure never
could a finer time come for practising what you preach, than now.--Luck
up, your honour,--luck up, and see meeself, a poor fellow-crature,
in distress fora mouthful;--I'm a part o' my country, and you're an
Irishman born, I'll be sworn.' “'Mick,' says he; 'that's a different
sort of a thing, intirely.'
“'Not at all,' says I; 'it's a case in point.'
“'Well, Mick,' says he; 'thin I will,--I will sacrifice meeself.'
“'And no thanks to you, sir,' says I; 'you know you'd be sacrificed by
me, whether you sacrificed yourself or no. Ah, ah!' “'Ha, ha!' says he;
'that's true; and it's the way o' the world, Mick.'
“'And may be, sir,' says I, 'thim Romans yourself spoke about--'
“'Blarney and humbug, Mick!--blarney and humbug!--They did just what
Shawn O' Shaugnessy did, while ago,--jump overboard to show his bravery,
when he knew the ship was sinking.--But don't be in a hurry, Mick,' says
he, seeing me licking my lips, and getting nearer him;--'although, Mick,
I have no wish to live; for an oysther's life is a sad one, Mick.'
“'Ah! sir,' says I, 'and so is Mick Maguire's.'
“'I've every wish in the world to travel into all foreign parts.' “'And
so have I, sir.'
“'But a snail's better off than I am.--Can't he take a trip, with his
house on his back, and look about him whin he likes?' “'That's just my
own case,' says I; 'there's John Carroll, the pedlar, takes his pack on
his shoulther, and travels from Clonmell to Carrick,--from Carrick to
Stradbally, and all over the rest of the world, two or three times a
week.'
“'Oh! musha! Mick,' says he, 'don't grumble; you're not half so bad off
as I am:--it's tied by the back, I am, to the floor of my house, and I
can't stir a foot.'
“'It isn't much money yourself spinds in brogues and stockings,
thin,' says I.--'Ah! thim brogues ates a man out of house and home,
intirely!--Does your honour know one Darby Walsh, a brogue-maker?'
“'No, I don't.'
“'Then, mark this, sir,' says I; 'if ever you shake the fist of him,
you'll have a rogue in your gripe.'
“'I knew one Jack Walsh,' says he, 'at Calcutta?'
“'And was your honour ever at Calcutta?' says I.
“'I was once, Mick,' says he: 'I wint out in a porpus, who very politely
gave me an inside place for nothing: but, arrah! Mick, I was obliged to
work my way home.'
“'Did you know one Tiddy Maguire, in the East Indies?' says I.
“'No; but I heard talk of him.'
“'He was a brother of mine, sir; and though I've axed every body that
ever come from thim parts, if they knew one Tiddy Maguire, in the
East Indies, divil a ha'p'orth o' news could ever I get about him
before!--Will I tell your honour a story about Tiddy?--Sure, I
will thin:--Tiddy was a boy that used to be given to walking in his
sleep;--he'd go miles about, and bring home people's little pigs and
poultry; and be all the while innocent of theft--quite intirely,--so
he said, any how. Well! to make a long story short, one night Tiddy
was awoke by a great knock on the head, abroad there in Morty Flynn's
backyard, with a sucker from the ould sow's side, in his hand;--how it
came there, Tiddy never could give any satisfactory account.
Whin he got home,--'Arrah! Tid,' says I, 'what happened you, man?--and
who's been braking the face of you?' And sure enough, the blood was
streaming through his hair like a brook among underwood. 'Morty Flynn,'
says he, 'struck me while ago.' 'Arrah! man, and had you nothing in your
hand to defind yourself wid?' says I 'Troth! and I had thin,' says he;
'but what's a sucking-pig in a man's fist to a dung-shovel?'
“'But, sir,' says I to the oysther, 'it's high time we should be better
acquainted:--by your lave, sir,' says I, taking out my skean dubh, and a
fine knife it was;--'by your lave, sir--'
“'Luck up, luck up, Mick!' says he.
“Meeself lucked up, as he bid me, and the curse of Cromwell on the crow
that was flying over my head just thin;--the bird was bastely enough to
dirt the face o' me;--down it fell, just thin as I lucked up, exactly
betuxt my two eyes. I was in a terrible rage, you may guess; but hark
to what a fool I was:--instid of getting my gun, and shooting the
blackguard, what did meeself do, in the heat of the moment, but pick
up the oysther, and away wid it at him, thinking to knock a hole in his
black coat!
“'Caw!' says he, sailing off; 'caw-aw!' grinning at me.
“'Caw-aw!' says the oysther, says he to me too, from a ledge o' the rock
below me, where he fell; 'caw-aw, Mick!--more sinse and bad luck to ye,
Mick!'
“'Ah! sir,' says I, putting a good face on the matter, and thinking
whether or no I could get at him;--'ah! sir,' says I, 'did you think I'd
be bad enough to devour you?'
“'Faith! you would, Mick,' says he.
“'Wasn't I polite?'
“'Mighty; and may you break your neck going home, Mick! Your brother
Tiddy was transported in the East Indies; your father wouldn't fight for
his faction; your aunt had a child, that was sent to the foundling, at
Dublin; your cousin Jim is a tithe-proctor:--you're a bad set, egg
and bird:--your sister's husband is a swaddler; and your own father's
mother-in-law's first cousin hung a priest, Mick: moreover--'
“'Hould your tongue, you villain!' says I, levelling my gun at him.
'Hould your tongue, or Til blow you to atoms!'
“'Who cares for you?' says he. 'Didn't you steal the shot your gun is
loaded wid?--Answer me that.'
“'I will,' says I, pulling the trigger, and knocking his house from the
ledge, plump into the sea.
“'I've done for you now, ould gentleman, I think,' says I.
“'No, you haven't, Mick,' says he, peeping out of his shell, as he was
falling; 'you've done just what I wanted. A grate big bird carried me up
where you found me; he couldn't open me though, and left me there where
I was; and instid of having done for me, you've sint me home,
Mick,' says he, 'to my own bed, you blackguard; for which I'm mighty
obliged,--and bad luck to you, Mick!' says he, as he sunk in the
sea:--and from that day to this, meeself never set eyes on the little
man in the oysther-shells,--though it's often I drame about him, and of
what he said to me above on the crag there.”
[Illustration: 206]
TIMBERLEG TOE-TRAP.
As I mentioned Pierce Veogh, 'while ago, when I was telling you of Mick
Maguire--'twas he gave Mick the gun--himself it was then--and as I may
mention him again two or three times, or may be oftener, before I've
done telling you of my Neighbours, I'll just let you know a little who
and what Pierce was. At three-and-twenty, he came into a fine fortune;
his father died then; he'd neither chick nor child but Pierce, and a
fine boy he was, but too wild from his cradle to come to much good,
'twas thought. The father was a miserly curmudgeon in many things, and
wouldn't live among us much; but kept Pierce here, with a private tutor
and a few people, as long as Pierce would let him: but when the boy grew
big, he'd no mind to be staying at home all his days,--and no blame to
him,--so he wint off; and the father came back then, and lived at The
Beg,--so we call his place,--till he died.
Many's the tale they tell of ould James Veogh;--how he'd give a feast
fit for a prince, once now and then, just to make the great folks in
Dublin have an idea of his wealth, and what not, and then whip the
cat for a year after, to make up for it. No man was prouder; and
it's thought he was wrong in cooping up Pierce at home all his young
days;--but that's no matter for my meddling. And it's said, his heart
grudged the expense of maintaining Pierce abroad in the world, like the
rest of the young sirs; and his pride wouldn't let his only son and heir
be looked down upon: so to save both money and pride at once, Pierce was
a caged bird until he grew up;--then he flew off, and a wild flight he
had too.
It's said by his servants, that the father--and this is one of the
million stories we have about him--once entertained the great lords and
ladies at his house, in Dublin, with a fine masquerade, which cost him a
mint of money,--no doubt it did;--and there was himself, in the disguise
of the goddess they call Ceres, whose name you have heard before--though
I hadn't when they first tould me the joke;--and while his guests were
drinking down wine worth its weight in gold,--and it was all galore
and glory with them,--Jimmy was seen skulking about, gathering up the
scraps, out o' the way o' the strange servants, in a thing he carried,
they call something that manes in English, a horn of plenty. That wasn't
a bad joke of him, it's said, by them that knows. But there's no doubt,
though he'd stoop to pick up a farthing, while Pierce would sooner be
skimming guineas over a pond, ould Jim Veogh did more real good than
Pierce did at first; for he payed all he owed,--though not a penny more,
while Pierce often wouldn't--no, not when he could; and he didn't harry
the poor tenants for rent,--which couldn't be said of Pierce,--but gave
them time, though he made them pay up at last. And the ould man never
did harm to any one in the way of pranks,--not when he was a boy even;
and there's more than me recollects his sending Luke Sweeny a cow, when
the one he had died.---To be sure, the cow he sent wasn't worth much;
but he gave Luke a long day to pay for her, and took lawful interest
only on the price,--which was three pounds ten shillings,--until it was
paid. And paid it was, to the day: for Luke was as honest a man as ever
broke bread, and wouldn't harm a mouse, unless he caught the crature
nibbling his loaf,--and then, what harm?--My blessing on Luke!--it's
many's the piggin of milk we got from him, in the bad times, when he'd
a right to hould his head higher than he can now,--worse luck!--I could
tell you a story of Luke, too; but as you're longing, I dare say, to
know about Timberleg, I won't baulk you, by giving you dry bread when
you're longing for sweetmeats. Luke's isn't a bad story though, for all
that; and I'll tell it you, by-and-by, when I've none better left.
Pierce, as I said, wint off, nobody knows where but himself; and being
a wild bird, came into bad hands, and got plucked; so that, when the
father died--and there's some people don't scruple to say, Pierce, by
his conduct, lent him a spur on the road to the grave--when he died, I
repate, all the ready money was ate up by paying off post-obits, which
Pierce had been giving at the maddest rate ever was known. The day
before he heard that his ould dad was just dying, Pierce was in much
distress, and so foolish to boot, that he gave some blackguard a bond
for five hundred pounds, payable a month after his father's death, for
nothing in the world but a good dinner and oceans of wine, for himself
and a friend, every day for a week. That's what they call giving a
post-obit; and a bad thing it is, as Pierce found.--He just reached home
in time to get the father's forgiveness; and when it came to the last,
a fine sorrowful parting they made, it's said, as one could wish to
see;--for both o' them seemed sorry for the course they'd taken in life,
and came to a resolution, if they'd their time to go over again, they'd
not act as they had acted: but that could do no good. The father died
the same evening; and, by that day month, Pierce was pestered to pay up
his post-obits.
There wasn't so much money in hand left by Mr. James Veogh, as Pierce
expected; and many of the poor tenants suffered; for he pinched them
close, and did what he could to get clear o' the world. But all wouldn't
do; and at last the bailiffs were after him night and day. It's said,
that then it was Pierce Veogh learned to sleep with his eyes open;--a
thing he does to this day, though there's no call for it.
The man that Pierce most feared in the world was one Nick Forester,--a
bailiff, who lived in the nearest town to The Beg, on any side. Nick
was a fine tall fellow,--six feet, if not more; and few could match him.
He'd a nickname, like most of us, and was called “Timberleg;” why, I
need not tell you:--but supposing you don't guess--it was, because his
left leg was a wooden one. The other, as most wooden-legged men's are,
was as stout a bit of material as you'll see anywhere, and Nick was
proud of it,--as well he might. Though he'd scarce a word to throw to a
dog, he was as 'cute as a fox, as well as being strong as a lion; and
it was few escaped him. Spaking of animals, Nick had a dog, that always
wint with him, and Nick called him Benjie. Benjie was black as coal; but
you wouldn't notice him, for he was neither ugly enough to make any one
fall into fits at the sight of him, nor good-looking enough for you
to admire him:--he wasn't big or little, good-tempered or cross but
middling every way. Benjie, though, was of great use to his master: and
we accounted a man to be clever if he could outwit Nick and his dog.
But outwitted they certainly were, now and then, though: and before I go
further, I'll tell you how Nick was served by a surgeon by the name of
Anderson, that set up in the next street to Nick's;--and it's many's the
time Nick nabbed him, though you wouldn't think it, to see how great
a man Surgeon Anderson is at this time. You must know that Nick had a
wife, and a fine family, too; and one night a son of his--I think it was
Jack, that's now married to Thady Purcell's widow--got taken ill with
something sudden and dangerous: so Nick buckled on his leg and threw
something over him, and wint and knocked at Surgeon Anderson's door.
This was in the middle of the night: so when the surgeon put his head
out of window and heard who it was, he wouldn't come down, thinking it
was a make-believe of Nick's to nab him again. Nick couldn't blame
him; for it's true Nick had often played tricks to get a sight o' the
surgeon, when he wanted to take him; for he was almost a match for Nick
himself, and not aisily had. So Nick stumped off to another surgeon,
but he was out to a man five miles away; and to a third, but he was sick
himself; and no one in the wide world could Nick get in the 'town, to
come and see his son, that was a'most dying at home. Back he wint to
Surgeon Anderson's again,--so he did;--and after he'd bate the door with
his leg a little, the surgeon popped out his head, and says he, “Who's
that below there?”
“It's me,” says Nick, mighty civil; “it's me, sir, again.”
“Oho!--And what story have you now, Nick?”
“The same I had 'while ago, sir my son's sick--”