“Then on the ’tither hand present her,
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
And cheek-for-chow a chuffle vintner,
Colleaguin’ join.”----BURNS.
No order of men has experienced severer treatment from the various
classes into which society is divided, than that of excisemen, or,
as they are vulgarly denominated, guagers. If, unlike the son of the
Hebrew patriarch, their hand is not raised against every man, yet they
may be truly said to inherit a portion of Ishmael’s destiny, for every
man’s hand is against them. The cordial and unmitigated hostility of
the lower classes follows the guager at every point of his dangerous
career, whether his pursuit be smuggled goods, potteen, or unpermitted
parliament. Literary men have catered to the gratification of the public
at his expense, by exhibiting him in their stories of Irish life under
such circumstances that the good-natured reader scarcely knows whether to
laugh or weep most at his ludicrous distress. The varied powers of rhyme
have been pressed into the service by the man of genius and the lover of
fun. The “Diel’s awa’ wi’ the Exciseman” of Burns, and the Irishman’s
“Paddy was up to the Guager,” will ever remain to prove the truth of the
foregoing assertion.
But the humble historian of this unpretending narrative is happy to
record one instance of retributory justice on the part of an individual
of this devoted class, which would have procured him a statue in the
temple of Nemesis, had his lot been cast among the ancients. Many
instances of the generosity, justice, and self-abandonment of the guager,
have come to the writer’s knowledge, and these acts of virtue shall not
be utterly forgotten. The readers of the Irish Penny Journal shall blush
to find men, whose qualities might reconcile the estranged misanthrope to
the human family, rendered the butt of ridicule, and their many virtues
lost and unknown.
On a foggy evening in the November of a year of which Irish tradition,
not being critically learned in chronology, has not furnished the date,
two men pursued their way along a bridle road that led through a wild
mountain tract in a remote and far westward district of Kerry. The scene
was savage and lonely. Far before them extended the broad Atlantic,
upon whose wild and heaving bosom the lowering clouds seemed to settle
in fitful repose. Round and beyond, on the dark and barren heath, rose
picturesque masses of rock--the finger-stones which nature, it would
seem, in some wayward frolic, had tossed into pinnacled heaps of strange
and multiform construction. About their base, and in the deep interstices
of their sides, grew the holly and the hardy mountain ash, and on their
topmost peaks frisked the agile goat in all the pride of unfettered
liberty.
These men, each of whom led a Kerry pony that bore an empty sack along
the difficult pathway, were as dissimilar in form and appearance as
any two of Adam’s descendants possibly could be. One was a low-sized,
thickset man; his broad shoulders and muscular limbs gave indication of
considerable strength; but the mild expression of his large blue eyes and
broad, good-humoured countenance, told, as plain as the human face divine
could, that the fierce and stormy passions of our kind never exerted the
strength of that muscular arm in deeds of violence. A jacket and trousers
of brown frieze, and a broad-brimmed hat made of that particular grass
named _thraneen_, completed his dress. It would be difficult to conceive
a more strange or unseemly figure than the other: he exceeded in height
the usual size of men; but his limbs, which hung loosely together, and
seemed to accompany his emaciated body with evident reluctance, were
literally nothing but skin and bone; his long conical head was thinly
strewed with rusty-coloured hair that waved in the evening breeze about
a haggard face of greasy, sallow hue, where the rheumy sunken eye, the
highly prominent nose, the thin and livid lip, half disclosing a few
rotten straggling teeth, significantly seemed to tell how disease and
misery can attenuate the human frame. He moved, a living skeleton: yet,
strange to say, the smart nag which he led was hardly able to keep pace
with the swinging unequal stride of the gaunt pedestrian, though his
limbs were so fleshless that his clothes flapped and fluttered around him
as he stalked along the chilly moor.
As the travellers proceeded, the road, which had lately been pent within
the huge masses of granite, now expanded sufficiently to allow them a
little side-by-side discourse; and the first-mentioned person pushed
forward to renew a conversation which seemed to have been interrupted by
the inequalities of the narrow pathway.
“An’ so ye war saying, Shane Glas,” he said, advancing in a straight line
with his spectre-looking companion, “ye war saying that face of yours
would be the means of keeping the guager from our taste of tibaccy.”
“The devil resave the guager will ever squint at a lafe of it,” says
Shane Glas, “if I’m in yer road. There was never a cloud over Tim Casey
for the twelve months I thravelled with him; and if the foolish man had
had me the day his taste o’ brandy was taken, he’d have the fat boiling
over his pot to-day, ’tisn’t that I say it myself.”
“The sorrow from me, Shane Glas,” returned his friend with a hearty
laugh, and a roguish glance of his funny eye at the angular and sallow
countenance of the other, “the sorrow be from me if it’s much of Tim’s
_fat_ came in your way, at any rate, though I don’t say as much for the
_graise_.”
“It’s laughing at the crucked side o’ yer mouth ye’d be. I’m thinking,
Paddy Corbett,” said Shane Glas, “if the thief of a guager smelt your
taste o’ tibaccy--Crush Chriest duin! and I not there to fricken him off,
as I often done afore.”
“But couldn’t we take our lafe o’ tibaccy on our ponies’ backs in
panniers, and throw a few hake or some oysters over ’em, and let on that
we’re fish-joulting?”
“Now, mark my words, Paddy Corbett: there’s a chap in Killarney as
knowledgeable as a jailor; Ould Nick wouldn’t bate him in roguery. So put
your goods in the thruckle, shake a wisp over ’em, lay me down over that
in the fould o’ the quilt, and say that I kem from Decie’s counthry to
pay a round at Tubber-na-Treenoda, and that I caught a faver, and that
ye’re taking me home to die, for the love o’ God and yer mother’s sowl.
Say, that Father Darby, who prepared me, said I had the worst spotted
faver that kem to the counthry these seven years. If that doesn’t fricken
him off, ye’re sowld” (betrayed.)
By this time they had reached a deep ravine, through which a narrow
stream pursued its murmuring course. Here they left the horses, and,
furnished with the empty sacks, pursued their onward route till they
reached a steep cliff. Far below in the dark and undefined space sounded
the hollow roar of the heaving ocean, as its billowy volume broke upon
its granite barrier, and formed along the dark outline a zone of foam,
beneath whose snowy crest the ever-impelled and angry wave yielded its
last strength in myriad flashes of phosphoric light, that sparkled and
danced in arrowy splendour to the wild and sullen music of the dashing
sea.
“Paddy Corbett, avick,” said Shane Glas, “pull yer legs fair an’ aisy
afther ye; one inch iv a mistake, achorra, might sind ye a long step of
two hundred feet to furnish a could supper for the sharks. The sorrow a
many would vinture down here, avourneen, barring the red fox of the hill
and the honest smuggler; they are both poor persecuted crathurs, but God
has given them _gumpshun_ to find a place of shelter for the fruits of
their honest industhry, glory be to his holy name!”
Shane Glas was quite correct in his estimate of the height of this
fearful cliff. It overhung the deep Atlantic, and the narrow pathway
wound its sinuous way round and beneath so many frightful precipices,
that had the unpractised feet of Paddy Corbett threaded the mazy
declivity in the clear light of day, he would in all probability have
performed the saltation, and furnished the banquet of which Shane Glas
gave him a passing hint. But ignorance of his fearful situation saved his
life. His companion, in addition to his knowledge of this secret route,
had a limberness of muscle, and a pliancy of uncouth motion, that enabled
him to pursue every winding of the awful slope with all the activity of
a weasel. In their descent, the wild sea-fowl, roused by the unusual
approach of living things from their couch of repose, swept past on
sounding wing into the void and dreary space abroad, uttering discordant
cries, which roused the more distant slumberers of the rocks. As they
farther descended round the foot of the cliff, where the projecting
crags formed the sides of a little cove, a voice, harsh and threatening,
demanded “who goes there?” The echo of the questioner’s interrogation,
reverberating along the receding wall of rocks, would seem to a fanciful
ear the challenge of the guardian spirit of the coast pursuing his
nightly round. The wild words blended in horrid unison through the mid
air with the sigh of waving wings and discordant screams, which the
echoes of the cliffs multiplied a thousand fold, as though all the demons
of the viewless world had chosen that hour and place of loneliness to
give their baneful pinions and shrieks of terror to the wind.
“Who goes there?” again demanded this strange warder of the savage scene;
and again the scream of the sea bird and the echo of human tones sounded
wildly along the sea.
“A friend, avick machree,” replied Shane Glas. “Paudh, achorra, what
beautiful lungs you have! But keep yer voice a thrifle lower, ma bouchal,
or the wather-guards might be after staling a march on ye, sharp as ye
are.”
“Shane Glas, ye slinging thief,” rejoined the other, “is that yerself?
Honest man,” addressing the new comer, “take care of that talla-faced
schamer. My hand for ye, Shane will see his own funeral yet, for the
devil another crathur, barring a fox, could creep down the cliff till the
moon rises, any how. But I know what saved yer bacon; he that’s born to
be hanged--you can repate the rest o’ the thrue ould saying yerself, ye
poor atomy!”
“Chorpan Doul,” said Shane Glas, rather chafed by the severe raillery
of the other, “is it because to shoulder an ould gun that an honest
man can’t tell you what a Judy ye make o’ yerself, swaggering like a
raw Peeler, and frightening every shag on the cliff with yer foolish
bull-scuttering! Make way there, or I’ll stick that ould barrel in
yez--make way there, ye spalpeen!”
“Away to yer masther with ye, ye miserable disciple,” returned the
unsparing jiber. “Arrah, by the hole o’ my coat, afther you have danced
yer last jig upon nothing, with yer purty himp cravat on, I’ll coax yer
miserable carcass from the hangman to frighten the crows with.”
When the emaciated man and his companion had proceeded a few paces along
the narrow ledge that lay between the steep cliff and the sea, they
entered a huge excavation in the rock, which seemed to have been formed
by volcanic agency, when the infant world heaved in some dire convulsion
of its distempered bowels. The footway of the subterranean vault was
strewn with the finest sand, which, hardened by frequent pressure, sent
the tramp of the intruder’s feet reverberating along the gloomy vacancy.
On before gleamed a strong light, which, piercing the surrounding
darkness, partially revealed the sides of the cavern, while the far space
beneath the lofty roof, impervious to the powerful ray, extended dark
and undefined. Then came the sound of human voices mixed in uproarious
confusion; and anon, within a receding angle, a strange scene burst upon
their view.
Before a huge fire which lighted all the deep recess of the high
over-arching rock that rose sublime as the lofty roof of a Gothic
cathedral, sat five wild-looking men of strange semi-nautical raiment.
Between them extended a large sea-chest, on which stood an earthen
flaggon, from which one, who seemed the president of the revel, poured
sparkling brandy into a single glass that circled in quick succession,
while the jest and laugh and song swelled in mingled confusion, till the
dinsome cavern rang again to the roar of the subterranean bacchanals.
“God save all here!” said Shane Glas, approaching the festive group. “O,
wisha! Misther Cronin, but you and the boys is up to fun. The devil a
naither glass o’ brandy: no wonder ye should laugh and sing over it. How
goes the Colleen Ayrigh, and her Bochal Fadda, that knows how to bark so
purty at thim plundering thieves, the wather-guards?”
“Ah! welcome, Shane,” replied the person addressed; “the customer you’ve
brought may be depinded on, I hope. Sit down, boys.”
“’Tis ourselves that will, and welkim,” rejoined Shane. “Depinded on!
why, ’scure to the dacenther father’s son from this to himself than Paddy
Corbett, ’tisn’t that he’s to the fore.”
“Come, taste our brandy, lads, while I help you to some ham,” said the
smuggler. “Shane, you have the stomach of a shark, the digestion of an
ostrich, and the _gout_ of an epicure.”
“By gar ye may say that wid yer own purty mouth, Misther Cronin,”
responded the garrulous Shane. “Here, gintlemin, here is free thrade to
honest min, an’ high hangin’ to all informers! O! murdher maura (smacking
his lips), how it tastes! O, avirra yealish (laying his bony hand across
his shrunken paunch), how it hates the stummuck!”
“You are welcome to our mansion, Paddy Corbett,” interrupted the
hospitable master of the cavern; “the house is covered in, the rent paid,
and the cruiskeen of brandy unadulterated; so eat, drink, and be merry.
When the moon rises, we can proceed to business.”
Paddy Corbett was about to return thanks when the interminable Shane Glas
again broke in.
“I never saw a man, beggin’ yer pardon, Misther Cronin, lade a finer
or rolickinger life than your own four bones--drinking an’ coorting on
land, and spreading the canvass of the Colleen Ayrigh over the salt
say, for the good o’ thrade. _Manim syr Shyre_, if I had Trig Dowl the
piper forninst me there, near the cruiskeen, but I’d drink an’ dance
till morning. But here’s God bless us, an’ success to our thrip, Paddy,
avrahir;” and he drained his glass. Then when many a successive round
went past, and the famished-looking wretch grew intoxicated, he called
out at the top of his voice, “Silence for a song,” and in a tone somewhat
between the squeak of a pig and the drone of a bagpipe, poured forth a
lyric, of which we shall present one or two stanzas to the reader.
I thravelled France an’ Spain, an’ likewise in Asia,
Fal de ral, &c &c.
And spint many a long day at my aise in Arabia,
Fal de ral, &c &c.
Pur-shoeing of their ways, their sates an’ their farims,
But sich another place as the lakes o’ Killarney
I never saw elsewhere, the air being most charming,
Fal de ral, &c &c.
There the Muses came to make it their quarthers,
Fal de ral, &c &c.
An’ for their ray-creation they came from Castalia,
Fal de ral, &c &c.
With congratulations playing for his lordship,
A viewing of that place, I mean sweet Killarney,
That the music been so sweet, the lake became enchanted,
Fal de ral, &c &c.
Early on a clear sunny morning after this, a man with a horse and truckle
car was observed to enter the town of Killarney from the west. He trolled
forth before the animal, which, checked by some instinctive dread, with
much reluctance allowed himself to be dragged along at the full length of
his hair halter. On the rude vehicle was laid what seemed a quantity of
straw, upon which was extended a human being, whose greatly attenuated
frame appeared fully developed beneath an old flannel quilt. His face,
that appeared above its tattered hem, looked the embodiment of disease
and famine, which seemed to have gnawed, in horrid union, into his
inmost vitals. His distorted features pourtrayed rending agony; and as
the rude vehicle jolted along the rugged pavement, he groaned hideously.
This miserable man was our acquaintance Shane Glas, and he that led the
strange procession no other than Paddy Corbett, who thus experimented to
smuggle his “taste o’ tibaccy,” which lay concealed in well-packed bales
beneath the sick couch of the wretched simulator.
As they proceeded along, Shane Glas uttered a groan, conveying such a
feeling of real agony that his startled companion, supposing that he had
in verity received the sudden judgment of his deception, rushed back to
ascertain whether he had not been suddenly stricken to death.
“Paddy, a chorra-na-nea,” he muttered in an undergrowl, “here’s the
vagabone thief of a guager down sthreet! Exert yerself, a-lea, to baffle
the schamer, an’ don’t forget ’tis the spotted faver I have.”
Sure enough, the guager did come; and noticing, as he passed along, the
confusion and averted features of Paddy Corbett, he immediately drew up.
“Where do you live, honest man, an’ how far might you be goin’?” said the
keen exciseman.
“O, wisha! may the heavens be yer honour’s bed!--ye must be one o’ the
good ould stock, to ax afther the consarns of a poor angishore like me:
but, a yinusal-a-chree, ’tisn’t where I lives is worse to me, but where
that donan in the thruckle will die with me.”
“But how far are you taking him?”
“O, ’tis myself would offer a pather an’ ave on my two binded knees for
yer honour’s soul, if yer honour would tell me that. I forgot to ax
the crathur where he _should_ be berrid when we kim away, an’ now he’s
speechless out an’ out.”
“Come, say where is your residence,” said the other, whose suspicion was
increased by the countryman’s prevarication.
“By jamine, yer honour’s larnin’ bothers me intirely; but if yer
honour manes where the woman that owns me and the childre is, ’tis
that way, west at Tubber-na-Treenoda; yer honour has heard tell o’
Tubber-na-Treenoda, by coorse?”
“Never, indeed.”
“O, wisha! don’t let yer honour be a day longer that way. If the
sickness, God betune us an’ harum, kim an ye, ’twould be betther for yer
honour give a testher to the durhogh there, to offer up a rosary for ye,
than to _shell out_ three pounds to Doctor Crump.”
“Perhaps you have some _soft goods_ concealed under the sick man,” said
the guager, approaching the car. “I frequently catch smuggled wares in
such situations.”
“The devil a taste _good_ or _saft_ under him, sir dear, but the could
sop from the top o’ the stack. _Ketch!_ why, the devil a haporth ye’ll
_ketch_ here but the spotted faver.”
“Fever!” repeated the startled exciseman, retiring a step or two.
“Yes, faver, yer honour; what else? Didn’t Father Darby that prepared him
say that he had spotted faver enough for a thousand min! Do, yer honour,
come look in his face, an’ thin throw the poor dying crathur, that kem
all the way from Decie’s counthry, by raisin of a dhream, to pay a round
for his wife’s sowl at Tubber-na-Treenoda: yes, throw him out an the
belly o’ the road, an’ let his blood, the blood o’ the stranger, be on
yer soul an’ his faver in yer body.”
Paddy Corbett’s eloquence operating on the exciseman’s dread of
contagion, saved the tobacco.
Our adventurers considering it rather dangerous to seek a buyer in
Killarney, directed their course eastward to Kanturk. The hour of evening
was rather advanced as they entered the town; and Shane, who could spell
his way without much difficulty through the letters of a sign-board,
seeing “entertainment for man and horse” over the door, said they would
put up there for the night, and then directed Paddy to the shop of the
only tobacconist in town, whither for some private motive he declined to
attend him. Mr Pigtail was after dispatching a batch of customers when
Paddy entered, who, seeing the coast clear, gave him the “God save all
here,” which is the usual phrase of greeting in the kingdom of Kerry. Mr
Pigtail was startled at the rude salutation, which, though a beautiful
benediction, and characteristic of a highly religious people, is yet too
uncouth for modern “ears polite,” and has, excepting among the lowest
class of peasants, entirely given way to that very sincere and expressive
phrase of address, “your servant.”
Now, Mr Pigtail, who meted out the length of his replies in exact
proportion to the several ranks and degrees of his querists, upon hearing
the vulgar voice that uttered the more vulgar salute, hesitated to deign
the slightest notice, but, measuring with a glance the outward man of the
saluter, he gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, and the dissyllabic
response “servant;” but seeing Paddy Corbett with gaping mouth about to
open his embassy, and that, like Burns’s Death,
“He seemed to make a kind o’ stan’,
But naething spak,”
he immediately added, “Honest man, you came from the west, I believe?”
“Thrue enough for yer honour,” said Pat; “my next door neighbours at
that side are the wild Ingins of Immeriky. A wet and could foot an’ a
dhry heart I had coming to ye; but welkim be the grace o’ God, sure poor
people should make out an honest bit an’ sup for the weeny crathurs at
home; an’ I have thirteen o’ thim, all thackeens, praise be to the Maker.”
“And I dare say you have brought a trifle in my line of business in your
road?”
“Faith, ’tis yerself may book it: I have the natest lafe o’ tibaccy
that ever left Connor Cro-ab-a-bo. I was going to _skin_ an the honest
man--Lord betune us an’harum, I’d be the first informer of my name, any
how. But, talking o’ the tibaccy, the man that giv it said a sweether
taste never left the hould of his ship, an’ that’s a great word. I’ll
give it dog chape, by raison o’ the long road it thravelled to yer
honour.”
“You don’t seem to be long in this business,” said Mr Pigtail.
“Thrue for ye there agin, a-yinusal; ’tis yourself may say so. Since the
priest christened Paddy an me, an’ that’s longer than I can remimber, I
never wint an the sachrawn afore. God comfort poor Jillian Dawly, the
crathur, an’ the grawls I left her. Amin, a-hierna!”
Now, Mr Pigtail supposed from the man’s seeming simplicity, and his
inexperience in running smuggled goods, that he should drive a very
profitable adventure with him. He ordered him to bring the goods
privately to the back way that led to his premises; and Paddy, who had
the fear of the guager vividly before him, lost no time in obeying the
mandate. But when Mr Pigtail examined the several packages, he turns
round upon poor Paddy with a look of disapprobation, and exclaims, “This
article will not suit, good man--entirely damaged by sea water--never do.”
“_See_ wather, anagh!” returns Paddy Corbett; “bad luck to the dhrop
o’ wather, salt or fresh, did my taste o’ tibaccy ever _see_. The
Colleen Ayrigh that brought it could dip an’ skim along the waves like
a sea-gull. There are two things she never yet let in, Mr Pigtail,
avourneen--wather nor wather-guards: the one ships off her, all as one as
a duck; and the Boochal Fadda on her deck keeps t’other a good mile off,
more spunk to him.” This piece of nautical information Paddy had ventured
from gleanings collected from the rich stores which the conversation of
Shane Glas presented along the road, and in the smugglers’ cave.
“But, my good man, you cannot instruct me in the way of my business. Take
it away--no man in the trade would venture an article like it. But I
shall make a sacrifice, rather than let a poor ignorant man fall into the
hands of the guager. I shall give you five pounds for the lot.”
Paddy Corbett, who had been buoyed up by the hope of making two hundred
per cent. of his lading, now seeing all his gainful views vanish
into thin air, was loud and impassioned in the expression of his
disappointment. “O, Jillian Dawly!” he cried, swinging his body to and
fro, “Jillian, a roon manima, what’ll ye say to yer man, afther throwing
out of his hand the half year’s rint that he had to give the agint? O!
what’ll ye say, aveen, but that I med a purty padder-napeka of myself,
listening to Shane Glas, the yellow schamer; or what’ll Sheelabeg, the
crathur, say, whin Tim Murphy won’t take her without the cows that I
won’t have to give her? O, Misther Pigtail, avourneen, be marciful to an
honest father’s son; don’t take me short, avourneen, an’ that God might
take you short. Give me the tin pounds it cost me, an’ I’ll pray for
yer sowl, both now an’ in the world to come. O! Jillian, Jillian, I’ll
never face ye, nor Sheelabeg, nor any o’ the crathurs agin, without the
tin pound, any how. I’ll take the vestmint, an’ all the books in Father
Darby’s house of it.”
“Well, if you don’t give the tobacco to me for less than that, you can
call on one Mr Prywell, at the other side of the bridge; he deals in
such articles too. You see I cannot do more for you, but you may go
farther and fare worse,” said the perfidious tobacconist, as he directed
the unfortunate man to the residence of Mr Paul Prywell, the officer of
excise.
With heavy heart, and anxious eye peering in every direction beneath
his broad-leafed hat, Paddy Corbett proceeded till he reached a private
residence having a green door and a brass knocker. He hesitated, seeing
no shop nor appearance of business there; but on being assured that
this was indeed the house of Mr Prywell, he approached, and gave the
door three thundering knocks with the butt end of his holly-handled
whip. The owner of the domicile, roused by this very unceremonious mode
of announcement, came forth to demand the intruder’s business, and
to wonder that he would not prefer giving a single rap with the brass
knocker, as was the wont of persons in his grade of society, instead of
sledging away at the door like a “peep-o’-day boy.”
“Yer honour will excuse my bouldness,” said Paddy, taking off his
hat, and scraping the mud before and behind him a full yard; “excuse
my bouldness, for I never seed such curifixes on a dure afore, an’ I
wouldn’t throuble yer honour’s house at all at all, only in regard of a
taste of goods that I was tould would _shoot_ yer honour. Ye can have it,
a yinusal, for less than nothing, case I don’t find myself in heart to
push on farther; for the baste is slow, the crathur, an’ myself that’s
saying it, making buttons for fear o’ the guager.”
“Who, might I ask,” said the astonished officer of excise, “directed you
here to sell smuggled tobacco?”
“A very honest gintleman, but a bad buyer, over the bridge, sir. He’d
give but five pound for what cost myself tin--foreer dhota, that I had
ever had a hand in it! I put the half year’s rint in it, yer honour; and
my thirteen femul grawls an’ their mother, God help ’em, will be soon on
the sachrawn. I’ll never go home without the tin pound, any how. High
hanging to ye, Shane Glas, ye tallow-faced thief, that sint me smuggling.
O! Jillian, ’tis sogering I’ll soon be, with a gun an my shoulder.”
“Shane Glas!” said the exciseman; “do you know Shane Glas; I’d give ten
pounds to see the villain.”
“’Tis myself does, yer honour, an’ could put yer finger an him, if I
had ye at Tubber-na-Treenoda, saving yer presence; but as I was setting
away, he was lying undher an ould quilt, an’ I heard him telling that the
priest said he had spotted faver enough for a thousand min.”
“That villain will never die of spotted fever, in my humble opinion,”
said the exciseman.
“A good judgment in yer mouth, sir, achree. I heard the rogue himself
say, ‘Bad cess to the thief! that a cup-tosser tould him he’d die of
stoppage of breath.’ But won’t yer honour allow me to turn in the lafe o’
tibaccy?”
The officer of excise was struck with deep indignation at the villany
of him who would ruin a comparatively innocent man when he failed in
circumventing him, and was resolved to punish his treachery. “My good
fellow,” said he, “you are now before the guager you dread so much, and
I must do my duty, and seize upon the tobacco. However, it is but common
justice to punish the false-hearted traitor that sent you hither. Go
back quickly, and say that he can have the lot at his own terms; I shall
follow close, and yield him the reward of his treachery. Act discreetly
in this good work of biting the biter, and on the word of a gentleman I
shall give you ten pounds more.”
Paddy was on his knees in a twinkling, his hands uplifted in the attitude
of prayer, and his mouth opened, but totally unable between terror and
delight to utter a syllable of thanks.
“Up, I say,” exclaimed the exciseman, “up and be doing; go earn your ten
pounds, and have your sweet revenge on the thief that betrayed you.”
Paddy rapidly retraced his steps, ejaculating as he went along, “O,
the noble gintleman, may the Lord make a bed in Heaven for his sowl in
glory! O, that chating imposthor, ’twas sinding the fox to mind the hins
sure enough. O, high hanging to him of a windy day!--the informer o’ the
world, I’ll make him sup sorrow.”
“Have you seen the gentleman I directed you to?” said Mr Pigtail.
“Arrah, sir dear, whin I came to the bridge an looked about me, I thought
that every roguish-looking fellow I met was the thief of a guager, an’
thin afther standing a while, quite amplushed, with the botheration and
the dread upon me, I forgot yer friend’s name, an’ so kim back agin to ax
it, if ye plase.”
“You had better take the five pounds than venture again; there’s a guager
in town, and your situation is somewhat dangerous.”
“A guager in town!” cried Paddy Corbett, with well-affected surprise,
“Isas Mauri! what’ll I do at all at all? now I’m a gone man all out. Take
it for any thing ye like, sir dear, an’ if any throuble like this should
ever come down an ye, it will be a comfort an’ a raycreation to yer heart
to know that ye had a poor man’s blessing, _avick deelish machree_, an’
I give it to ye on the knees of my heart, as ye desarved it, an’ that it
may go in yer road, an’ yer childre’s road, late an’ early, eating an’
dhrinking, lying an’ rising, buying an’ selling.”
Our story has approached its close: the tobacco was safely stowed inside,
in order to be consigned to Mr Pigtail’s private receptacle for such
contraband articles. Paddy had just pocketed his five pounds, and at
that moment in burst Mr Prywell. The execration which ever after pursued
the tobacconist for his treacherous conduct, and the heavy fine in which
he was amerced, so wrought upon his health and circumstances, that in a
short time he died in extreme poverty. His descendants became homeless
wanderers, and it is upon record, among the brave and high-minded men of
Duhallow, that Jeffrey Pigtail of Kanturk was the only betrayer that ever
disgraced the barony.