The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

With the above exception, the cabin's sole occupant, at the present moment, is a woman; but such a woman – it's the cobbler's wife, before-mentioned; here, however, she is in her peculiar sphere. "Home is home, be it ever so homely," is a trite and true aphorism, and poor Peggy, it is evident, does her best to make this unpromising one as full of comfort as she can. Everything is scrupulously clean and in its place. The little wooden dresser is as white as soap and sand can make it. So is the floor, and so are the scanty household goods.

There is, though, a shade of discomfort on Peggy's pretty face just now, as she laboriously plies her knitting needles, and the small thundercloud breaks out into little flashes of impatience, as she soliloquizes:

"Did anybody ever see the likes of that Dan of mine? He couldn't take the "tops" over to ould Bulworthy himself – not he! – of course not – he wasn't well enough to go out then, but the minute my back was turned, away he cuts to the 'shebeen' house to get his 'mornin'' – ugh! I do believe if he was before me now, I'd – but no – my poor Dan, it ain't much comfort he's got in the world; so I won't say a blessed word to worry him."

As if to recompense the considerate thought, Dan's jolly voice was heard, singing one of his consoling ditties.

"Here he comes, bless him," cried Peg, joyfully, "as lively as a lark."

There was wonderful commotion amongst the animals as Dan entered. "Pincher," the apocryphal, shook his apology for a tail as vigorously as that diminished appendage was capable of accomplishing; while "Pussy" urged her claims upon his attention by rubbing herself against his legs. Peg said nothing.

Now, Dan perfectly well knew his delinquency. Indeed, the song he had just executed, in a good, bold voice, had more of "brag" in it than real enthusiasm. He saw how the land lay instantly.

"Peg, alanna machree, here I am," said he. "Whisht! I know what you're goin' to say. Keep yer mouth shut, you hateful blaggard, or I'll stop it up wid kisses, as close as cobbler's wax. There, Peg," he continued, after having suited the action to the word, with a smack like a carter's whip, "I couldn't help it – I couldn't, upon my word. You were a long time away – and the breakfast was mighty small – and – and – a sort of oneasiness kem over me inside, I was lonesome, and thinkin' of things as wasn't wholesome, so I thought I'd just stick another chalk up at Phil Mooney's, so don't say another word."

"Not a word Dan," replied Peg. "Sure, don't I mind poor Mary Maguire's case, how she never let Mike rest when he had 'the drop' in him, until at long last he stayed out, for the fear of comin' home; the whisky is too strong for a woman to fight agin, Dan, so, if you like it better than me" —

That was a skillful side-blow, and it made its mark.

"Peg, you know better, you thief of the world, you do; you know, in your pure little heart, that's too good for me, or the likes of me; that the summer flowers doesn't love the sunshine of heaven better than I love you; oh! no, it isn't that, not that, Peg aroon."

"What is it, then?"

"Well, Peg," he continued, "its the thinks that comes over a poor fella when he hasn't a scurrig to bless himself wid; the thinks that lays a howld of him when there's nobody by but himself and the devil that sends them, thems the times that worries a poor man, Peg."

"Ah! Dan," replied the other, seriously, "but those times worry a wicked man worse."

"Well, may-be they do," said the cobbler, doggedly, "if a body knew the truth, but it's bad enough either way. Did the Squire pay for the 'tops?'"

"Not yet, Dan, he hadn't the change!"

"Hadn't he, really," replied the other, bitterly. "Poor fella, what a pity; there's a mighty great likeness betune us in that, anyway. The upstart pup, why the divil didn't he get change. There's the differ, Peg, darlin', betune the rale gintleman and the 'musharoon;' a gintleman as feels and knows he's one, and consequentially acts accordin', will always think of the great inconvanience the want of the little bit o' money is to the poor man, and not the small ditto to himself, in the respect of gettin' the change; bad luck attend you, ould Bulworthy, the want of that shillin' has made me break my word in a quarther where I'm mighty loath for to do that same."

"Where is that, Dan?"

"I'll tell you, Peg; on the strength of that shillin' I towld my inside that I'd give it a threat, may I never sin, acush, if I didn't promise it a 'sassidge;' now, you know if you tell your hungryness to come at a certain time, it's generally apt to be purty smart at keepin' the appintmint, and, bedad, mine is waitin' for that sassidge; moreover, it ain't threatin' a man's intayrior relations anyway raysonable to go back of yer word. Murdher, there's a twinge – if it isn't hittin' me a punch in the stomach just to put me in mind, I'm a grasshopper. It's no use," he continued, addressing his unsatisfied digestibles, "you may's well give over grumblin' and touchin' me up that way; it's no fault of mine, it's ould Bulworthy's, bad cess to him; he hadn't any change, the dirty spalpeen, you won't take an excuse won't you? then I'll have to fire a pipe at you. Peg, jewil, fill us a dhudeen, won't you; this thievin' hunger won't stir a toe unless I hunt it out wid tibaccy."

Peggy soon filled the inevitable pipe, and Dan brought his artillery to bear upon the foe, after a severe round of tremendous puffs, during which the combatants were enveloped in the hot smoke of battle; the enemy showed evident signs of beating a temporary retreat. Dan threw himself back in his chair, and prepared, leisurely, to enjoy the fruits of his victory.

"I wondher," said he, after a few moments of great satisfaction, "I wondher how ould Bulworthy would like to lunch upon smoke? Be jabers, if I had my will, I'd make him eat three males a day of it, until his hard-hearted bowels got tenderer towards the poor."

"Talk of the what's-his-name," said Peggy. "Here he comes, both him and his fine madame, as proud as ten paycocks; look at the airs of them; I wonder they don't have the street widened when they condescend to walk out."

"Peggy, darlin'," said Dan, "divil take me if I havn't a great mind to let out at him for my shillin'."

"Sure you wouldn't; what, in the open street? he'd hang you, Dan, without judge or jury."

"It ain't quite so easy to hang a man as it used to be in the fine ould times, Peg alanna," said Dan. "It's my shillin', he has no right to keep it jinglin' in his pocket, and he shan't, neither, if I can help it," he continued, going towards the door. "Hit or miss, here goes: Hollo, Squire!" adding, sotto voce, "you murdherin' Turk in top boots; long life to you – you concated ould vagabone."

These expressions, of which the most polite alone reached his ear, as it may be imagined, grated harshly upon the aristocratic nerves of the prodigious Bulworthy; "What's that fellow making such a magniloquent hulla-balloo about," said he, grandly.

"Athin, may-be you'd do my drawin'-room the honor of a sit down, yourself, and her ladyship," said Dan, to the dismay of poor Peggy, who exclaimed: "Don't, Dan, don't; I'm ashamed of you, indeed, I am;" adding, apologetically, "oh, he never would a done it, only for the drink; we're ruined entirely."

"Bad 'cess to me if they're not coming, sure enough," said Dan, somewhat tremulously, but determined to put a good bold face on it, he continued, as they entered, "come, Peg, dust the chair for the lady."

Peg's face was crimson as she complied, she scarcely knew how; Bulworthy's countenance indicated the state of temper with which he accepted the proffered hospitality, while the Squiress gazed coolly and patronizingly around.

"I'm in a tremendious rage," said he, as he shook his fist at Dan. "How dare you have the premeditated insurance to arrogate us into your pig-sty, you ragamuffin."

"Don't worrit, my dear," interposed Mrs. Bulworthy, in an authoritative tone. "It's our dooty, now, as ladies and gentlemen, to inquire into the condition of the poor, and give them wholesome advice. Here, my dear," she continued, taking sundry tracts from her capacious pocket, "read these comfortable pages, and see what a state of awful responsibility you are in."

"Bedad, that's all the poor people is likely to get from such visitors as you," said Dan.

"And now, sir," said Bulworthy, with an imposing frown, "what interrogational imperence do you want to address to me, that you have the owdaciousness to drag me here?"

Dan simply took down a broken piece of slate, and holding it up before the Squire's eyes, "a thriflin' account, sir," said he; "for heel-piecin' your honor's honorable tops, and maybe they don't show off an iligant lump of a leg, this fine spring mornin'," vainly hoping that the unmitigated flattery would mitigate the wrath of the potent Squire.

"And was it for this, you – you illiterate colossus of brass, that you detained me in my preambulations."

"Indeed, sir," timidly interposed Peggy, "I hope that you'll forgive him. It isn't his fault entirely, your honor. It's all on account of a gintleman that he axed for to take a bit of dinner wid him."

"What!" screamed Mrs. Bulworthy, with her sanctimonious eyes elevated to the true Pharisaic standard; "I never heard of such wretched depravity. Dinner! do such wretched creatures deal in so miserable an extravagance? I tremble for your lost condition. Read this;" and she fumbled in her pocket for another comforting document, which Peggy courtesied humbly as she received; "read this, and learn to conquer your unworthy appetites for earthly things." The Squiress was a fine example of those theoretic Lady Bountifuls, whose province it is to feed poverty with such like unsatisfactory viands.

"I'll make you wait for your shillin', you scoundrel," said the irate Squire.

"And serve him right, too," echoed his worthy spouse.

"Then we'll have to wait for our dinner," suggested Dan.

"And what's that to us, you reprobate?"

"Oh, nothin'," said Dan. "Full stomachs thinks there's no empty ones in the world; but may bad fortune stuff them top-boots chock full of corns, for your hard-heartedness, and may you never pull them on without gettin' a fresh stock."

"Dear me, dear me," said the squeaking tract-distributer, "read this, and see what comes of such irreligious observations."

"Read it yourself, ma'am," replied Dan, tossing back the proffered antidote, "maybe you may want it as bad as any of us."

"You have been iniquitously indulging in intoxicating beverages, sir," said Bulworthy.

"A drunkard!" exclaimed his helpmate. "I have a blessed tract or two peculiarly adapted to that abominable crime."

"Oh! no, no, not a drunkard," cried Peggy, snatching the tract from the hand of her visitor; "not a drunkard. The cares of poverty force him to try and forget them, and himself now and then, but that's all."

"All! that all! Oh, for the sinfulness that surrounds us," replied the other.

"Have you been drinking, sir?" demanded the Squire, in a justice-of-peace tone.

"What right have you to ax?" said Dan, boldly. "You owe me a shillin'; that's all I want."

"He has a right, depraved creature that you are," interposed the meek and Christian-like disseminator; "rich people always have a right to ask such questions of their poorer neighbors; but you don't deserve the care we take of your unhappy souls."

"Well, then, since it comes to that," said Dan, "I do taste a thrifle whin I can convayniently lay a hould of it; and, more betoken, it's a mighty bad rule that doesn't work both ways. I saw a lot of barrels and bottles goin' into the fine house over the way. I wonder if they wor intended for chimbly ornaments?"

"Come, my dear," said Bulworthy, now supremely indignant, "let us leave these degeneratious individuals to their incoherent reflections."

"I want my shillin'," shouted Dan.

"You shan't have it."

"But I'm hungry, and so is Peggy, and Pincher, and Pussy."

"Read this, you poor, infatuated sinner," said Mrs. B., handing him another elegant extract, "and it will teach you to be contented under all circumstances."

"Will it turn into a piece of bacon?" inquired Dan; "for if it won't yez may curl yur hair wid it. It's all very well for you barn-fed gentry to be crammin' the poor wid bits of paper – gim me me shillin'."

The Squire said not a word, but buttoned his pockets up tightly, while, with an expression of the most intense pity for such unparalleled ignorance, his better half followed him out of the cabin.

"May bitther bad luck attend yez both," said Dan, as they quitted the place. "The dirty dhrop's in yez, and it will show itself in spite of all yer money; hollo! ain't that the babby?" he continued, as the tiny voice of a child was heard proceeding from a little bit of a room, their only other apartment.

"Yes, bless his bright eyes," replied Peggy, oblivious now to all the world beside. "He's awake; look at his darlin' little face, wid the laugh comin' all over it like a mealy potato." So saying, she rushed into the room, and commenced hugging and kissing their sole treasure in a most alarming manner.

"Kiss him for me, Peg," cried Dan. "Smother the villain of the world; ah, ha!" he went on, "there's a blessin' ould top-boots hasn't got any way; a fine lump of a fella, wid the health fairly burstin' out of his murdherin' cheeks; as fat as butther, and as lively as a tickled kitten. The Squire's is a poor, wizen-faced leprechaun of a creather, that looks as if he was born forty years ould, and grew backwards ever sence. Ha, ha! the thoughts of that bright-eyed schamer puts the song into my heart, like the risin' sun to the lark."

But soon his thoughts took a more desponding turn. "Poor little gossoon," said he, "when I think that there's nothin' before him but his father's luck in the world, to work, and pine, and toil, until his back is bent before the ould age touches it; it drives away the joy as quick as it came; murdher alive, ain't it too bad to think that ill-lookin' Kippogue over the way, might ate goold if he could only disgist it, and when he grows up, my fine, noble, blessed boy will have to bow, and cringe, and touch his hat to a chap wid no more sowl than a worn-out shoe; that's what puts evil thoughts in my head; the boy that I love, aye! almost as hard as if I was the mother of it instead of bein' only its father; when I think of him and what may be before him, oh! how I wish that I stood in ould Bulworthy's shoes, or his 'tops,' if it was only for his sake. Murdher! how sleepy I am all of a suddent; is it the drink, or the imptyness? a little of both, may-be; it ain't often I have a chance of forgettin' the dirty world for a thrifle o' time, so here goes to have a snooze."

So saying, Dan settled himself to take a mid-day nap, for the lack of better employment; but he had scarcely dropped his head on his breast for that purpose when he became aware of a singular ringing sensation in his ears, which increased until he fancied he heard a sound, loud and sonorous as the tolling of the church-clock; at last there came one bang, so startling that he jumped up suddenly from his chair: "The Saints between us and all harum: who's that?" he cried, in a terrible fright; but he could see nothing; the sounds were also gone; a dead silence was around him, and he must have slept for some time, it appeared, for the shadows of evening were darkening the small window. Moodily he leant his head upon his hands and gazed into the small fire-place; a few sods of turf were burning on the hearth; as he looked fixedly upon the waning embers, he perceived that from either end of one of the sods, a thin, white smoke lazily curled up the chimney, gradually increasing in volume and density; while he was vainly wondering how so small a piece of turf could send out so great an amount of vapor, to his still greater surprise, he saw the spiral columns advance towards him, and gather upon each side – slowly they gathered – and mounted in eddying clouds, until they reached to a level with his head; there they ceased, as though imprisoned in an invisible medium, and commenced wreathing and interwreathing, up and down, in beautiful vapory combinations; silently he contemplated the extraordinary phenomenon, in a state of extreme bewilderment, but yet without the slightest sensation of the dread which should accompany so singular a spectacle, and it was with more admiration than awe he became aware that the smoky pillars beside him were gradually moulding themselves into the most exquisite human forms; at length they stood before him defined and perfect – two female appearances of transcendent loveliness; one fair as a sun-beam, the other dark, but each supreme in its individual type of beauty. Gentleness and heavenly love beamed in the mild, blue eyes of the one, glittering boldness flashed from the coal-black orbs of the other: a shower of delicate golden hair, soft and yielding as silken fibres, shed a bright radiance like a halo around the saintly lineaments of the fairer spirit, while massy clusters of raven hue, through which a warm, purple tint was interwoven, glancing, in the light, like threads of fire, enriched the ample brow, and swept down the full form of the darker one. "I wonder if it's alive they are," thought Dan, as he gazed alternately at each. "I'll be upon me oath I dunno which is the purtiest of the two; the yalla-headed one looks as if she could coax the very heart out through me ribs; but, oh! murdher alive! the lightnin' that darts from them black eyes is enough to strike a fella foolish at onst; bad luck to me if I don't spake to them;" so saying, our friend made one of his best bows, tugging the conventional lock left for that purpose. "Your sarvant, ladies," said he, "and what might it be that brings yez out so airly this cowld mornin'."

The fairer apparition, in a voice like spoken melody, answered: "I am the spirit of your better thoughts."

"You don't tell me that, Miss, then it's glad that I am to see you to the fore, and mighty sorry that I haven't got a sate dacent enough to offer to the likes of such an iligant creather," said Dan, "and who's your frind, may I ax?" he went on, turning to the darker beauty.

"I am the spirit of your evil thoughts," replied the other, in a rich, full tone, bending her lustrous eyes upon the questioner in a way that made his heart bound.

"Oh! you are, are you," he gasped out; "faix, and I don't know, if it's welcome you ought to be, or not; but, for the sake of good manners, I'd ax you to sit too, av I had the convaynience."

"You called upon us both, just now," said the good spirit.

"And we are here," continued the other; "so choose between us, which you will entertain."

"Couldn't I be on the safe side, and entertain the both of yez?" suggested Dan, with a propitiatory wink to each.

"That is impossible," replied the good spirit. "We only meet when there's contention in a mortal mind whether he shall the right or wrong pursue. Did you not wish but now that you could change conditions with the rich man opposite?"

"Well, then, I may's well let the whole truth out, seein' that you're likely to know all about it; I did wish somethin' of the sort."

"And a very reasonable wish it was," said the dark spirit, on his left.

"A very foolish wish," firmly observed the fair one.

"I don't agree with you," replied the other.

"You never do," said the good spirit.

"Nor ever will!"

"I don't lose much by that" —

"Ladies, darlin'," interposed Dan, "I'd rayther you wouldn't disthress yerselves on my account."

"Don't be alarmed, my good friend," said the fair spirit. "We never can agree; but, how do you resolve? Is it still your wish to stand in the Squire's shoes?"

"Top-boots?" suggested Dan.

"Of course it is," replied the evil spirit for him. "Who would not have such wish, to pass his days in luxury and ease, not labor – pinched, in care and penury?"

"Thrue for you," observed Dan, approvingly.

"But who would give up even a small share of joy, contentment, and domestic love, to seek, perchance, for more, perchance, for less?" replied the other.

"There's rayson in that," said Dan.

"Aye, but the boy," said his left-hand companion; "see what a glorious life the heir to such a wealthy man would lead."

"That sets me heart bubblin' like a bilin' pot," cried Dan, joyously.

"You are resolved, then, to be ruled by me?" demanded the suggester of evil thoughts.

"Indeed, and I am, that I am, just for the sake of the babby," said Dan.

"Follow, and I will point out a way," said the dark spirit, gliding towards the door. Dan made a movement to follow, when his footsteps were arrested by a chorus of invisible voices, small, but distinct, and musical as a choir of singing birds, that appeared to sound within his very brain, so that he heard every word as clearly as though he had uttered it himself.

Every mortal has his grief:

Each one thinks that his is chief.

Better keep your present lot,

Than to tempt – you don't know what.

Irresolution made him falter on the threshold through which the spirit of evil thoughts had just passed; it was but for an instant, however, for the same tiny voices sang within his heart the blessings and the joys of wealth, and, above all, the image of his darling child, made happy in its possession.

"Here goes," said he. "The divil a pin's point does it matther what comes of me, so that luck lays a howld of the little gossoon." So saying, he followed the dark spirit, while the other bowed its lovely head upon its breast, and shedding tears of anguish for the tempted one, whose weakness she had not the power to strengthen, slowly and pensively came after, resolved not to abandon her charge while there was yet a hope to save.

CHAPTER III

Our selfish pleasures multiply amain,But then their countless progeny is pain.

We left the great Squire Bulworthy, preparing to astonish the neighborhood, which he assuredly succeeded in doing, but not in a style at all creditable or satisfactory to himself.

It would appear, indeed, as though the hearty, but uncharitable wish of the irritated cobbler, was curiously prophetic, for, before the purse-proud couple had achieved the half of their accustomed promenade, Mr. Bulworthy's extremities were suddenly and unceremoniously fastened upon by an unusually severe gripe of that enemy to active exercise – the gout. So sharp was the pain, that the Squire roared out right lustily, and executed such a variety of absurd contortions that he became an object of intense amusement, rather than sympathy, to the vagabond portion of the neighborhood.

There being no such extemporaneous means of transit as hacks, or "hansoms," attainable, there was nothing for it but to suffer; so, leaning heavily upon a couple of stray Samaritans, whose commiseration was warmly stimulated by the promised shilling, he managed, by slow and agonizing efforts, to shuffle home, attended by his silent and unsympathizing spouse.

After having undergone the excruciating process of unbooting – an operation whose exquisite sensations are known only to the initiated – he screamed for his universal panacea, whisky-punch. The materials were brought in an incredibly short space of time, for Bulworthy was murderous in his gouty spells. Half a dozen stiff tumblers were disposed of with Hibernian celerity, and the hurried household began to congratulate itself upon a prospect of quiet. Vain hope! "dingle, dingle, ding!" went the big bell at the Squire's elbow. Up started, simultaneously, Barney and Mary from the dish of comfort they were laying themselves out to indulge in down stairs – in their eagerness, tumbling into each other's arms. Barney rushed up the stairway, while Mary listened – as Marys always do, when there's anything interesting going on – receiving, however, in this instance, ample reward for such a breach of good manners, being nearly prostrated by a book flung at Barney's head, to hasten his exit, by the suffering Squire. What the missile had only half done, Barney finished; for, taking the kitchen-stairs at a slide, he came plump against the partially-stunned listener, and down they both rolled comfortably to the bottom. However, as there were no bones broken, the only damage being what Mary called, "a dent in her head," they soon picked themselves up again.