[Illustration: J]Jack, said my uncle Ned to me one evening, as we sat
facing each other, on either side of the old oak table, over which, for the
last thirty years, my worthy kinsman's best stories had been told, "Jack,"
said he, "do you remember the pair of yellow-topped boots that hung upon
the peg in the hall, before you went to college?"
"Certainly, uncle; they were called by every one, 'The Wife Catchers.'"
"Well, Jack, many a title has been given more undeservedly--many a rich
heiress they were the means of bringing into our family. But they are no
more, Jack. I lost the venerated relics just one week after your poor dear
aunt departed this life."
My uncle drew out his bandanna handkerchief and applied it to his eyes; but
I cannot be positive to which of the family relics this tribute of
affectionate recollection was paid.
"Peace be with their _soles_!" said I, solemnly. "By what fatal chance did
our old friends slip off the peg?"
"Alas!" replied my uncle, "it was a melancholy accident; and as I perceive
you take an interest in their fate, I will relate it to you. But first fill
your glass, Jack; you need not be afraid of this stuff; it never saw the
face of a gauger. Come, no skylights; 'tis as mild as new milk; there's not
a head-ache in a hogshead of it."
To encourage me by his example, my uncle grasped the huge black case-bottle
which stood before him, and began to manufacture a tumbler of punch
according to Father Tom's popular receipt.
Whilst he is engaged in this pleasing task, I will give my readers a
pen-and-ink sketch of my respected relative. Fancy a man declining from his
fiftieth year, but fresh, vigorous, and with a greenness in his age that
might put to the blush some of our modern hotbed-reared youths, with the
best of whom he could cross a country on the back of his favourite hunter,
_Cruiskeen_, and when the day's sport was over, could put a score of them
under the aforementioned oak table--which, by the way, was frequently the
only one of the company that kept its legs upon these occasions of
Hibernian hospitality. I think I behold him now, with his open, benevolent
brow, thinly covered with grey hair, his full blue eye and florid cheek,
which glowed like the sunny side of a golden-pippin that the winter's frost
had ripened without shrivelling. But as he has finished the admixture of
his punch, I will leave him to speak for himself.
"You know, Jack," said he, after gulping down nearly half the newly-mixed
tumbler, by way of sample, "you know that our family can lay no claim to
antiquity; in fact, our pedigree ascends no higher, according to the most
authentic records, than Shawn Duffy, my grandfather, who rented a small
patch of ground on the sea-coast, which was such a barren, unprofitable
spot, that it was then, and is to this day, called 'The Devil's Half-acre.'
And well it merited the name, for if poor Shawn was to break his heart at
it, he never could get a better crop than thistles or ragweed off it. But
though the curse of sterility seemed to have fallen on the land, Fortune,
in order to recompense Shawn for Nature's niggardliness, made the caverns
and creeks of that portion of the coast which bounded his farm towards the
sea the favourite resort of smugglers. Shawn, in the true spirit of
Christian benevolence, was reputed to have favoured those enterprising
traders in their industry, by assisting to convey their cargoes into the
interior of the country. It was on one of those expeditions, about five
o'clock on a summer's morning, that a gauger unluckily met my grandfather
carrying a bale of tobacco on his back."
Here my uncle paused in his recital, and leaning across the table till his
mouth was close to my ear, said, in a confidential whisper--
"Jack, do _you_ consider killing a gauger--murder?"
"Undoubtedly, sir."
"You do?" he replied, nodding his head significantly. "Then heaven forgive
my poor grandfather. However, it can't be helped now. The gauger was found
dead, with an ugly fracture in his skull, the next day; and, what was
rather remarkable, Shawn Duffy began to thrive in the world from that time
forward. He was soon able to take an extensive farm, and, in a little time,
began to increase in wealth and importance. But it is not so easy as some
people imagine to shake off the remembrance of what we have been, and it is
still more difficult to make our friends oblivious on that point,
particularly if we have ascended in the scale of respectability. Thus it
was, that in spite of my grandfather's weighty purse, he could not succeed
in prefixing _Mister_ to his name; find he continued for a long time to be
known as plain 'Shawn Duffy, of the Devil's Half-acre.' It was undoubtedly
a most diabolic address; but Shawn was a man of considerable strength of
mind, as well as of muscle, and he resolved to become a _juntleman_,
despite this damning reminiscence. Vulgarity, it is said, sticks to a man
like a limpet to a rock. Shawn knew the best way to rub it off would be by
mixing with good society. Dress, he always understood, was the best
passport he could bring for admission within the pale of gentility;
accordingly, he boldly attempted to pass the boundary of plebeianism, by
appearing one fine morning at the fair of Ballybreesthawn in a flaming red
waistcoat, an elegant _oarline_[2] hat, a pair of buckskin breeches, and a
new pair of yellow-topped boots, which, with the assistance of large plated
spurs, and a heavy silver-mounted whip, took the shine out of the smartest
squireens at the fair.
[2] A beaver hat.
"Fortunately for the success of my grandfather's invasion of the
aristocratic rights, it occurred on the eve of a general election, and as
he had the command of six or eight votes in the county, his interest was a
matter of some importance to the candidates. Be that as it may, it was with
feelings little short of absolute dismay, that the respectable inhabitants
of the extensive village of Ballybreesthawn beheld the metamorphosed tenant
of 'The Devil's Half-acre,' walking arm-in-arm down the street with Sir
Denis Daly, the popular candidate. At all events, this public and familiar
promenade had the effect of establishing _Mister_ John Duffy's dubious
gentility. He was invited to dine the same day by the attorney; and on the
following night the apothecary proposed his admission as a member of the
Ballybreesthawn Liberal reading-room. It was even whispered that Bill
Costigan, who went twice a-year to Dublin for goods, was trying to strike
up a match between Shawn, who was a hale widower, and his aunt, an ancient
spinster, who was set down by report as a fortune of seven hundred pounds.
Negotiations were actually set on foot, and several preliminary bottles of
potteen had been drunk by the parties concerned, when, unfortunately, in
the high road to happiness, my poor grandfather caught a fever, and popped
off, to the inexpressible grief of the expectant bride, who declared her
intention of dying in the virgin state; to which resolution, there being no
dissentient voice, it was carried _nem. con._
"Thus died the illustrious founder of our family; but happy was it for
posterity that the yellow-topped boots did not die along with him; these,
with the red waistcoat, the leather breeches, and plated spurs, remained to
raise the fortunes of our house to a higher station. The waistcoat has been
long since numbered with the waistcoats before the flood; the buckskins,
made of 'sterner stuff,' stood the wear and tear of the world for a length
of time, but at last were put out of commission; while the boots, more
fortunate or tougher than their leathern companions, endured more than
forty years of actual service through all the ramifications of our
extensive family. In this time they had suffered many dilapidations; but by
the care and ingenuity of the family cobbler, they were always kept in
tolerable order, and performed their duty with great credit to themselves,
until an unlucky accident deprived me of my old and valued friends."
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