THE HORATII AND CURIATII
With a slight alteration, I might begin this chapter after the manner
of Livy, in the 24th section of his first book:—“It _happened, that in
each family were three twin brothers, between whom there was little
disparity in point of age or of strength.”_
Among the steerage passengers of the Highlander, were two women from
Armagh, in Ireland, widows and sisters, who had each three twin sons,
born, as they said, on the same day.
They were ten years old. Each three of these six cousins were as like
as the mutually reflected figures in a kaleidoscope; and like the forms
seen in a kaleidoscope, together, as well as separately, they seemed to
form a complete figure. But, though besides this fraternal likeness,
all six boys bore a strong cousin-german resemblance to each other;
yet, the O’Briens were in disposition quite the reverse of the
O’Regans. The former were a timid, silent trio, who used to revolve
around their mother’s waist, and seldom quit the maternal orbit;
whereas, the O’Regans were “broths of boys,” full of mischief and fun,
and given to all manner of devilment, like the tails of the comets.
Early every morning, Mrs. O’Regan emerged from the steerage, driving
her spirited twins before her, like a riotous herd of young steers; and
made her way to the capacious deck-tub, full of salt water, pumped up
from the sea, for the purpose of washing down the ship. Three splashes,
and the three boys were ducking and diving together in the brine; their
mother engaged in _shampooing_ them, though it was haphazard sort of
work enough; a rub here, and a scrub there, as she could manage to
fasten on a stray limb.
“Pat, ye divil, hould still while I wash ye. Ah! but it’s you, Teddy,
you rogue. Arrah, now, Mike, ye spalpeen, don’t be mixing your legs up
with Pat’s.”
The little rascals, leaping and scrambling with delight, enjoyed the
sport mightily; while this indefatigable, but merry matron, manipulated
them all over, as if it were a matter of conscience.
Meanwhile, Mrs. O’Brien would be standing on the boatswain’s locker—or
rope and tar-pot pantry in the vessel’s bows—with a large old quarto
Bible, black with age, laid before her between the knight-heads, and
reading aloud to her three meek little lambs.
The sailors took much pleasure in the deck-tub performances of the
O’Regans, and greatly admired them always for their archness and
activity; but the tranquil O’Briens they did not fancy so much. More
especially they disliked the grave matron herself; hooded in rusty
black; and they had a bitter grudge against her book. To that, and the
incantations muttered over it, they ascribed the head winds that
haunted us; and Blunt, our Irish cockney, really believed that Mrs.
O’Brien purposely came on deck every morning, in order to secure a foul
wind for the next ensuing twenty-four hours.
At last, upon her coming forward one morning, Max the Dutchman accosted
her, saying he was sorry for it, but if she went between the
knight-heads again with her book, the crew would throw it overboard for
her.
Now, although contrasted in character, there existed a great warmth of
affection between the two families of twins, which upon this occasion
was curiously manifested.
Notwithstanding the rebuke and threat of the sailor, the widow silently
occupied her old place; and with her children clustering round her,
began her low, muttered reading, standing right in the extreme bows of
the ship, and slightly leaning over them, as if addressing the
multitudinous waves from a floating pulpit. Presently Max came behind
her, snatched the book from her hands, and threw it overboard. The
widow gave a wail, and her boys set up a cry. Their cousins, then
ducking in the water close by, at once saw the cause of the cry; and
springing from the tub, like so many dogs, seized Max by the legs,
biting and striking at him: which, the before timid little O’Briens no
sooner perceived, than they, too, threw themselves on the enemy, and
the amazed seaman found himself baited like a bull by all six boys.
And here it gives me joy to record one good thing on the part of the
mate. He saw the fray, and its beginning; and rushing forward, told Max
that he would harm the boys at his peril; while he cheered them on, as
if rejoiced at their giving the fellow such a tussle. At last Max,
sorely scratched, bit, pinched, and every way aggravated, though of
course without a serious bruise, cried out “enough!” and the assailants
were ordered to quit him; but though the three O’Briens obeyed, the
three O’Regans hung on to him like leeches, and had to be dragged off.
“There now, you rascal,” cried the mate, “throw overboard another
Bible, and I’ll send you after it without a bowline.”
This event gave additional celebrity to the twins throughout the
vessel. That morning all six were invited to the quarter-deck, and
reviewed by the cabin-passengers, the ladies manifesting particular
interest in them, as they always do concerning twins, which some of
them show in public parks and gardens, by stopping to look at them, and
questioning their nurses.
“And were you all born at one time?” asked an old lady, letting her eye
run in wonder along the even file of white heads.
“Indeed, an’ we were,” said Teddy; “wasn’t we, mother?”
Many more questions were asked and answered, when a collection was
taken up for their benefit among these magnanimous cabin-passengers,
which resulted in starting all six boys in the world with a penny
apiece.
I never could look at these little fellows without an inexplicable
feeling coming over me; and though there was nothing so very remarkable
or unprecedented about them, except the singular coincidence of two
sisters simultaneously making the world such a generous present; yet,
the mere fact of there being twins always seemed curious; in fact, to
me at least, all twins are prodigies; and still I hardly know why this
should be; for all of us in our own persons furnish numerous examples
of the same phenomenon. Are not our thumbs twins? A regular Castor and
Pollux? And all of our fingers? Are not our arms, hands, legs, feet,
eyes, ears, all twins; born at one birth, and as much alike as they
possibly can be?
Can it be, that the Greek grammarians invented their dual number for
the particular benefit of twins?