Some of the pleasantest of the many pleasant reminiscences of my
childhood are associated with the recollection of a very ugly
uncouth woman, with a very ugly uncouth name, “Moll Miskellagh,” our
market-woman. If the cognomen “Moll” was intolerable to “ears polite,”
what was it to the euphonious appellation of her better half, “Mogue
Miskellagh?” The English groom of an Irish gentleman once overheard
some person calling “Mogue Miskellagh!” “Mogue Miskellagh!” “Mogue
Miskellagh!” he thrice exclaimed, voice, eyes, and hands in their various
ways expressing astonishment, “does that ’ere name belong to a Christian?”
The home of my early days was situated five miles from the nearest
market-town; and as it was not always convenient to send a servant and
horse for the various commodities necessary for a tolerably large family,
a regular drudging market man or woman was deemed indispensable. Moll
Miskellagh heard of “the lady’s” wants and wishes, and believing her
own limbs to be stout, and her memory retentive, offered herself as the
“beast of burden.”
“Mistress, jew’l,” pleaded Moll, with the most persuasive brogue
imaginable, “sorra sitch a pair ov legs in the whole counthry; an’ for my
back, it bangs Banagher for the strinth! As to my karracther, thank God I
need say nothin’ about it, as I may safely lave it to my naiburs for its
honesty.”
“And honesty must have its reward,” returned the amiable and
well-beloved “Misthress,” whose business it was to engage the
market-woman. “But do you read?”
“Augh! sorra bit ov me, yer honour,” quoth Mrs Miskellagh, with a groan;
“larnin’ wasn’t the fashin in my young days, or I ’spose I’d have got a
lick ov it like the rest. But what ov that, misthress?”
“Why, it would be better for all parties that you did read, as you will
have so many notes to carry to different shops, and you cannot fail to be
sadly puzzled.”
“Augh, lave out the notes, ma’am,” interrupted Moll, somewhat
impatiently, “an’ give me yer commands by word ov mouth, an’ I’ll engage
for it. I’ll go to the four quarthers ov the town, an’ do yer errands
widout a single mistake: bekase why, if I wud happen to forget one or
two, I have a way ov me own to make me remimber agin. So, for God’s an’
me childher’s sakes, yer honour, give me the berth, an’ I’ll sarve ye
faithful. Throth I’ll drag as much as an ass!”
“Well, I believe I shall try you, Molly,” said the lady, smiling kindly,
the appeal of distress never lost upon her. “Thursdays and Saturdays are
the days we send to town; be you ready to attend me at ten o’clock next
Thursday.”
I was present at this engagement, and though I was very young at the
time, never shall I forget the frightful grins with which Moll Miskellagh
graced her exuberant thanks, nor her extra-extraordinary curtseys! I have
seen an elephant attempt such movements since, and I can declare that the
quadruped was the more graceful of the two. The “quadruped!” do I say?
I would not vow that our market-woman was not akin to a camel: she was
as enduring as one, I am sure, and seldom have I seen her without her
burthen behind.
Well, on Thursday Moll Miskellagh was punctual; she came with eyes, ears,
and hands all prepared for “town.”
“I am sadly afraid----” began the lady, pausing, and looking doubtfully
at her messenger.
“Of what, yer honour?” inquired Molly briskly.
“That your memory cannot retain all the commissions I must entrust you
with, and not only me, but every one in the house.”
“Thry me, madam--go on, jew’l! Never fear me! Give me a hundred ov them
if you like, for I have a way ov me own to remimber.”
“Well, I wish to serve you at all events. Then you must first carry this
post-bag to the post-office.”
“So I can, madam; an’ I need say nothin’ there, as the bag will tell what
it wants ov itself. Go on, darlint!”
“Then you are to go to the baker’s in New-street, to the butcher’s in
Market-street, to F----’s for groceries, to Mrs R---- of Church-street
with this note, and to Mrs L---- of Castle-hill with the other. And here
is a list of articles you are to purchase for me at any shop you please.
But what operation are you performing on your fingers?”
“Augh, there’s my saicret!” quoth the market-woman triumphantly. “Ye see,
misthress, I have three sorts ov thread, black, white, an’ grey; an’ when
I am not sure that I’ll think ov a thing parfectly, I tie one ov those
threads on one ov me fingers; an’ whin I am at a loss, I keep lookin’ at
the thread till I remimber what I tied it on for, an’ so at last it comes
into my mimory. Go on, misthress, if you plaise; the day is gettin’ late
with us.”
“I have no more commissions, Molly; but here comes your master with his.”
“Well, Mrs Miskellagh, have you got all your _commandments_?” inquired
the “ministhur,” smiling.
“Augh, be lanient, yer rivirince! the mistress has given me a power to do
to-day.”
“Well, Moll, I will be lenient. I have only two or three trifling
commissions to give you. First, you must go to the post-office, and then
to B----’s for my boots; neither parson nor priest can do without them,
you know. Did you ever hear of the ‘priest in his boots,’ Moll?”
“Throth I have, an’ danced it too, sur. Go on, yer rivirince: what next?”
“Next you are to go to Mr W----, the attorney, with this note, and be
sure to wait for his answer. I have no more commissions to-day. But now,
Moll, take care of the youngsters; and here they come, ready to overwhelm
you!”
“Ogh! Lard help me!” ejaculated the poor market-woman, as a troop of
laughing, romping children bounded into the room and surrounded her.
Now, grandpapa, for a little innocent mischief, privately slid silver
to each of the youngsters, to gratify their various tastes in toys,
purposely to test poor Moll’s system of mnemonics. The eldest boy was
about to give his orders in a loud key, when Moll Miskellagh, with a
proper reverence for her own sex, pushed him aside, and desired the
“young Miss” to “spaik up first.”
“A sixpenny doll, and two dishes for my baby-kitchen,” squeaked miss.
“Now, young masther, yours?”
“A top, Moll--not a pegging-top, but a humming-top I want.”
“A hummin’-top!” cried the market-woman, impatiently; “arrah, what the
dhioul is a hummin’-top?”
“Why, a humming-top is a-a-a-humming top,” quoth young master, somewhat
posed. “It makes a noise this way--hum, hum, hum--for all the world like
a droning beetle.”
Poor Moll had no acquaintance with any beetle but a sort of wooden
instrument with which peasant maidens pound their coarse clothes
when washing them at a stream or river; and “a dhronin’ beetle!” she
ejaculated, opening wide her small grey eyes, and looking from one to the
other for an explanation; while grandpapa, his face bathed with tears
from excessive laughter, prepared to make matters clear, but in reality
to make “confusion worse confounded.” But the hero of the humming-top
thought no one knew its peculiarities so well as himself, and he ended
the dilemma by describing a humming-top to be “a great deal larger than a
common top, had a square hole in one side, and it was always painted red.”
“That’ll do,” said Moll Miskellagh, trying to be satisfied. “I’ll inquire
about sitch a thing, any how. An’ now, little masthers, what’s your
pleasures?”
One chose “a whip,” and the other “cakes,” and then we thought poor
Moll had her quantum, and that she might proceed on her journey. But
so thought not Moll. Confident of her retentive powers and strength of
frame, she seemed determined to test herself to the utmost: and before
she left the house, she descended to the lower regions to offer her
services to the dignitaries of the kitchen. She was expected, it seemed,
for cook had a lot of “kitchen stuff” to be disposed of in town, the
butler to send for a new razor, the housemaid to have a letter put into
the post-office, directed to “John Fitz-Garald, at Mr Crosbie’s, esquire,
Dublin, Great Britain-street, Ireland,” and the kitchen-maid to send for
a wire comb to support her redundant tresses.
“Any thing else, now?” demanded the messenger, her foot on the threshold
of the outer door.
“No! no! no!” exclaimed all the voices at once; “away with ye, an’ God
speed ye!”
“Amin!” muttered the market-woman, striding up the steep stone steps,
through the yard, and down the avenue, without “casting a longing,
lingering look behind.”
I will not say how often we children teased our dear, good,
angel-tempered grandmother with “when will Moll Miskellagh return?”
Suffice it to say, we thought of nothing but Moll, looked for no one but
Moll; and until we actually beheld Moll panting up the steep avenue with
a prodigious load on her back, a huge basket on one arm, and the post-bag
on the other, her two pockets or rather wallets filled to the brim, we
never gave ourselves or others rest or peace!
But the market-woman was triumphant! Not one single commission did she
forget, and every one was satisfied with her dealings and bargains except
the butler, whose razor was base metal, instead of steel, or even iron!
But who could blame Moll Miskellagh? Abler persons, and of the sex that
used such scrapers, had been imposed on ere then. Witness--
Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning face to scrub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze;
’Twas a vile razor! Then the rest he tried--
All were imposters! “Ah!” Hodge sighed,
“I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse!”
Yes! our market-woman was triumphant! and for many years she retained
her situation, exhibiting the same strength of memory, fidelity, and
honesty, to the last. But I must mention how nicely we nicked our
grandpapa for his indiscreet attempt to puzzle our purveyor on her first
essay. Ever after, we regularly called upon him for “means to test the
market-woman’s memory,” and he good-humouredly always complied with
the demand. Then, oh! what an interesting object Moll became to us! How
we used to watch for the first glimpse of the huge white load resting
on her back, and rising considerably above her head! And how often in
our eagerness we mistook white cows, ladies dressed in white, and white
horses, for our dearly beloved Moll Miskellagh!
One evening we expected some particularly nice things by our
market-woman. It was somewhere about Christmas, when our means swelled
considerably by the addition of Christmas gifts. Many times during the
evening we had seen things very like Moll in the distance, but which
turned out most bitter disappointments. All four were stuck in a window
that commanded a full view of the road to E----; and never did the
unfortunate lady of Bluebeard put more earnest eager inquiries to her
sister Anne, “is there any body coming?” than we did to each other on
this momentous occasion. At length, oh, sight of joy! we beheld a white
object descending the opposite hill. “She is coming! she is coming!”
screamed a quartetto of young voices, and down we flew to the avenue
gate. Alas and alack! it was not Moll, but a gentleman on a white horse!
We gazed on each other in breathless dismay; but one of the party, though
sadly confounded, resolved to hear of our messenger if possible, since he
could not see her, and, boldly advancing, demanded of the traveller “if
he were coming from E----?”
The gentleman, for he was a gentleman, appeared somewhat surprised at
this address, but observing a group of rosy, merry-looking children, he
reined in his horse, and smiling good-naturedly, replied that “he was
then returning from that town.”
Emboldened by this condescension, the next query was, “had he seen Moll
Miskellagh?”
The stranger laughed outright. “Really, my dear,” said he, “I have not
the pleasure to know any one of that name. Pray who and what is Moll
Miskellagh?’
“Our market-woman, sir,” quoth our spokesman.
“Ha! What sort of person is she, pray? Perhaps I did see her.”
We looked at one another doubtfully, the look plainly expressing “How
shall we describe her?” when at last the first speaker, with the air of
an incipient judge of female beauty, took on himself to reply, “that Moll
Miskellagh was a very ugly woman indeed, that she had a pale yellow face,
and a great wart near her nose; that she wore a dark blue cloak, an old
black bonnet, and that she carried a prodigious, oh! a very big load on
her back.”
“Never was description more graphic!” exclaimed the traveller, still
laughing. “I did indeed see your market-woman. I passed her about a
quarter of a mile from this; and if you have patience, my dears, you will
soon see her. You expect some nice things by her, I am sure--Eh?”
“Oh dear, yes, sir”--and thereupon we eagerly enumerated all that
Moll was charged to purchase. The kind gentleman seemed to enjoy
our delightful anticipations, asked us our names, and various other
questions, and charitably kept us employed till poor over-laden Moll
actually came in sight, and until he witnessed our clamorous welcomes,
and saw us in possession of our treasures. Nay, he lingered to laugh at
our expedient to facilitate Mrs Miskellagh’s tardy movements up the very
steep avenue--one and all of the four juveniles getting behind her and
pushing her up (much in the way the veritable Captain Kearney’s fair
but fat cousin was sent up the companion-ladder, as described in “Peter
Simple”), the boys shouting “Yo heave ho!” as the good ship Old Moll got
into port.
Peace to the poor market-woman! In some lone and humble church-yard she
now rests after her life of labour--in the memory of those who knew her,
her only epitaph,
“Simple, faithful, honest, much-enduring Moll Miskellagh!”