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Stories of Comedy

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Title: Stories of Comedy

Editor: Rossiter Johnson


        
Release date: December 30, 2006 [eBook #20229]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES OF COMEDY ***




Produced by Jacqueline Jeremy, Brian Janes and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









LITTLE CLASSICS

EDITED BY

ROSSITER JOHNSON

STORIES OF
COMEDY


BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914


COPYRIGHT, 1875, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




CONTENTS.

                                                         PAGE

BARNY O'REIRDON THE NAVIGATOR      _Samuel Lover_           7

HADDAD-BEN-AHAB THE TRAVELLER      _John Galt_             58

BLUEBEARD'S GHOST                  _Wm. M. Thackeray_      67

THE PICNIC PARTY                   _Horace Smith_         102

FATHER TOM AND THE POPE            _Samuel Ferguson_      131

JOHNNY DARBYSHIRE                  _William Howitt_       168

THE GRIDIRON                       _Samuel Lover_         206

THE BOX TUNNEL                     _Charles Reade_        217




BARNY O'REIRDON THE NAVIGATOR.

BY SAMUEL LOVER.

I.

OUTWARD BOUND.


Barny O'Reirdon was a fisherman of Kinsale, and a heartier fellow
never hauled a net nor cast a line into deep water: indeed Barny,
independently of being a merry boy among his companions, a lover of
good fun and good whiskey, was looked up to, rather, by his brother
fishermen, as an intelligent fellow, and few boats brought more fish
to market than Barny O'Reirdon's; his opinion on certain points in the
craft was considered law, and in short, in his own little community,
Barny was what is commonly called a leading man. Now your leading man
is always jealous in an inverse ratio to the sphere of his influence,
and the leader of a nation is less incensed at a rival's triumph than
the great man of a village. If we pursue this descending scale, what a
desperately jealous person the oracle of oyster-dredges and
cockle-women must be! Such was Barny O'Reirdon.

Seated one night at a public house, the common resort of Barny and
other marine curiosities, our hero got entangled in debate with what
he called a strange sail,--that is to say, a man he had never met
before, and whom he was inclined to treat rather magisterially upon
nautical subjects; at the same time the stranger was equally inclined
to assume the high hand over him, till at last the new-comer made a
regular outbreak by exclaiming, "Ah, tare-and-ouns, lave aff your
balderdash, Mr. O'Reirdon, by the powdhers o' war it's enough, so it
is, to make a dog bate his father, to hear you goin' an as if you war
Curlumberus or Sir Crustyphiz Wran, when ivery one knows the divil a
farther you iver war nor ketchin crabs or drudgen oysters."

"Who towld you that, my Watherford Wondher?" rejoined Barny; "what the
dickens do you know about sayfarin' farther nor fishin' for sprats in a
bowl wid your grandmother?"

"O, baithershin," says the stranger.

"And who made you so bowld with my name?" demanded O'Reirdon.

"No matther for that," said the stranger; "but if you'd like for to
know, shure it's your own cousin Molly Mullins knows me well, and maybe
I don't know you and yours as well as the mother that bore you, aye, in
throth; and sure I know the very thoughts o' you as well as if I was
inside o' you, Barny O'Reirdon."

"By my sowl thin, you know betther thoughts than your own, Mr.
Whippersnapper, if that's the name you go by."

"No, it's not the name I go by; I've as good a name as your own, Mr.
O'Reirdon, for want of a betther, and that's O'Sullivan."

"Throth there's more than there's good o' them," said Barny.

"Good or bad, I'm a cousin o' your own twice removed by the mother's
side."

"And is it the Widda O'Sullivan's boy you'd be that left this come
Candlemas four years?"

"The same."

"Throth thin you might know better manners to your eldhers, though I'm
glad to see you, anyhow, agin; but a little thravellin' puts us beyant
ourselves sometimes," said Barny, rather contemptuously.

"Throth I nivir bragged out o' myself yit, and it's what I say, that a
man that's only fishin' aff the land all his life has no business to
compare in the regard o' thracthericks wid a man that has sailed to
Fingal."

This silenced any further argument on Barny's part. Where Fingal lay was
all Greek to him; but, unwilling to admit his ignorance, he covered his
retreat with the usual address of his countrymen, and turned the
bitterness of debate into the cordial flow of congratulation at seeing
his cousin again.

The liquor was frequently circulated, and the conversation began to take
a different turn, in order to lead from that which had very nearly ended
in a quarrel between O'Reirdon and his relation.

The state of the crops, county cess, road jobs, etc., became topics, and
various strictures as to the utility of the latter were indulged in,
while the merits of the neighboring farmers were canvassed.

"Why thin," said one, "that field o' whate o' Michael Coghlan is the
finest field o' whate mortial eyes was ever set upon,--divil the likes
iv it myself ever seen far or near."

"Throth thin sure enough," said another, "it promises to be a fine crap
anyhow, and myself can't help thinkin' it quare that Mikee Coghlan,
that's a plain-spoken, quite (quiet) man, and simple like, should have
finer craps than Pether Kelly o' the big farm beyant, that knows all
about the great saycrets o' the airth, and is knowledgeable to a degree,
and has all the hard words that iver was coined at his fingers' ends."

"Faith, he has a power o' _blasthogue_ about him sure enough," said the
former speaker, "if that could do him any good, but he isn't fit to
hould a candle to Michael Coghlan in the regard o' farmin'."

"Why blur and agers," rejoined the upholder of science, "sure he met the
Scotch steward that the lord beyant has, one day, that I hear is a
wondherful edicated man, and was brought over here to show us all a
patthern,--well, Pether Kelly met him one day, and, by gor, he
discoorsed him to a degree that the Scotch chap hadn't a word left in
his jaw."

"Well, and what was he the betther o' having more prate than a
Scotchman?" asked the other.

"Why," answered Kelly's friend, "I think it stands to rayson that the
man that done out the Scotch steward ought to know somethin' more about
farmin' than Mikee Coghlan."

"Augh! don't talk to me about knowing," said the other, rather
contemptuously. "Sure I gev in to you that he has a power o' prate,
and the gift o' the gab, and all to that. I own to you that he has
_the-o-ry_, and _che-mis-thery_, but he hasn't the _craps_. Now, the
man that has the craps is the man for my money."

"You're right, my boy," said O'Reirdon, with an approving thump of his
brawny fist upon the table, "it's a little talk goes far,--_doin'_ is
the thing."

"Ah, yiz may run down larnin' if yiz like," said the undismayed stickler
for theory versus practice, "but larnin' is a fine thing, and sure where
would the world be at all only for it, sure where would the staymers
(steamboats) be, only for larnin'?"

"Well," said O'Reirdon, "and the divil may care if we never seen them;
I'd rather depind an wind and canvas any day than the likes o' them!
What are they good for, but to turn good sailors into kitchen-maids,
bilin' a big pot o' wather and oilin' their fire-irons, and throwin'
coals an the fire? Augh? thim staymers is a disgrace to the say; they're
for all the world like old fogies, smokin' from mornin' till night and
doin' no good."

"Do you call it doin' no good to go fasther nor ships iver wint before?"

"Pooh; sure Solomon, queen o' Sheba, said there was time enough for all
things."

"Thrue for you," said O'Sullivan, "_fair and aisy goes far in a day_, is
a good ould sayin'."

"Well, maybe you'll own to the improvement they're makin' in the harbor
o' Howth, beyant, in Dublin, is some good."

"We'll see whether it'll be an improvement first," said the obdurate
O'Reirdon.

"Why, man alive, sure you'll own it's the greatest o' good it is,
takin' up the big rocks out o' the bottom o' the harbor."

"Well, an' where's the wondher o' that? sure we done the same here."

"O yis, but it was whin the tide was out and the rocks was bare; but up
at Howth, they cut away the big rocks from undher the say intirely."

"O, be aisy; why how could they do that?"

"Aye, there's the matther, that's what larnin' can do; and wondherful it
is intirely! and the way it is, is this, as I hear it, for I never seen
it, but heerd it described by the lord to some gintlemin and ladies one
day in his garden where I was helpin' the gardener to land some salary
(celery). You see the ingineer goes down undher the wather intirely, and
can stay there as long as he plazes."

"Whoo! and what o' that? Sure I heered the long sailor say, that come
from the Aystern Injees, that the ingineers there can a'most live under
wather; and goes down looking for diamonds, and has a sledge-hammer in
their hand, brakin' the diamonds when they're too big to take them up
whole, all as one as men brakin' stones an the road."

"Well, I don't want to go beyant that; but the way the lord's ingineer
goes down is, he has a little bell wid him, and while he has that little
bell to ring, hurt nor harm can't come to him."

"Arrah be aisy."

"Divil a lie in it."

"Maybe it's a blissed bell," said O'Reirdon, crossing himself.

"No, it is not a blissed bell."

"Why thin now do you think me sich a born nathral as to give in to that?
as if the ringin' iv the bell, barrin' it was a blissed bell, could do
the like. I tell you it's unpossible."

"Ah, nothin' 's unpossible to God."

"Sure I wasn't denyin' that; but I say the bell is unpossible."

"Why," said O'Sullivan, "you see he's not altogether complete in the
demonstheration o' the mashine; it is not by the ringin' o' the bell it
is done, but--"

"But what?" broke in O'Reirdon impatiently. "Do you mane for to say
there is a bell in it at all at all?"

"Yis, I do," said O'Sullivan.

"I towld you so," said the promulgator of the story.

"Aye," said O'Sullivan, "but it is not by the ringin' iv the bell it is
done."

"Well, how is it done then?" said the other, with a half-offended,
half-supercilious air.

"It is done," said O'Sullivan, as he returned the look with
interest,--"it is done entirely by jommethry."

"Oh! I understan' it now," said O'Reirdon, with an inimitable
affectation of comprehension in the Oh!--"but to talk of the ringin'
iv a bell doin' the like is beyant the beyants intirely, barrin', as I
said before, it was a blissed bell, glory be to God!"

"And so you tell me, sir, it is jommethry," said the twice-discomfited
man of science.

"Yis, sir," said O'Sullivan with an air of triumph, which rose in
proportion as he carried the listeners along with him,--"jommethry."

"Well, have it your own way. There's them that won't hear rayson
sometimes, nor have belief in larnin'; and you may say it's jommethry if
you plaze; but I heerd them that knows betther than iver you knew say--"

"Whisht, whisht! and bad cess to you both," said O'Reirdon, "what the
dickens are yiz goin' to fight about now, and sich good liquor before
yiz? Hillo! there, Mrs. Quigley, bring uz another quart i' you plaze;
aye, that's the chat, another quart. Augh! yiz may talk till yo're black
in the face about your invintions, and your staymers, and bell ringin'
and gash, and railroads; but here's long life and success to the man
that invinted the impairil (imperial) quart; that was the rail beautiful
invintion." And he took a long pull at the replenished vessel, which
strongly indicated that the increase of its dimensions was a very
agreeable _measure_ to such as Barny.

After the introduction of this and _other_ quarts, it would not be an
easy matter to pursue the conversation that followed. Let us, therefore,
transfer our story to the succeeding morning, when Barny O'Reirdon
strolled forth from his cottage, rather later than usual, with his eyes
bearing _eye_ witness to the carouse of the preceding night. He had not
a headache, however; whether it was that Barny was too experienced a
campaigner under the banners of Bacchus, or that Mrs. Quigley's boast
was a just one, namely, "that of all the drink in her house, there
wasn't a headache in a hogshead of it," is hard to determine, but I
rather incline to the strength of Barny's head.

Barny sauntered about in the sun, at which he often looked up, under the
shelter of compressed bushy brows and long-lashed eyelids, and a
shadowing hand across his forehead, to see "what o' day" it was; and,
from the frequency of this action, it was evident the day was hanging
heavily with Barny. He retired at last to a sunny nook in a neighboring
field, and stretching himself at full length, basked in the sun, and
began "to chew the cud of sweet and bitter thought." He first reflected
on his own undoubted weight in his little community, but still he could
not get over the annoyance of the preceding night, arising from his
being silenced by O'Sullivan; "a chap," as he said himself, "that lift
the place four years agon a brat iv a boy, and to think iv his comin'
back and outdoin' his elders, that saw him runnin' about the place, a
gassoon, that one could tache a few months before"; 'twas too bad. Barny
saw his reputation was in a ticklish position, and began to consider how
his disgrace could be retrieved. The very name of Fingal was hateful to
him; it was a plague-spot on his peace that festered there incurably. He
first thought of leaving Kinsale altogether; but flight implied so much
of defeat, that he did not long indulge in that notion. No; he _would_
stay, "in spite of all the O'Sullivans, kith and kin, breed, seed, and
generation." But at the same time he knew he should never hear the end
of that hateful place, Fingal; and if Barny had had the power, he would
have enacted a penal statute, making it death to name the accursed spot,
wherever it was; but not being gifted with such legislative authority,
he felt Kinsale was no place for him, if he would not submit to be
flouted every hour out of the four-and-twenty, by man, woman, and child,
that wished to annoy him. What was to be done? He was in the perplexing
situation, to use his own words, "of the cat in the thripe shop," he
didn't know which way to choose. At last, after turning himself over in
the sun several times, a new idea struck him. Couldn't he go to Fingal
himself? and then he'd be equal to that upstart, O'Sullivan. No sooner
was the thought engendered, than Barny sprang to his feet a new man; his
eye brightened, his step became once more elastic,--he walked erect, and
felt himself to be all over Barny O'Reirdon once more. "Richard was
himself again."

But where was Fingal?--there was the rub. That was a profound mystery to
Barny, which, until discovered, must hold him in the vile bondage of
inferiority. The plain-dealing reader would say, "Couldn't he ask?" No,
no; that would never do for Barny: that would be an open admission of
ignorance his soul was above, and consequently Barny set his brains to
work to devise measures of coming at the hidden knowledge by some
circuitous route, that would not betray the end he was working for. To
this purpose, fifty stratagems were raised, and demolished in half as
many minutes, in the fertile brain of Barny, as he strided along the
shore; and as he was working hard at the fifty-first, it was knocked all
to pieces by his jostling against some one whom he never perceived he
was approaching, so immersed was he in his speculations, and on looking
up, who should it prove to be but his friend "the long sailor from the
Aystern Injees." This was quite a godsend to Barny, and much beyond
what he could have hoped for. Of all men under the sun, the long sailor
was the man in a million for Barny's net at that minute, and accordingly
he made a haul of him, and thought it the greatest catch he ever made in
his life.

Barny and the long sailor were in close companionship for the remainder
of the day, which was closed, as the preceding one, in a carouse; but on
this occasion there was only a duet performance in honor of the jolly
god, and the treat was at Barny's expense. What the nature of their
conversation during the period was, I will not dilate on, but keep it as
profound a secret as Barny himself did, and content myself with saying,
that Barny looked a much happier man the next day. Instead of wearing
his hat slouched, and casting his eyes on the ground, he walked about
with his usual unconcern, and gave his nod and the passing word of
_civilitude_ to every friend he met; he rolled his quid of tobacco about
in his jaw with an air of superior enjoyment, and if disturbed in his
narcotic amusement by a question, he took his own time to eject "the
leperous distilment" before he answered the querist,--a happy composure,
that bespoke a man quite at ease with himself. It was in this agreeable
spirit that Barny bent his course to the house of Peter Kelly, the owner
of the "big farm beyant," before alluded to, in order to put in practice
a plan he had formed for the fulfilment of his determination of
rivalling O'Sullivan.

He thought it probable that Peter Kelly, being one of the "snuggest" men
in the neighborhood, would be a likely person to join him in a "spec,"
as he called it (a favorite abbreviation of his for the word
"speculation"), and accordingly, when he reached the "big-farm house,"
he accosted the owner with his usual "God save you."

"God save you kindly, Barny," returned Peter Kelly; "an' what is it
brings you here, Barny," asked Peter, "this fine day, instead o' being
out in the boat?"

"O, I'll be out in the boat soon enough, and it's far enough too I'll be
in her; an' indeed it's partly that same is bringin' me here to
yourself."

"Why, do you want me to go along wid you, Barny?"

"Troth an' I don't, Mr. Kelly. You're a knowledgeable man an land, but
I'm afeared it's a bad bargain you'd be at say."

"And what wor you talking about me and your boat for?"

"Why, you see, sir, it was in the regard of a little bit o' business,
an' if you'd come wid me and take a turn in the praty-field, I'll be
behouldin' to you, and maybe you'll hear somethin' that won't be
displazin' to you."

"An' welkim, Barny," said Peter Kelly.

When Barny and Peter were in the "praty-field," Barny opened the
trenches (I don't mean the potato trenches), but, in military parlance,
he opened the trenches and laid siege to Peter Kelly, setting forth the
extensive profits that had been realized at various "specs" that had
been made by his neighbors in exporting potatoes. "And sure," said
Barny, "why shouldn't _you_ do the same, and they are ready to your
hand? as much as to say, _why don't you profit by me, Peter Kelly?_ And
the boat is below there in the harbor, and, I'll say this much, the
divil a betther boat is betune this and herself."

"Indeed, I b'lieve so, Barny," said Peter, "for considhering where we
stand, at this present, there's no boat at all at all betune us." And
Peter laughed with infinite pleasure at his own hit.

"O, well, you know what I mane, anyhow, an', as I said before, the boat
is a darlint boat, and as for him that commands her--I b'lieve I need
say nothin' about that." And Barny gave a toss of his head and a sweep
of his open hand, more than doubling the laudatory nature of his comment
on himself.

But, as the Irish saying is, "to make a long story short," Barny
prevailed on Peter Kelly to make an export; but in the nature of the
venture they did not agree. Barny had proposed potatoes; Peter said
there were enough of them already where he was going; and Barny rejoined
that, "praties were so good in themselves there never could be too much
o' thim anywhere." But Peter being a knowledgeable man, and up to all
the "saycrets o' the airth, and understanding the the-o-ry and the
che-mis-thery," overruled Barny's proposition, and determined upon a
cargo of _scalpeens_ (which name they gave to pickled mackerel), as a
preferable merchandise, quite forgetting that Dublin Bay herrings were a
much better and as cheap a commodity, at the command of the Fingalians.
But in many similar mistakes the ingenious Mr. Kelly has been paralleled
by other speculators. But that is neither here nor there, and it was
all one to Barny whether his boat was freighted with potatoes or
_scalpeens_, so long as he had the honor and glory of becoming a
navigator, and being as good as O'Sullivan.

Accordingly the boat was laden and all got in readiness for putting to
sea, and nothing was now wanting but Barny's orders to haul up the gaff
and shake out the jib of his hooker.

But this order Barny refrained to give, and for the first time in his
life exhibited a disinclination to leave the shore. One of his
fellow-boatmen, at last, said to him, "Why thin, Barny O'Reirdon, what
the divil is come over you, at all at all? What's the maynin' of your
loitherin' about here, and the boat ready and a lovely fine breeze aff
o' the land?"

"O, never you mind; I b'lieve I know my own business anyhow, an' it's
hard, so it is, if a man can't ordher his own boat to sail when he
plazes."

"O, I was only thinking it quare; and a pity more betoken, as I said
before, to lose the beautiful breeze, and--"

"Well, just keep your thoughts to yourself, i' you plaze, and stay in
the boat as I bid you, and don't be out of her on your apperl, by no
manner o' manes, for one minit, for you see I don't know when it may be
plazin' to me to go aboord an' set sail."

"Well, all I can say is, I never seen you afeared to go to say before."

"Who says I'm afeared?" said O'Reirdon; "you'd betther not say that
agin, or in troth I'll give you a leatherin' that won't be for the good
o' your health,--troth, for three straws this minit I'd lave you that
your own mother wouldn't know you with the lickin' I'd give you; but I
scorn your dirty insinuation; no man ever seen Barny O'Reirdon afeard
yet, anyhow. Howld your prate, I tell you, and look up to your betthers.
What do you know iv navigation? Maybe you think it's as aisy for to sail
on a voyage as to go start a fishin'." And Barny turned on his heel and
left the shore.

The next day passed without the hooker sailing, and Barny gave a most
sufficient reason for the delay, by declaring that he had a warnin'
givin him in a dhrame (Glory be to God), and that it was given to him to
understand (under Heaven) that it wouldn't be lucky that day.

Well, the next day was Friday, and Barny, of course, would not sail any
more than any other sailor who could help it on this unpropitious day.
On Saturday, however, he came, running in a great hurry down to the
shore, and, jumping aboard, he gave orders to make all sail, and taking
the helm of the hooker, he turned her head to the sea, and soon the boat
was cleaving the blue waters with a velocity seldom witnessed in so
small a craft, and scarcely conceivable to those who have not seen the
speed of a Kinsale hooker.

"Why, thin, you tuk the notion mighty suddint, Barny," said the
fisherman next in authority to O'Reirdon, as soon as the bustle of
getting the boat under way had subsided.

"Well, I hope it's plazin' to you at last," said Barny, "troth one ud
think you were never at say before, you wor in such a hurry to be off;
as new-fangled a'most as the child with a play toy."

"Well," said the other of Barny's companions, for there were but two
with him in the boat, "I was thinkin' myself, as well as Jemmy, that we
lost two fine days for nothin', and we'd be there a'most, maybe, now, if
we sail'd three days agon."

"Don't b'lieve it," said Barny, emphatically. "Now, don't you know
yourself that there is some days that the fish won't come near the lines
at all, and that we might as well be castin' our nets on the dhry land
as in the say, for all we'll catch if we start on an unlooky day; and
sure, I towld you I was waitin' only till I had it given to me to
undherstan' that it was looky to sail, and I go bail we'll be there
sooner than if we started three days agon, for if you don't start with
good look before you, faix maybe it's never at all to the end o' your
trip you'll come."

"Well, there's no use in talkin' aboot it now, anyhow; but when do you
expec' to be there?"

"Why, you see we must wait antil I can tell how the wind is like to
hould on, before I can make up my mind to that."

"But you're sure now, Barny, that you're up to the coorse you have to
run?"

"See now, lave me alone and don't be cross crass-questionin'
me--tare-an-ouns, do you think me sich a bladdherang as for to go to
shuperinscribe a thing I wasn't aiquil to?"

"No; I was only goin' to ax you what coorse you wor goin' to steer?"

"You'll find out soon enough when we get there--and so I bid you agin
lay me alone,--just keep your toe in your pump. Shure I'm here at the
helm, and a weight on my mind, and it's fitther for you, Jim, to mind
your own business and lay me to mind mine; away wid you there and be
handy, haul taut that foresheet there, we must run close on the wind; be
handy, boys; make everything dhraw."

These orders were obeyed, and the hooker soon passed to windward of a
ship that left the harbor before her, but could not hold on a wind with
the same tenacity as the hooker, whose qualities in this particular
render it peculiarly suitable for the purposes to which it is applied,
namely, pilot and fishing boats.

We have said a ship left the harbor before the hooker had set sail; and
it is now fitting to inform the reader that Barny had contrived, in the
course of his last meeting with the "long sailor," to ascertain that
this ship, then lying in the harbor, was going to the very place Barny
wanted to reach. Barny's plan of action was decided upon in a moment; he
had now nothing to do but to watch the sailing of the ship and follow in
her course. Here was, at once, a new mode of navigation discovered.

The stars, twinkling in mysterious brightness through the silent gloom
of night, were the first encouraging, because visible, guides to the
adventurous mariners of antiquity. Since then, the sailor, encouraged by
a bolder science, relies on the unseen agency of nature, depending on
the fidelity of an atom of iron to the mystic law that claims its homage
in the north. This is one refinement of science upon another. But the
beautiful simplicity of Barny O'Reirdon's philosophy cannot be too much
admired,--to follow the ship that is going to the same place. Is not
this navigation made easy?

But Barny, like many a great man before him, seemed not to be aware of
how much credit he was entitled to for his invention, for he did not
divulge to his companions the originality of his proceeding; he wished
them to believe he was only proceeding in the commonplace manner, and
had no ambition to be distinguished as the happy projector of so simple
a practice.

For this purpose he went to windward of the ship and then fell off
again, allowing her to pass him, as he did not wish even those on board
the ship to suppose he was following in their wake; for Barny, like all
people that are quite full of one scheme, and fancy everybody is
watching them, dreaded lest any one should fathom his motives. All that
day Barny held on the same course as his leader, keeping at a respectful
distance, however, "for fear 'twould look like dodging her," as he said
to himself; but as night closed in, so closed in Barny with the ship,
and kept a sharp lookout that she should not give him the slip. The next
morning dawned, and found the hooker and ship companions still; and thus
matters proceeded for four days, during which entire time they had not
seen land since their first losing sight of it, although the weather was
clear.

"By my sowl," thought Barny, "the channel must be mighty wide in these
parts, and for the last day or so we've been goin' purty free with a
flowing sheet, and I wondher we aren't closin' in wid the shore by this
time; or maybe it's farther off than I thought it was." His companions,
too, began to question Barny on the subject, but to their queries he
presented an impenetrable front of composure, and said "it was always
the best plan to keep a good bowld offin'." In two days more, however,
the weather began to be sensibly warmer, and Barny and his companions
remarked that it was "goin' to be the finest sayson--God bless it--that
ever kem out o' the skies for many a long year, and maybe it's the whate
would not be beautiful, and a great dale of it."

It was at the end of a week that the ship which Barny had hitherto kept
ahead of him showed symptoms of bearing down upon him, as he thought,
and, sure enough, she did; and Barny began to conjecture what the deuce
the ship could want with him, and commenced inventing answers to the
questions he thought it possible might be put to him in case the ship
spoke him. He was soon put out of suspense by being hailed and ordered
to run under her lee, and the captain, looking over the quarter, asked
Barny where he was going.

"Faith then, I'm goin' an my business," said Barny.

"But where?" said the captain.

"Why, sure, an' it's no matther where a poor man like me id be goin',"
said Barny.

"Only I'm curious to know what the deuce you've been following my ship
for, the last week."

"Follyin' your ship! Why, thin, blur-an-agers, do you think it's
follyin' yiz I am?"

"It's very like it," said the captain.

"Why, did two people niver thravel the same road before?"

"I don't say they didn't; but there's a great difference between a ship
of seven hundred tons and a hooker."

"O, as for that matther," said Barny, "the same high-road sarves a coach
and four and a lowback car, the thravellin' tinker an' a lord a'
horseback."

"That's very true," said the captain, "but the cases are not the same,
Paddy, and I can't conceive what the devil brings _you_ here."

"And who ax'd you to consayve anything about it?" asked Barny, somewhat
sturdily.

"D--n me, if I can imagine what you're about, my fine fellow," said the
captain; "and my own notion is, that you don't know where the d--l
you're going yourself."

"O _baithershin_!" said Barny, with a laugh of derision.

"Why then do you object to tell?" said the captain.

"Arrah sure, captain, an' don't you know that sometimes vessels is bound
to sail under _saycret ordhers_?" said Barny, endeavoring to foil the
question by badinage.

There was a universal laugh from the deck of the ship, at the idea of a
fishing-boat sailing under secret orders; for, by this time, the whole
broadside of the vessel was crowded with grinning mouths and wondering
eyes at Barny and his boat.

"O, it's a thrifle makes fools laugh," said Barny.

"Take care, my fine fellow, that you don't be laughing at the wrong side
of your mouth before long, for I've a notion that you're cursedly in
the wrong box, as cunning a fellow as you think yourself. D--n your
stupid head, can't you tell what brings you here?"

"Why, thin, by gor, one id think the whole say belonged to you, you're
so mighty bowld in axin' questions an it. Why, tare-an-ouns, sure I've
as much right to be here as you, though I haven't as big a ship nor as
fine a coat,--but maybe I can take as good a sailin' out o' the one, and
has as bowld a heart under th' other."

"Very well," said the captain, "I see there's no use in talking to you,
so go to the d--l your own way." And away bore the ship, leaving Barny
in indignation and his companions in wonder.

"An' why wouldn't you tell him?" said they to Barny.

"Why, don't you see," said Barny, whose object was now to blind
them,--"don't you see, how do I know but maybe he might be goin' to the
same place himself, and maybe he has a cargo of _scalpeens_ as well as
uz, and wants to get before us there."

"True for you, Barny," said they. "By dad, you're right." And their
inquiries being satisfied, the day passed as former ones had done, in
pursuing the course of the ship.

In four days more, however, the provisions in the hooker began to fail,
and they were obliged to have recourse to the _scalpeens_ for
sustenance, and Barny then got seriously uneasy at the length of the
voyage, and the likely greater length, for anything he could see to the
contrary; and, urged at last by his own alarms and those of his
companions, he was enabled, as the wind was light, to gain on the ship,
and when he found himself alongside he demanded a parley with the
captain.

The captain, on hearing that the "hardy hooker," as she got christened,
was under his lee, came on deck; and as soon as he appeared Barny cried
out,--

"Why, thin, blur-an-agers, Captain dear, do you expec' to be there
soon?"

"Where?" said the captain.

"O, you know yourself!" said Barny.

"It's well for me I do," said the captain.

"Thrue for you, indeed, your honor," said Barny, in his most insinuating
tone; "but whin will you be at the ind o' your voyage, Captain jewel?"

"I daresay in about three months," said the captain.

"O Holy Mother!" ejaculated Barny; "three months!--arrah, it's jokin'
you are, Captain dear, and only want to freken me."

"How should I frighten you?" asked the captain.

"Why, thin, your honor, to tell God's thruth, I heard you were goin'
_there_, an' as I wanted to go there too, I thought I couldn't do better
nor to folly a knowledgeable gintleman like yourself, and save myself
the throuble iv findin' it out."

"And where do you think I _am_ going?" said the captain.

"Why, thin," said Barny, "isn't it to Fingal?"

"No," said the captain, "it's to _Bengal_."

"O Gog's blakey!" said Barny, "what'll I do now, at all at all?"


II.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

The captain ordered Barny on deck, as he wished to have some
conversation with him on what he, very naturally, considered a most
extraordinary adventure. Heaven help the captain! he knew little of
Irishmen, or he would not have been so astonished. Barny made his
appearance. Puzzling question and more puzzling answer followed in quick
succession between the commander and Barny, who, in the midst of his
dilemma, stamped about, thumped his head, squeezed his caubeen into all
manner of shapes, and vented his despair anathematically: "O, my heavy
hathred to you, you tarnal thief iv a long sailor, it's a purty scrape
yiv led me into. By gor, I thought it was _Fingal_ he said, and now I
hear it is _Bingal_. O, the divil sweep you for navigation, why did I
meddle or make wid you at all at all? And my curse light on you, Terry
O'Sullivan, why did I iver come across you, you onlooky vagabone, to put
sich thoughts in my head? And so it's _Bingal_, and not _Fingal_, you're
goin' to, Captain?"

"Yes, indeed, Paddy."

"An' might I be so bowld to ax, Captain, is Bingal much farther nor
Fingal?"

"A trifle or so, Paddy?"

"Och, thin, millia murther, weirasthru, how'll I iver get there at all
at all?" roared out poor Barny.

"By turning about, and getting back the road you've come, as fast as you
can."

"Is it back? O Queen iv Heaven! an' how will I iver get back?" said the
bewildered Barny.

"Then, you don't know your course, it appears?"

"O, faix I knew it iligant, as long as your honor was before me."

"But you don't know your course back?"

"Why, indeed, not to say rightly all out, your honor."

"Can't you steer?" said the captain.

"The divil a betther hand at the tiller in all Kinsale," said Barny,
with his usual brag.

"Well, so far so good," said the captain. "And you know the points of
the compass,--you have a compass, I suppose?"

"A compass! by my sowl an' it's not let alone a compass, but a _pair_ a
compasses I have, that my brother the carpinthir left me for a keepsake
whin he wint abroad; but, indeed, as for the points o' thim I can't say
much, for the childer spylt thim intirely, rootin' holes in the flure."

"What the plague are you talking about?" asked the captain.

"Wasn't your honor discoorsin' me about the points o' the compasses?"

"Confound your thick head!" said the captain. "Why, what an ignoramus
you must be, not to know what a compass is, and you at sea all your
life? Do you even know the cardinal points?"

"The cardinals! faix, an' it's a great respect I have for them, your
honor. Sure, ar'n't they belongin' to the pope?"

"Confound you, you blockhead!" roared the captain, in a rage,--"'twould
take the patience of the pope and the cardinals, and the cardinal
virtues into the bargain, to keep one's temper with you. Do you know the
four points of the wind?"

"By my sowl, I do, and more."

"Well, never mind more, but let us stick to four. You're sure you know
the four points of the wind?"

"By dad, it would be a quare thing if a seyfarin' man didn't know
somethin' about the wind anyhow. Why, Captain dear, you must take me for
a nathral intirely, to suspect me o' the like o' not knowin' all about
the wind. By gor, I know as much o' the wind a'most as a pig."

"Indeed, I believe so," laughed out the captain.

"O, you may laugh if you plaze, and I see by the same that you don't
know about the pig, with all your edication, Captain."

"Well, what about the pig?"

"Why, sir, did you never hear a pig can see the wind?"

"I can't say that I did."

"O, thin he does, and for that rayson who has a right to know more about
it?"

"You don't, for one, I dare say, Paddy; and maybe you have a pig aboard
to give you information."

"Sorra taste, your honor, not as much as a rasher o' bacon; but it's
maybe your honor never seen a pig tossing up his snout, consaited like,
and running like mad afore a storm."

"Well, what if I have?"

"Well, sir, that is when they see the wind a-comin'."

"Maybe so, Paddy, but all this knowledge in piggery won't find you your
way home; and, if you take my advice, you will give up all thoughts of
endeavoring to find your way back, and come on board. You and your
messmates, I dare say, will be useful hands, with some teaching; but, at
all events, I cannot leave you here on the open sea, with every chance
of being lost."

"Why, thin, indeed, and I'm behowlden to your honor; and it's the
hoighth o' kindness, so it is, you offer; and it's nothin' else but a
gintleman you are, every inch o' you; but I hope it's not so bad wid us
yet, as to do the likes o' that."

"I think it's bad enough," said the captain, "when you are without a
compass and knowing nothing of your course, and nearly a hundred and
eighty leagues from land."

"An' how many miles would that be, Captain?"

"Three times as many."

"I never larned the rule o' three, Captain, and maybe your honor id tell
me yourself."

"That is rather more than five hundred miles."

"Five hundred miles!" shouted Barny. "O, the Lord look down upon us!
how'll we ever get back?"

"That's what I say," said the captain; "and therefore, I recommend you
to come aboard with me."

"And where 'ud the hooker be all the time?" said Barny.

"Let her go adrift," was the answer.

"Is it the darlint boat? O, by dad, I'll never hear o' that at all."

"Well, then, stay in her and be lost. Decide upon the matter at once,
either come on board or cast off." And the captain was turning away as
he spoke, when Barny called after him, "Arrah, thin, your honor, don't
go jist for one minit antil I ax you one word more. If I wint wid you,
whin would I be home again?"

"In about seven months."

"O, thin, that puts the wig an it at wanst. I dar'n't go at all."

"Why, seven months are not long passing."

"Thrue for you, in throth," said Barny, with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Faix, it's myself knows, to my sorrow, the half year comes round mighty
suddint, and the lord's agint comes for the thrifle o' rent."

"Then what's your objection, as to the time?" asked the captain.

"Arrah, sure, sir, what would the woman that owns me do while I was
away? and maybe it's break her heart the craythur would, thinking I was
lost intirely; and who'd be at home to take care o' the childher' and
airn thim the bit and the sup, whin I'd be away? and who knows but it's
all dead they'd be afore I got back? Och hone! sure the heart id fairly
break in my body, if hurt or harm kem to them, through me. So, say no
more, Captain dear, only give me a thrifle o' directions how I'm to make
an offer at gettin' home, and it's myself that will pray for you night,
noon, and mornin' for that same."

"Well, Paddy," said the captain, "as you are determined to go back, in
spite of all I can say, you must attend to me well while I give you as
simple instructions as I can. You say you know the four points of the
wind, north, south, east, and west."

"Yes, sir."

"How do you know them? for I must see that you, are not likely to make a
mistake. How do you know the points?"

"Why, you see, sir, the sun, God bless it, rises in the aist, and sets
in the west, which stands to raison; and whin you stand bechuxt the aist
and the west, the north is forninst you."

"And when the north is fornenst you, as you say, is the east on your
right or your left hand?"

"On the right hand, your honor."

"Well, I see you know that much, however. Now," said the captain, "the
moment you leave the ship, you must steer a northeast course, and you
will make some land near home in about a week, if the wind holds as it
is now, and it is likely to do so; but, mind me, if you turn out of your
course in the smallest degree you are a lost man."

"Many thanks to your honor!"

"And how are you off for provisions?"

"Why, thin, indeed, in the regard o' that same we are in the hoighth o'
distress, for exceptin' the scalpeens, sorra taste passed our lips for
these four days."

"O, you poor devils!" said the commander, in a tone of sincere
commiseration, "I'll order you some provisions on board before you
start."

"Long life to your honor! and I'd like to drink the health of so noble a
gintleman."

"I understand you, Paddy, you shall have grog too."

"Musha, the heavens shower blessin's an you, I pray the Virgin Mary and
the twelve apostles, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, not forgettin' Saint
Pathrick."

"Thank you, Paddy; but keep your prayers for yourself, for you need them
all to help you home again."

"Oh! never fear, when the thing is to be done, I'll do it, by dad, wid a
heart and a half. And sure, your honor, God is good, an' will mind
dessolute craythurs like uz on the wild oceant as well as ashore."

While some of the ship's crew were putting the captain's benevolent
intentions to Barny and his companions into practice, by transferring
some provisions to the hooker, the commander entertained himself by
further conversation with Barny, who was the greatest original he had
ever met. In the course of their colloquy, Barny drove many hard queries
at the captain, respecting the wonders of the nautical profession, and
at last put the question to him plump:--

"Oh! thin, Captain dear, and how is it at all at all, that you make your
way over the wide says intirely to them furrin parts?"

"You would not understand, Paddy, if I attempted to explain to you."

"Sure enough, indeed, your honor, and I ask your pardon, only I was
curious to know, and sure no wondher."

"It requires various branches of knowledge to make a navigator."

"Branches," said Barny, "by gar I think it id take the whole tree o'
knowledge to make it out. And that place you are going to, sir, that
_Bin_gal (oh! bad luck to it for a _Bin_gal, it's the sore _Bin_gal to
me), is it so far off as you say?"

"Yes, Paddy, half round the world."

"Is it round in airnest, Captain dear? Round about!"

"Aye, indeed."

"O, thin, ar'n't you afeard that whin you come to the top and that
you're obleedged to go down, that you'd go slidderhin away intirely, and
never be able to stop, maybe. It's bad enough, so it is, going down hill
by land, but it must be the dickens all out by wather."

"But there is no hill, Paddy; don't you know that water is always
level?"

"By dad, it's very _flat_ anyhow, and by the same token it's seldom I
throuble it; but sure, your honor, if the wather is level, how do you
make out that it is _round_ you go?"

"That is a part of the knowledge I was speaking to you about," said the
captain.

"Musha, bad luck to you, knowledge, but you're a quare thing!--and where
is it Bingal, bad cess to it, would be at all at all?"

"In the East Indies."

"O, that is where they make the _tay_, isn't it, sir?"

"No, where the tea grows is further still."

"Further! why that must be the ind of the world intirely; and they don't
make it, thin, sir, but it grows, you tell me."

"Yes, Paddy."

"Is it like hay, your honor?"

"Not exactly, Paddy; what puts hay in your head?"

"Oh! only bekase I hear them call it Bo_hay_."

"A most logical deduction, Paddy."

"And is it a great deal farther, your honor, the _tay_ country is?"

"Yes, Paddy, China it is called."

"That's, I suppose, what we call Chaynee, sir?"

"Exactly, Paddy."

"By dad, I never could come at it rightly before, why it was nathral to
drink tay out o' chaynee. I ax your honor's pardon for bein'
troublesome, but I hard tell from the long sailor, iv a place they call
Japan, in them furrin parts, and _is_ it there, your honor?"

"Quite true, Paddy."

"And I suppose it's there the blackin' comes from."

"No, Paddy, you are out there."

"O well, I thought it stood to rayson, as I heerd of Japan blackin',
sir, that it would be there it kem from; besides,--as the blacks
themselves,--the naygers, I mane, is in them parts."

"The negroes are in Africa, Paddy, much nearer to us."

"God betune us and harm. I hope I would not be too near them," said
Barny.

"Why, what's your objection?"

"Arrah sure, sir, they're hardly mortials at all, but has the mark o'
the bastes an thim."

"How do you make out that, Paddy?"

"Why sure, sir, and didn't Natur make thim wid wool on their heads,
plainly makin' it undherstood to Chrishthans, that they were little more
nor cattle?"

"I think your head is a wool-gathering now, Paddy," said the captain,
laughing.

"Faix, maybe so, indeed," answered Barny, good-humoredly, "but it's
seldom I ever went out to look for wool and kem home shorn, anyhow,"
said he, with a look of triumph.

"Well, you won't have that to say for the future, Paddy," said the
captain, laughing again.

"My name's not Paddy, your honor," said Barny, returning the laugh, but
seizing the opportunity to turn the joke aside, that was going against
him; "my name isn't Paddy, sir, but Barny."

"O, if it was Solomon, you'll be bare enough when you go home this time;
you have not gathered much this trip, Barny."

"Sure, I've been gathering knowledge, anyhow, your honor," said Barny,
with a significant look at the captain, and a complimentary tip of his
hand to his caubeen, "and God bless you for being so good to me."

"And what's your name besides Barny?" asked the captain.

"O'Reirdon, your honor,--Barny O'Reirdon's my name."

"Well, Barny O'Reirdon, I won't forget your name nor yourself in a
hurry, for you are certainly the most original navigator I ever had the
honor of being acquainted with."

"Well," said Barny, with a triumphant toss of his head, "I have done
Terry O'Sullivan, at any rate, the devil a half so far he ever was, and
that's a comfort. I have muzzled his clack for the rest iv his life, and
he won't be comin' over us wid the pride iv his _Fin_gal while I'm to
the fore, that was a'most at _Bin_gal!

"Terry O'Sullivan,--who is he, pray?" said the captain.

"O, he's a scut iv a chap that's not worth your axin' for,--he's not
worth your honor's notice,--a braggin' poor craythur. O, wait till I get
home, and the devil a more braggin' they'll hear out of his jaw."

"Indeed then, Barny, the sooner you turn your face toward home the
better," said the captain: "since you will go, there is no need of your
losing more time."

"Thrue for you, your honor,--and sure it's well for me I had the luck to
meet with the likes o' your honor, that explained the ins and the outs
iv it, to me, and laid it all down as plain as prent."

"Are you sure you remember my directions?" said the captain.

"Troth an I'll niver forget them to the day o' my death, and is bound to
pray, more betoken, for you and yours."

"Don't mind praying for me till you get home, Barny; but answer me, how
are you to steer when you shall leave me?"

"The nor-aist coorse, your honor, that's the coorse agin the world."

"Remember that! Never alter that course till you see land,--let nothing
make you turn out of a northeast course."

"Throth an' that would be the dirty turn, seein' that it was yourself
that ordhered it. O no, I'll depend my life an the _nor-aist coorse_,
and God help any that comes betune me an' it,--I'd run him down if he
was my father."

"Well, good by, Barny."

"Good by, and God bless you, your honor, and send you safe."

"That's a wish you want for yourself, Barny,--never fear for me, but
mind yourself well."

"O, sure, I'm as good as at home wanst I know the way, barrin' the wind
is conthrary; sure the nor-aist coorse'll do the business complate. Good
by, your honor, and long life to you, and more power to your elbow, and
a light heart and a heavy purse to you evermore, I pray the blessed
Virgin and all the saints, amin!" And so saying, Barny descended the
ship's side, and once more assumed the helm of the "hardy hooker."

The two vessels now separated on their opposite courses. What a contrast
their relative situations afforded! Proudly the ship bore away under her
lofty and spreading canvas, cleaving the billows before her, manned by
an able crew, and under the guidance of experienced officers; the finger
of science to point the course of her progress, the faithful chart to
warn of the hidden rock and the shoal, the long line and the quadrant to
measure her march and prove her position. The poor little hooker cleft
not the billows, each wave lifted her on its crest like a sea-bird; but
the three inexperienced fishermen to manage her; no certain means to
guide them over the vast ocean they had to traverse, and the holding of
the "fickle wind" the only _chance_ of their escape from perishing in
the wilderness of waters. By the one, the feeling excited is supremely
that of man's power. By the other, of his utter helplessness. To the
one, the expanse of ocean could scarcely be considered "trackless." To
the other, it was a waste indeed.

Yet the cheer that burst from the ship, at parting, was answered as
gayly from the hooker as though the odds had not been so fearfully
against her, and no blither heart beat on board the ship than that of
Barny O'Reirdon.

Happy light-heartedness of my countrymen! How kindly have they been
fortified by nature against the assaults of adversity; and if they
blindly rush into dangers, they cannot be denied the possession of
gallant hearts to fight their way out of them.

But each hurrah became less audible; by degrees the cheers dwindled into
faintness, and finally were lost in the eddies of the breeze.

The first feeling of loneliness that poor Barny experienced was when he
could no longer hear the exhilarating sound. The plash of the surge, as
it broke on the bows of his little boat, was uninterrupted by the
kindred sound of human voice; and, as it fell upon his ear, it smote
upon his heart. But he replied, waved his hat, and the silent signal was
answered from those on board the ship.

"Well, Barny," said Jemmy, "what was the captain sayin' to you at the
time you wor wid him?"

"Lay me alone," said Barny, "I'll talk to you when I see her out o'
sight, but not a word till thin. I'll look afther him, the rale
gintleman that he is, while there's a topsail of his ship to be seen,
and then I'll send my blessin' afther him, and pray for his good
fortune wherever he goes, for he's the right sort and nothin' else."
And Barny kept his word, and when his straining eye could no longer
trace a line of the ship, the captain certainly had the benefit of "a
poor man's blessing."

The sense of utter loneliness and desolation had not come upon Barny
until now; but he put his trust in the goodness of Providence, and in a
fervent mental outpouring of prayer resigned himself to the care of his
Creator. With an admirable fortitude, too, he assumed a composure to his
companions that was a stranger to his heart; and we all know how the
burden of anxiety is increased when we have none with whom to
sympathize. And this was not all. He had to affect ease and confidence,
for Barny not only had no dependence on the firmness of his companions
to go through the undertaking before them, but dreaded to betray to them
how he had imposed on them in the affair. Barny was equal to all this.
He had a stout heart, and was an admirable actor; yet, for the first
hour after the ship was out of sight, he could not quite recover
himself, and every now and then, unconsciously, he would look back with
a wishful eye to the point where last he saw her. Poor Barny had lost
his leader.

The night fell, and Barny stuck to the helm as long as nature could
sustain want of rest, and then left it in charge of one of his
companions, with particular directions how to steer, and ordered, if any
change in the wind occurred, that they should instantly awake him. He
could not sleep long, however; the fever of anxiety was upon him, and
the morning had not long dawned when he awoke. He had not well rubbed
his eyes and looked about him, when he thought he saw a ship in the
distance approaching them. As the haze cleared away, she showed
distinctly bearing down toward the hooker. On board the ship, the
hooker, in such a sea, caused surprise as before, and in about an hour
she was so close as to hail, and order the hooker to run under her lee.

"The devil a taste," said Barny. "I'll not quit my _nor-aist coorse_ for
the king of Ingland, nor Bonyparty into the bargain. Bad cess to you, do
you think I've nothin' to do but plaze you?"

Again he was hailed.

"Oh! bad luck to the toe I'll go to you."

Another hail.

"Spake loudher you'd betther," said Barny, jeeringly, still holding on
his course.

A gun was fired ahead of him.

"By my sowl you spoke loudher that time, sure enough," said Barny.

"Take care, Barny," cried Jemmy and Peter together. "Blur-an-agers, man,
we'll be kilt if you don't go to them."

"Well, and we'll be lost if we turn out iv our _nor-aist coorse_, and
that's as broad as it's long. Let them hit iz if they like; sure it ud
be a pleasanter death nor starvin' at say. I tell you agin I'll turn out
o' my _nor-aist coorse_ for no man."

A shotted gun was fired. The shot hopped on the water as it passed
before the hooker.

"Phew! you missed it, like your mammy's blessin'," said Barny.

"O murther!" said Jemmy, "didn't you see the ball hop aff the wather
forninst you. O murther, what 'ud we ha' done if we wor there at all at
all?"

"Why, we'd have taken the ball at the hop," said Barny, laughing,
"accordin' to the ould sayin'."

Another shot was ineffectually fired.

"I'm thinking that's a Connaughtman that's shootin'," said Barny, with a
sneer.[A] The allusion was so relished by Jemmy and Peter, that it
excited a smile in the midst of their fears from the cannonade.

[A] This is an allusion of Barny's to a prevalent saying in Ireland,
addressed to a sportsman who returns home unsuccessful, "So you've
killed what the Connaughtman shot at."

Again the report of the gun was followed by no damage.

"Augh! never heed them!" said Barny, contemptuously. "'It's a barkin'
dog that never bites,' as the owld sayin' says." And the hooker was soon
out of reach of further annoyance.

"Now, what a pity it was, to be sure," said Barny, "that I wouldn't go
aboord to plaze them. Now who's right? Ah, lave me alone always, Jimmy;
did you iver know me wrong yet?"

"O, you may hillow now that you are out o' the wood," said Jemmy, "but,
accordin' to my idays, it was runnin' a grate risk to be conthrary wid
them at all, and they shootin' balls afther us."

"Well, what matther?" said Barny, "since they wor only blind gunners,
_an' I knew it_; besides, as I said afore, I won't turn out o' my
_nor-aist coorse_ for no man."

"That's a new turn you tuk lately," said Peter. "What's the raison
you're runnin' a nor-aist coorse now, an' we never hear'd iv it afore at
all, till afther you quitted the big ship?"

"Why, thin, are you sich an ignoramus all out," said Barny, "as not for
to know that in navigation you must lie an a great many different tacks
before you can make the port you steer for?"

"Only I think," said Jemmy, "that it's back intirely we're goin' now,
and I can't make out the rights o' that at all."

"Why," said Barny, who saw the necessity of mystifying his companions a
little, "you see, the captain towld me that I kum around, an'
rekimminded me to go th' other way."

"Faix, it's the first time I ever heard o' goin' round by say," said
Jemmy.

"Arrah, sure, that's part o' the saycrets o' navigation, and the
varrious branches o' knowledge that is requizit for a navigator; and
that's what the captain, God bless him, and myself was discoorsin' an
aboord; and, like a rale gintleman as he is, Barny, says he; Sir, says
I; you've come the round, says he. I know that, says I, bekase I like to
keep a good bowld offin', says I, in contrairy places. Spoke like a good
sayman, says he. That's my principles, says I. They're the right sort,
says he. But, says he (no offence), I think you wor wrong, says he, to
pass the short turn in the ladie-shoes,[B] says he. I know, says I, you
mane beside the three-spike headlan'. That's the spot, says he, I see
you know it. As well as I know my father, says I."

[B] Some offer Barny is making at latitudes.

"Why, Barny," said Jemmy, interrupting him, "we seen no headlan' at
all."

"Whisht, whisht!" said Barny, "bad cess to you, don't thwart me. We
passed it in the night, and you couldn't see it. Well, as I was saying,
I knew it as well as I know my father, says I, but I gev the preference
to go the round, says I. You're a good sayman for that same, says he,
an' it would be right at any other time than this present, says he, but
it's onpossible now, tee-totally, on account o' the war, says he. Tare
alive, says I, what war? An' didn't you hear o' the war? says he. Divil
a word, says I. Why, says he, the naygers has made war on the king o'
Chaynee, says he, bekase he refused them any more tay; an' with that,
what did they do, says he, but they put a lumbargo on all the vessels
that sails the round, an' that's the rayson, says he, I carry guns, as
you may see; and I rekimmind you, says he, to go back, for you're not
able for thim, and that's jist the way iv it. An' now, wasn't it looky
that I kem acrass him at all, or maybe we might be cotch by the naygers,
and ate up alive."

"O, thin, indeed, and that's thrue," said Jemmy and Peter, "and whin
will we come to the short turn?"

"O, never mind," said Barny, "you'll see it when you get there; but wait
till I tell you more about the captain, and the big ship. He said, you
know, that he carried guns afeard o' the naygers, and in troth it's the
hoight o' care he takes o' them same guns; and small blame to him, sure
they might be the salvation of him. 'Pon my conscience, they're taken
betther care of than any poor man's child. I heerd him cautionin' the
sailors about them, and givin' them ordhers about their clothes."

"Their clothes!" said his two companions at once, in much surprise; "is
it clothes upon cannons?"

"It's thruth I'm tellin' you," said Barny. "Bad luck to the lie in it,
he was talkin' about their aprons and their breeches."

"O, think o' that!" said Jemmy and Peter, in surprise.

"An' 't was all iv a piece," said Barny, "that an' the rest o' the ship
all out. She was as nate as a new pin. Throth, I was a'most ashamed to
put my fut on the deck, it was so clane, and she painted every color in
the rainbow; and all sorts o' curiosities about her; and instead iv a
tiller to steer her, like this darlin' craythur iv ours, she goes wid a
wheel, like a coach all as one; and there's the quarest thing you iver
seen, to show the way, as the captain gev me to understan', a little
round rowly-powly thing in a bowl, that goes waddlin' about as if it
didn't know its own way, much more nor show anybody theirs. Throth,
myself thought that if that's the way they're obliged to go, that it's
with a great deal of fear and thrimblin' they find it out."

Thus it was that Barny continued most marvellous accounts of the ship
and the captain to his companions, and by keeping their attention so
engaged, prevented their being too inquisitive as to their own immediate
concerns, and for two days more Barny and the hooker held on their
respective courses undeviatingly.

The third day Barny's fears for the continuity of his _nor-aist coorse_
were excited, as a large brig hove in sight, and the nearer she
approached, the more directly she appeared to be coming athwart Barny's
course.

"May the divil sweep you," said Barny, "and will nothin' else sarve you
than comin' forninst me that away? Brig-a-hoy there!" shouted Barny,
giving the tiller to one of his messmates, and standing at the bow of
his boat. "Brig-a-hoy there!--bad luck to you, go 'long out o' my
_nor-aist coorse_." The brig, instead of obeying him, hove to, and lay
right ahead of the hooker. "O, look at this!" shouted Barny, and he
stamped on the deck with rage,--"look at the blackguards where they're
stayin', just a-purpose to ruin an unfortunate man like me. My heavy
hathred to you, quit this minit, or I'll run down an yes, and if we go
to the bottom, we'll haunt you forevermore,--go 'long out o' that, I
tell you. The curse o' Crummil on you, you stupid vagabones, that won't
go out iv a man's nor-aist coorse!"

From cursing Barny went to praying as he came closer. "For the tendher
marcy o' heaven an' lave my way. May the Lord reward you, and get out o'
my nor-aist coorse! May angels make your bed in heavin and don't ruinate
me this a way." The brig was immovable, and Barny finished with a duet
volley of prayers and curses together, apostrophizing the hard case of a
man being "done out o' his nor-aist coorse."

"A-hoy there!" shouted a voice from the brig, "put down your helm or
you'll be aboard of us. I say, let go your jib and foresheet,--what are
you about, you lubbers?"

'Twas true that the brig lay so fair in Barny's course, that he would
have been aboard, but that instantly the manoeuvre above alluded to
was put in practice on board the hooker; as she swept to destruction
toward the heavy hull of the brig, he luffed up into the wind alongside
her. A very pale and somewhat emaciated face appeared at the side, and
addressed Barny.

"What brings you here?" was the question.

"Throth, thin, and I think I might betther ax what brings _you_ here,
right in the way o' my _nor-aist coorse_."

"Where do you come from?"

"From Kinsale; and you didn't come from a betther place, I go bail."

"Where are you bound to?"

"To Fingal."

"Fingal,--where's Fingal?"

"Why then, ain't you ashamed o' yourself an' not to know where Fingal
is?"

"It is not in these seas."

"O, and that's all you know about it," says Barny.

"You're a small craft to be so far at sea. I suppose you have provisions
on board?"

"To be sure we have; throth if we hadn't, this id be a bad place to go a
beggin'."

"What have you eatable?"

"The finest o' scalpeens."

"What are scalpeens?"

"Why, you're mighty ignorant intirely," said Barny; "why, scalpeens is
pickled mackerel."

"Then you must give us some, for we have been out of everything eatable
these three days; and even pickled fish is better than nothing."

It chanced that the brig was a West India trader, which unfavorable
winds had delayed much beyond the expected period of time on her voyage,
and though her water had not failed, everything eatable had been
consumed, and the crew reduced almost to helplessness. In such a strait
the arrival of Barny O'Reirdon and his scalpeens was a most providential
succor to them, and a lucky chance for Barny, for he got in exchange for
his pickled fish a handsome return of rum and sugar, much more than
equivalent to their value. Barny lamented much, however, that the brig
was not bound for Ireland, that he might practice his own peculiar
system of navigation; but as staying with the brig could do no good, he
got himself put into his _nor-aist coorse_ once more, and ploughed away
toward home.

The disposal of his cargo was a great godsend to Barny in more ways than
one. In the first place, he found the most profitable market he could
have had; and, secondly, it enabled him to cover his retreat from the
difficulty which still was before him of not getting to Fingal after all
his dangers, and consequently being open to discovery and disgrace. All
these beneficial results were thrown away upon one of Barny's readiness
to avail himself of every point in his favor: and, accordingly, when
they left the brig, Barny said to his companions, "Why, thin, boys, 'pon
my conscience, but I'm as proud as a horse wid a wooden leg this minit,
that we met them poor unfort'nate craythers this blessed day, and was
enabled to extind our charity to them. Sure, an' it's lost they'd be
only for our comin' acrass them, and we, through the blessin' o' God,
enabled to do an act o' marcy, that is, feedin' the hungry; and sure
every good work we do here is before uz in heaven,--and that's a comfort
anyhow. To be sure, now that the scalpeens is sowld, there's no use in
goin' to Fingal, and we may as well jist go home."

"Faix, I'm sorry myself," said Jemmy, "for Terry O'Sullivan said it was
an iligant place intirely, an' I wanted to see it."

"To the divil wid Terry O'Sullivan," said Barny; "how does he know
what's an iligant place? What knowledge has he of iligance! I'll go bail
he never was half as far a navigatin' as we,--he wint the short cut, I
go bail, and never dar'd for to vinture the round, as I did."

"By dad, we wor a great dale longer anyhow than he towld me he was."

"To be sure we wor," said Barny; "he wint skulkin' in by the short cut,
I tell you, and was afeard to keep a bowld offin' like me. But come,
boys, let uz take a dhrop o' the bottle o' sper'ts we got out o' the
brig. By gor, it's well we got some bottles iv it; for I wouldn't much
like to meddle wid that darlint little kag iv it antil we get home." The
rum was put on its trial by Barny and his companions, and in their
critical judgment was pronounced quite as good as the captain of the
ship had bestowed upon them, but that neither of those specimens of
spirit was to be compared to whiskey. "By dad," says Barny, "they may
rack their brains a long time before they'll make out a purtier
invintion than _potteen_,--that rum may do very well for thim that has
the misforthin' not to know betther; but the whiskey is a more nathral
sper't accordin' to my idays." In this, as in most other of Barny's
opinions, Peter and Jemmy coincided.

Nothing particular occurred for the two succeeding days, during which
time Barny most religiously pursued his _nor-aist coorse_, but the third
day produced a new and important event. A sail was discovered on the
horizon, and in the direction Barny was steering, and a couple of hours
made him tolerably certain that the vessel in sight was an American, for
though it is needless to say that he was not very conversant in such
matters, yet from the frequency of his seeing Americans trading to
Ireland, his eye had become sufficiently accustomed to their lofty and
tapering spars, and peculiar smartness of rig, to satisfy him that the
ship before him was of transatlantic build; nor was he wrong in his
conjecture.

Barny now determined on a manoeuvre, classing him among the first
tacticians at securing a good retreat.

Moreau's highest fame rests upon his celebrated retrograde movement
through the Black Forest.

Xenophon's greatest glory is derived from the deliverance of his ten
thousand Greeks from impending ruin by his renowned retreat.

Let the ancient and the modern hero "repose under the shadow of their
laurels," as the French have it, while Barny O'Reirdon's historian, with
a pardonable jealousy for the honor of his country, cuts down a goodly
bough of the classic tree, beneath which our Hibernian hero may enjoy
his _otium cum dignitate_.

Barny calculated the American was bound for Ireland, and as she lay
_almost_ as directly in the way of his "nor-aist coorse" as the
West-Indian brig, he bore up to and spoke her.

He was answered by a shrewd Yankee captain.

"Faix, an' it's glad I am to see your honor again," said Barny.

The Yankee had never been to Ireland, and told Barny so.

"O, throth, I couldn't forget a gintleman so aisy as that," said Barny.

"You're pretty considerably mistaken now, I guess," said the American.

"Divil a taste," said Barny, with inimitable composure and pertinacity.

"Well, if you know me so tarnation well, tell me what's my name." The
Yankee flattered himself he had nailed Barny now.

"Your name, is it?" said Barny, gaining time by repeating the question;
"why, what a fool you are not to know your own name."

The oddity of the answer posed the American, and Barny took advantage of
the diversion in his favor, and changed the conversation.

"By dad, I've been waitin' here these four or five days, expectin' some
of you would be wantin' me."

"Some of us!--How do you mean?"

"Sure, an' ar'n't you from Amerikay?"

"Yes; and what then?"

"Well, I say I was waitin' for some ship or other from Amerikay, that ud
be wantin' me. It's to Ireland you're goin'?"

"Yes."

"Well, I suppose you'll be wantin' a pilot," said Barny.

"Yes, when we get in shore, but not yet."

"O, I don't want to hurry you," said Barny.

"What port are you a pilot of?"

"Why, indeed, as for the matther o' that," said Barny, "they're all
aiqual to me a'most."

"All?" said the American. "Why, I calculate you couldn't pilot a ship
into all the ports of Ireland."

"Not all at wanst," said Barny, with a laugh, in which the American
could not help joining.

"Well, I say, what ports do you know best?"

"Why, thin, indeed," said Barny, "it would be hard for me to tell; but
wherever you want to go, I'm the man that'll do the job for you
complate. Where is your honor goin'?"

"I won't tell you that,--but do you tell me what ports you know best?"

"Why, there's Watherford, and there's Youghal, an' Fingal."

"Fingal,--where's that?"

"So you don't know where Fingal is. O, I see you're a sthranger,
sir,--an' then there's Cork."

"You know Cove, then?"

"Is it the Cove o' Cork?"

"Yes."

"I was bred and born there, and pilots as many ships into Cove as any
other two min _out_ of it."

Barny thus sheltered his falsehood under the idiom of his language.

"But what brought you so far out to sea?" asked the captain.

"We wor lyin' out lookin' for ships that wanted pilots, and there kem an
the terriblest gale o' wind aff the land, an' blew us to say out
intirely, an' that's the way iv it, your honor."

"I calculate we got a share of the same gale; 'twas from the nor-east."

"O, directly!" said Barny, "faith, you're right enough. 'Twas the
_nor-aist coorse_ we wor an sure enough; but no matther now that we've
met wid you,--sure we'll have a job home anyhow."

"Well, get aboard then," said the American.

"I will, in a minit, your honor, whin I jist spake a word to my comrades
here."

"Why, sure it's not goin' to turn pilot you are," said Jemmy, in his
simplicity of heart.

"Whisht, you omadhaun!" said Barny, "or I'll cut the tongue out o' you.
Now mind me, Pether. You don't undherstan' navigashin and the varrious
branches o' knowledge, an' so all you have to do is to folly the ship
when I get into her, an' I'll show you the way home."

Barny then got aboard the American vessel, and begged of the captain,
that as he had been out at sea so long, and had gone through "a power o'
hardship intirely," he would be permitted to go below and turn in to
take a sleep, "for in throth it's myself and sleep that is sthrayngers
for some time," said Barny, "an' if your honor'll be plazed I'll be
thankful if you won't let them disturb me antil I'm wanted, for sure
till you see the land there's no use for me in life, an' throth I want a
sleep sorely."

Barnes request was granted, and it will not be wondered at, that after
so much fatigue of mind and body, he slept profoundly for
four-and-twenty hours. He then was called, for land was in sight, and
when he came on deck the captain rallied him upon the potency of his
somniferous qualities, and "calculated" he had never met any one who
could sleep "four-and-twenty hours at a stretch before."

"O sir," said Barny, rubbing his eyes, which were still a little hazy,
"whiniver I go to sleep I pay attintion to it."

The land was soon neared, and Barny put in charge of the ship, when he
ascertained the first landmark he was acquainted with; but as soon as
the Head of Kinsale hove in sight, Barny gave a "whoo," and cut a caper
that astonished the Yankees, and was quite inexplicable to them, though,
I flatter myself, it is not to those who do Barny the favor of reading
his adventures.

"O, there you are, my darlint ould head! An' where's the head like o'
you? Throth, it's little I thought I'd ever set eyes an your
good-looking faytures agin. But God's good!"

In such half-muttered exclamations, did Barny apostrophize each
well-known point of his native shore, and when opposite the harbor of
Kinsale, he spoke the hooker that was somewhat astern, and ordered
Jemmy and Peter to put in there, and tell Molly immediately that he was
come back, and would be with her as soon as he could, after piloting the
ship into Cove. "But an your apperl don't tell Pether Kelly o' the big
farm, nor, indeed, don't mintion to man or mortial about the navigation
we done antil I come home myself and make them sensible o' it, bekase,
Jemmy and Pether, neither o' yiz is aqual to it, and doesn't undherstan'
the branches o' knowledge requizit for discoorsin' o' navigation."

The hooker put into Kinsale, and Barny sailed the ship into Cove. It was
the first ship he ever had acted the pilot for, and his old luck
attended him; no accident befell his charge, and, what was still more
extraordinary, he made the American believe he was absolutely the most
skilful pilot on the station. So Barny pocketed his pilot's fee, swore
the Yankee was a gentleman, for which the republican did not thank him,
wished him good by, and then pushed his way home with what Barny swore
was the aisiest-made money he ever had in his life. So Barny got himself
paid for piloting the ship that showed him the way home.




HADDAD-BEN-AHAB THE TRAVELLER.

BY JOHN GALT.


Haddad-Ben-Ahab was a very wise man, and he had several friends, men of
discernment, and partakers of the wisdom of ages; but they were not all
so wise as Haddad-Ben-Ahab. His sentences were short, but his knowledge
was long, and what he predicted generally came to pass, for he did not
pretend to the gift of prophecy. The utmost he ever said in that way
was, that he expected the sun to rise to-morrow, and that old age was
the shadow of youth.

Besides being of a grave temperament, Haddad-Ben-Ahab was inclined to
obesity; he was kindly and good-natured to the whole human race; he even
carried his benevolence to the inferior creation, and often patted his
dogs on the head and gave them bones; but cats he could not abide. Had
he been a rat he could not have regarded them with more antipathy; and
yet Haddad-Ben-Ahab was an excellent man, who smoked his chibouque with
occasional cups of coffee and sherbet, interspersed with profound
aphorisms on the condition of man, and conjectures on the delights of
paradise.

With his friends he passed many sunbright hours; and if much talk was
not heard among them on these occasions, be it remembered that silence
is often wisdom. The scene of their social resort was a little kiosk in
front of one of the coffee-houses on the bank of the Tigris. No place in
all Bagdad is so pleasantly situated. There the mighty river rolls in
all the affluence of his waters, pure as the unclouded sky, and speckled
with innumerable boats, while the rippling waves, tickled, as it were,
by the summer breezes, gambol and sparkle around.

The kiosk was raised two steps from the ground; the interior was painted
with all the most splendid colors. The roof was covered with tiles that
glittered like the skin of the Arabian serpent, and was surmounted with
a green dragon, which was painted of that imperial hue, because
Haddad-Ben-Ahab was descended from the sacred progeny of Fatima, of whom
green is the everlasting badge, as it is of nature. Time cannot change
it, nor can it be impaired by the decrees of tyranny or of justice.

One beautiful day Haddad-Ben-Ahab and his friends had met in this kiosk
of dreams, and were socially enjoying the fragrant smoke of their pipes,
and listening to the refreshing undulations of the river, as the boats
softly glided along,--for the waters lay in glassy stillness,--the winds
were asleep,--even the sunbeams seemed to rest in a slumber on all
things. The smoke stood on the chimney-tops as if a tall visionary tree
grew out of each; and the many-colored cloths in the yard of Orooblis,
the Armenian dyer, hung unmolested by a breath. Orooblis himself was the
only thing, in that soft and bright noon, which appeared on the land to
be animated with any purpose.

Orooblis was preparing a boat to descend the Tigris, and his servants
were loading it with bales of apparel and baskets of provisions, while
he himself was in a great bustle, going often between his dwelling-house
and the boat, talking loud and giving orders, and ever and anon wiping
his forehead, for he was a man that delighted in having an ado.

Haddad-Ben-Ahab, seeing Orooblis so active, looked at him for some time;
and it so happened that all the friends at the same moment took their
amber-headed pipes from their lips, and said,--

"Where can Orooblis, the Armenian dyer, be going?"

Such a simultaneous interjection naturally surprised them all, and
Haddad-Ben-Ahab added,--

"I should like to go with him, and see strange things, for I have never
been out of the city of Bagdad, save once to pluck pomegranates in the
garden of Beys-Addy-Boolk." And he then rose and went to the boat which
Orooblis was loading, and spoke to him; and when it was ready they
seated themselves on board and sailed down the Tigris, having much
pleasant discourse concerning distant lands and hills whose tops pierced
the clouds, and were supposed to be the pillars that upheld the crystal
dome of the heavens.

Haddad-Ben-Ahab rejoiced greatly as they sailed along, and at last they
came to a little town, where Orooblis, having business in dyestuffs to
transact, went on shore, leaving his friend. But in what corner of the
earth this little town stood Haddad-Ben-Ahab knew not; for, like other
travellers, he was not provided with much geographical knowledge.

But soon after the departure of Orooblis he thought he would also land
and inquire. Accordingly, taking his pipe in his hand, he stepped out of
the boat and went about the town, looking at many things, till he came
to a wharf where a large ship was taking merchandise on board; and her
sailors were men of a different complexion from that of the watermen who
plied on the Tigris at Bagdad.

Haddad-Ben-Ahab looked at them, and as he was standing near to where
they were at work, he thought that this ship afforded a better
opportunity than he had enjoyed with Orooblis to see foreign countries.
He accordingly went up to the captain and held out a handful of money,
and indicated that he was desirous to sail away with the ship.

When the captain saw the gold he was mightily civil, and spoke to
Haddad-Ben-Ahab with a loud voice, perhaps thinking to make him hear was
the way to make him understand. But Haddad-Ben-Ahab only held up the
forefinger of his right hand and shook it to and fro. In the end,
however, he was taken on board the ship, and no sooner was he there than
he sat down on a sofa, and drawing his legs up under him kindled his
pipe and began to smoke, much at his ease, making observations with his
eyes as he did so.

The first observation Haddad-Ben-Ahab made was, that the sofa on which
he had taken his place was not at all like the sofas of Bagdad, and
therefore when he returned he would show that he had not travelled
without profit by having one made exactly similar for his best chamber,
with hens and ducks under it, pleasantly feeding and joyously cackling
and quacking. And he also observed a remarkable sagacity in the ducks,
for when they saw he was a stranger, they turned up the sides of their
heads and eyed him in a most curious and inquisitive manner,--very
different, indeed, from the ducks of Bagdad.

When the ship had taken on board her cargo she spread her sails, and
Haddad-Ben-Ahab felt himself in a new situation; for presently she began
to lie over, and to plunge and revel among the waves like a glad
creature. But Haddad-Ben-Ahab became very sick, and the captain showed
him the way down into the inside of the vessel, where he went into a
dark bed, and was charitably tended by one of the sailors for many days.

After a season there was much shouting on the deck of the ship, and
Haddad-Ben-Ahab crawled out of his bed, and went to the sofa, and saw
that the ship was near the end of her voyage.

When she had come to a bank where those on board could step out,
Haddad-Ben-Ahab did so: and after he had seen all the strange things
which were in the town where he thus landed, he went into a baker's
shop,--for they eat bread in that town as they do in Bagdad,--and bought
a loaf, which having eaten, he quenched his thirst at a fountain hard
by, in his ordinary manner of drinking, at which he wondered
exceedingly.

When he had solaced himself with all the wonders of that foreign city,
he went to a fakier, who was holding two horses ready saddled; beautiful
they were, and, as the fakier signified by signs, their hoofs were so
fleet that they left the wind behind them. Haddad-Ben-Ahab then showed
the fakier his gold, and mounted one of the horses, pointing with the
shaft of his pipe to the fakier to mount the other; and then they both
rode away into the country, and they found that the wind blew in their
faces.

At last they came to a caravansary, where the fakier bought a cooked hen
and two onions, of which they both partook, and stretching themselves
before the fire which they had lighted in their chamber, they fell
asleep and slept until the dawn of day, when they resumed their journey
into remoter parts and nearer to the wall of the world, which
Haddad-Ben-Ahab conjectured they must soon reach. They had not, however,
journeyed many days in the usual manner when they came to the banks of a
large river, and the fakier would go no farther with his swift horses.
Haddad-Ben-Ahab was in consequence constrained to pay and part from him,
and to embark in a ferry-boat to convey him over the stream, where he
found a strange vehicle with four horses standing ready to carry him on
towards the wall of the world, "which surely," said he to himself,
"ought not to be now far off."

Haddad-Ben-Ahab showed his gold again, and was permitted to take a seat
in the vehicle, which soon after drove away; and he remarked, in a most
sagacious manner, that nothing in that country was like the things in
his own; for the houses and trees and all things ran away as the vehicle
came up to them; and when it gave a jostle, they gave a jump; which he
noted as one of the most extraordinary things he had seen since he left
Bagdad.

At last Haddad-Ben-Ahab came to the foot of a lofty green mountain, with
groves and jocund villages, which studded it, as it were, with gems and
shining ornaments, and he said, "This must be the wall of the world, for
surely nothing can exist on the other side of these hills! but I will
ascend them and look over, for I should like to tell my friends in
Bagdad what is to be seen on the outside of the earth." Accordingly he
ascended the green mountain, and he came to a thick forest of stubby
trees: "This is surprising," said Haddad-Ben-Ahab, "but higher I will
yet go." And he passed through that forest of trees and came to a steep
moorland part of the hill, where no living thing could be seen, but a
solitude without limit, and the living world all glittering at the foot
of the mountain.

"This is a high place," said Haddad-Ben-Ahab, "but I will yet go
higher," and he began to climb with his hands. After an upward journey
of great toil he came to a frozen region, and the top of the wall of the
world was still far above him. He was, however, none daunted by the
distance, but boldly held on in the ascent, and at last he reached the
top of the wall. But when he got there, instead of a region of fog and
chaos, he only beheld another world much like our own, and he was
greatly amazed, and exclaimed with a loud voice,--"Will my friends in
Bagdad believe this?--but it is true, and I will so tell them." So he
hastened down the mountain, and went with all the speed he could back to
Bagdad; saying, "Bagdad," and giving gold to every man he met, until he
reached the kiosk of dreams, where his friends were smoking and looking
at the gambols of the Tigris.

When the friends of Haddad-Ben-Ahab saw him approach, they respectively
took their pipes from their mouths and held them in their left hands,
while they pressed their bosoms with their right, and received him with
a solemn salaam, for he had been long absent, and all they in the mean
time had heard concerning him was only what Orooblis, the Armenian dyer,
on his return told them: namely, that he was gone to the wall of the
world, which limits the travels of man. No wonder then that they
rejoiced with an exceeding gladness to see him return and take his place
in the kiosk among them, as if he had never been a day's journey away
from Bagdad.

They then questioned him about his adventures, and he faithfully related
to them all the wonders which have been set forth in our account of the
journey; upon which they declared he had made himself one of the sages
of the earth.

Afterward they each made a feast, to which they invited all the
philosophers in Bagdad, and Haddad-Ben-Ahab was placed in the seat of
honor, and being courteously solicited, told them of his travels, and
every one cried aloud, "God is great, and Mahomet is his prophet!"

When they had in this manner banqueted, Haddad-Ben-Ahab fell sick, and
there was a great talk concerning the same. Some said he was very ill;
others shook their heads and spoke not; but the world is full of envy
and hard-heartedness, and those who were spiteful because of the renown
which Haddad-Ben-Ahab, as a traveller who had visited the top of the
wall of the world with so much courage, had acquired, jeered at his
malady, saying he had been only feasted overmuch. Nevertheless,
Haddad-Ben-Ahab died; and never was such a funeral seen in all Bagdad,
save that of the caliph Mahoud, commonly called the Magnificent. Such
was the admiration in which the memory of the traveller was held, the
poets made dirges on the occasion, and mournful songs were heard in the
twilight from the windows of every harem. Nor did the generation of the
time content itself with the ceremonies of lamentation: they caused a
fountain to be erected, which they named the Fountain of Haddad-Ben-Ahab
the traveller; and when the slaves go to fetch water, they speak of the
wonderful things he did, and how he was on the top of the wall of the
world, and saw the outside of the earth; so that his memory lives
forever among them, as one of the greatest, the wisest, and the bravest
of men.




BLUEBEARD'S GHOST.

BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.


For some time after the fatal accident which deprived her of her
husband, Mrs. Bluebeard was, as may be imagined, in a state of profound
grief.

There was not a widow in all the country who went to such an expense for
black bombazine. She had her beautiful hair confined in crimped caps,
and her weepers came over her elbows. Of course, she saw no company
except her sister Anne (whose company was anything but pleasant to the
widow); as for her brothers, their odious mess-table manners had always
been disagreeable to her. What did she care for jokes about the major,
or scandal concerning the Scotch surgeon of the regiment? If they drank
their wine out of black bottles or crystal, what did it matter to her?
Their stories of the stable, the parade, and the last run with the
hounds, were perfectly odious to her; besides, she could not bear their
impertinent mustachios, and filthy habit of smoking cigars.

They were always wild, vulgar young men, at the best; but now,--_now_,
O, their presence to her delicate soul was horror! How could she bear to
look on them after what had occurred? She thought of the best of
husbands ruthlessly cut down by their cruel, heavy, cavalry sabres; the
kind friend, the generous landlord, the spotless justice of peace, in
whose family differences these rude cornets of dragoons had dared to
interfere, whose venerable blue hairs they had dragged down with sorrow
to the grave.

She put up a most splendid monument to her departed lord over the family
vault of the Bluebeards. The rector, Dr. Sly, who had been Mr.
Bluebeard's tutor at college, wrote an epitaph in the most pompous yet
pathetic Latin: "Siste, viator! moerens conjux, heu! quanto minus est
cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse"; in a word, everything that is
usually said in epitaphs. A bust of the departed saint, with Virtue
mourning over it, stood over the epitaph, surrounded by medallions of
his wives, and one of these medallions had as yet no name in it, nor
(the epitaph said) could the widow ever be consoled until her own name
was inscribed there. "For then I shall be with him. In coelo quies,"
she would say, throwing up her fine eyes to heaven, and quoting the
enormous words of the hatchment which was put up in the church, and over
Bluebeard's hall, where the butler, the housekeeper, the footman, the
housemaid, and scullions were all in the profoundest mourning. The
keeper went out to shoot birds in a crape band; nay, the very scarecrows
in the orchard and fruit garden were ordered to be dressed in black.

Sister Anne was the only person who refused to wear black. Mrs.
Bluebeard would have parted with her, but she had no other female
relative. Her father, it may be remembered by readers of the former part
of her Memoirs, had married again, and the mother-in-law and Mrs.
Bluebeard, as usual, hated each other furiously. Mrs. Shacabac had come
to the hall on a visit of condolence; but the widow was so rude to her
on the second day of the visit that the step-mother quitted the house in
a fury. As for the Bluebeards, of course _they_ hated the widow. Had not
Mr. Bluebeard settled every shilling upon her? and, having no children
by his former marriage, her property, as I leave you to fancy, was
pretty handsome. So Sister Anne was the only female relative whom Mrs.
Bluebeard would keep near her; and, as we all know, a woman _must_ have
a female relative under any circumstances of pain, or pleasure, or
profit,--when she is married, or when she is widowed, or when she is in
a delicate situation. But let us continue our story.

"I will never wear mourning for that odious wretch, sister!" Anne would
cry.

"I will trouble you, Miss Anne, not to use such words in my presence
regarding the best of husbands, or to quit the room at once!" the widow
would answer.

"I'm sure it's no great pleasure to sit in it. I wonder you don't make
use of the closet, sister, where the _other_ Mrs. Bluebeards are."

"Impertinence! they were all embalmed by M. Gannal. How dare you report
the monstrous calumnies regarding the best of men? Take down the family
Bible, and read what my blessed saint says of his wives,--read it,
written in his own hand:--

    "'_Friday, June 20_.--Married my beloved wife, Anna Maria
    Scrogginsia.

    "'_Saturday, August 1_.--A bereaved husband has scarcely
    strength to write down in this chronicle that the dearest of
    wives, Anna Maria Scrogginsia, expired this day of sore throat.'

"There! can anything be more convincing than that? Read again:--

    "'_Tuesday, September 1_.--This day I led to the hymeneal altar
    my soul's blessing, Louisa Matilda Hopkinson. May this angel
    supply the place of her I have lost!

    "'_Wednesday, October 5_.--O Heavens! pity the distraction of a
    wretch who is obliged to record the ruin of his dearest hopes
    and affections! This day my adored Louisa Matilda Hopkinson gave
    up the ghost! A complaint of the head and shoulders was the
    sudden cause of the event which has rendered the unhappy
    subscriber the most miserable of men.

        "'BLUEBEARD.'

"Every one of the women are calendared in this delightful, this
pathetic, this truly virtuous and tender way; and can you suppose that a
man who wrote such sentiments could be a _murderer_, miss?"

"Do you mean to say that he did not _kill_ them, then?" said Anne.

"Gracious goodness, Anne, kill them! they died all as naturally as I
hope you will. My blessed husband was an angel of goodness and kindness
to them. Was it _his_ fault that the doctors could not cure their
maladies? No, that it wasn't! and when they died the inconsolable
husband had their bodies embalmed in order that on this side of the
grave he might never part from them."

"And why did he take you up in the tower, pray? And why did you send me
in such a hurry to the leads? and why did he sharpen his long knife, and
roar out to you to COME DOWN?"

"Merely to punish me for my curiosity,--the dear, good, kind, excellent
creature!" sobbed the widow, overpowered with affectionate recollections
of her lord's attentions to her.

"I wish," said Sister Anne, sulkily, "that I had not been in such a
hurry in summoning my brothers."

"Ah!" screamed Mrs. Bluebeard, with a harrowing scream, "don't,--don't
recall that horrid, fatal day, miss! If you had not misled your
brothers, my poor, dear, darling Bluebeard would still be in life,
still--still the soul's joy of his bereaved Fatima!"

Whether it is that all wives adore husbands when the latter are no more,
or whether it is that Fatima's version of the story is really the
correct one, and that the common impression against Bluebeard is an
odious prejudice, and that he no more murdered his wives than you and I
have, remains yet to be proved, and, indeed, does not much matter for
the understanding of the rest of Mrs. B.'s adventures. And though people
will say that Bluebeard's settlement of his whole fortune on his wife,
in event of survivorship, was a mere act of absurd mystification, seeing
that he was fully determined to cut her head off after the honeymoon,
yet the best test of his real intentions is the profound grief which the
widow manifested for his death, and the fact that he left her mighty
well to do in the world.

If any one were to leave you or me a fortune, my dear friend, would we
be too anxious to rake up the how and the why? Pooh! pooh! we would take
it and make no bones about it, and Mrs. Bluebeard did likewise. Her
husband's family, it is true, argued the point with her, and said,
"Madam, you must perceive that Mr. Bluebeard never intended the fortune
for you, as it was his fixed intention to chop off your head! It is
clear that he meant to leave his money to his blood relations, therefore
you ought in equity to hand it over." But she sent them all off with a
flea in their ears, as the saying is, and said, "Your argument may be a
very good one, but I will, if you please, keep the money." And she
ordered the mourning as we have before shown, and indulged in grief, and
exalted everywhere the character of the deceased. If any one would but
leave me a fortune, what a funeral and what a character I would give
him!

Bluebeard Hall is situated, as we all very well know, in a remote
country district, and, although a fine residence, is remarkably gloomy
and lonely. To the widow's susceptible mind, after the death of her
darling husband, the place became intolerable. The walk, the lawn, the
fountain, the green glades of park over which frisked the dappled deer,
all,--all recalled the memory of her beloved. It was but yesterday that,
as they roamed through the park in the calm summer evening, her
Bluebeard pointed out to the keeper the fat buck he was to kill. "Ah!"
said the widow, with tears in her fine eyes, "the artless stag was shot
down, the haunch was cut and roasted, the jelly had been prepared from
the currant-bushes in the garden that he loved, but my Bluebeard never
ate of the venison! Look, Anne sweet, pass we the old oak hall; 'tis
hung with trophies won by him in the chase, with pictures of the noble
race of Bluebeard! Look! by the fireplace there is the gig-whip, his
riding-whip, the spud with which you know he used to dig the weeds out
of the terrace-walk; in that drawer are his spurs, his whistle, his
visiting-cards, with his dear, dear name engraven upon them! There are
the bits of string that he used to cut off the parcels and keep, because
string was always useful; his button-hook, and there is the peg on which
he used to hang his h--h--_hat_!"

Uncontrollable emotions, bursts of passionate tears, would follow these
tender reminiscences of the widow; and the long and short of the matter
was, that she was determined to give up Bluebeard Hall and live
elsewhere; her love for the memory of the deceased, she said, rendered
the place too wretched.

Of course, an envious and sneering world said that she was tired of the
country, and wanted to marry again; but she little heeded its taunts;
and Anne, who hated her step-mother and could not live at home, was fain
to accompany her sister to the town where the Bluebeards have had for
many years a very large, genteel, old-fashioned house. So she went to
the town-house, where they lived and quarrelled pretty much as usual;
and though Anne often threatened to leave her, and go to a
boarding-house, of which there were plenty in the place, yet, after all,
to live with her sister, and drive out in the carriage with the footman
and coachman in mourning, and the lozenge on the panels, with the
Bluebeard and Shacabac arms quartered on it, was far more respectable,
and so the lovely sisters continued to dwell together.

       *       *       *       *       *

For a lady under Mrs. Bluebeard's circumstances, the town-house has
other and peculiar advantages. Besides being an exceedingly spacious and
dismal brick building, with a dismal iron railing in front, and long,
dismal, thin windows, with little panes of glass, it looked out into the
churchyard, where, time out of mind, between two yew-trees, one of which
is cut into the form of a peacock, while the other represents a
dumb-waiter, it looked into the churchyard where the monument of the
late Bluebeard was placed over the family vault. It was the first thing
the widow saw from her bedroom window in the morning, and 'twas sweet to
watch at night, from the parlor, the pallid moonlight lighting up the
bust of the departed, and Virtue throwing great black shadows athwart
it. Polyanthuses, rhododendra, ranunculuses, and other flowers, with the
largest names and of the most delightful odors, were planted within the
little iron railing that enclosed the last resting-place of the
Bluebeards; and the beadle was instructed to half kill any little boys
who might be caught plucking these sweet testimonials of a wife's
affection.

Over the sideboard in the dining-room hung a full-length of Mr.
Bluebeard, by Ticklegill, R. A., in a militia uniform, frowning down
upon the knives and forks and silver trays. Over the mantel-piece he was
represented in a hunting costume, on his favorite horse; there was a
sticking-plaster silhouette of him in the widow's bedroom, and a
miniature in the drawing-room, where he was drawn in a gown of black and
gold, holding a gold-tasselled trencher cap with one hand, and with the
other pointing to a diagram of Pons Asinorum. This likeness was taken
when he was a fellow-commoner at St. John's College, Cambridge, and
before the growth of that blue beard which was the ornament of his
manhood, and a part of which now formed a beautiful blue neck-chain for
his bereaved wife.

Sister Anne said the town-house was even more dismal than the
country-house, for there was pure air at the Hall, and it was pleasanter
to look out on a park than on a churchyard, however fine the monuments
might be. But the widow said she was a light-minded hussy, and persisted
as usual in her lamentations and mourning. The only male whom she would
admit within her doors was the parson of the parish, who read sermons to
her; and, as his reverence was at least seventy years old, Anne, though
she might be ever so much minded to fall in love, had no opportunity to
indulge her inclination; and the town-people, scandalous as they might
be, could not find a word to say against the _liaison_ of the venerable
man and the heart-stricken widow.

All other company she resolutely refused. When the players were in the
town, the poor manager, who came to beg her to bespeak a comedy, was
thrust out of the gates by the big butler. Though there were balls,
card-parties, and assemblies, Widow Bluebeard would never subscribe to
one of them; and even the officers, those all-conquering heroes who make
such ravages in ladies' hearts, and to whom all ladies' doors are
commonly open, could never get an entry into the widow's house. Captain
Whiskerfield strutted for three weeks up and down before her house, and
had not the least effect upon her. Captain O'Grady (of an Irish
regiment) attempted to bribe the servants, and one night actually scaled
the garden wall; but all that he got was his foot in a man-trap, not to
mention being dreadfully scarified by the broken glass; and so _he_
never made love any more. Finally, Captain Blackbeard, whose whiskers
vied in magnitude with those of the deceased Bluebeard himself, although
he attended church regularly every week,--he who had not darkened the
doors of a church for ten years before,--even Captain Blackbeard got
nothing by his piety; and the widow never once took her eyes off her
book to look at him. The barracks were in despair; and Captain
Whiskerfield's tailor, who had supplied him with new clothes in order to
win the widow's heart, ended by clapping the captain into jail.

His reverence the parson highly applauded the widow's conduct to the
officers; but, being himself rather of a social turn, and fond of a good
dinner and a bottle, he represented to the lovely mourner that she
should endeavor to divert her grief by a little respectable society, and
recommended that she should from time to time entertain a few grave and
sober persons whom he would present to her. As Dr. Sly had an unbounded
influence over the fair mourner, she acceded to his desires; and
accordingly he introduced to her house some of the most venerable and
worthy of his acquaintance,--all married people, however, so that the
widow should not take the least alarm.

It happened that the doctor had a nephew, who was a lawyer in London,
and this gentleman came dutifully in the long vacation to pay a visit to
his reverend uncle. "He is none of your roystering, dashing young
fellows," said his reverence; "he is the delight of his mamma and
sisters; he never drinks anything stronger than tea; he never missed
church thrice a Sunday for these twenty years; and I hope, my dear and
amiable madam, that you will not object to receive this pattern of young
men for the sake of your most devoted friend, his uncle."

The widow consented to receive Mr. Sly. He was not a handsome man,
certainly. "But what does that matter?" said the doctor. "He is _good_,
and virtue is better than all the beauty of all the dragoons in the
Queen's service."

Mr. Sly came there to dinner, and he came to tea; and he drove out with
the widow in the carriage with the lozenge on it; and at church he
handed the psalm-book; and, in short, he paid her every attention which
could be expected from so polite a young gentleman.

At this the town began to talk, as people in towns will. "The doctor
kept all bachelors out of the widow's house," said they, "in order that
that ugly nephew of his may have the field entirely to himself." These
speeches were of course heard by Sister Anne, and the little minx was
not a little glad to take advantage of them, in order to induce her
sister to see some more cheerful company. The fact is, the young hussy
loved a dance or a game at cards much more than a humdrum conversation
over a tea-table; and so she plied her sister day and night with hints
as to the propriety of opening her house, receiving the gentry of the
county, and spending her fortune.

To this point the widow at length, though with many sighs and vast
unwillingness, acceded; and she went so far as to order a very becoming
half-mourning, in which all the world declared she looked charming. "I
carry," said she, "my blessed Bluebeard in my heart,--_that_ is in the
deepest mourning for him, and when the heart grieves, there is no need
of outward show."

So she issued cards for a little quiet tea and supper, and several of
the best families in the town and neighborhood attended her
entertainment. It was followed by another and another; and at last
Captain Blackbeard was actually introduced, though, of course, he came
in plain clothes.

Dr. Sly and his nephew never could abide the captain. "They had heard
some queer stories," they said, "about proceedings in barracks. Who was
it that drank three bottles at a sitting? who had a mare that ran for
the plate? and why was it that Dolly Coddlins left the town so
suddenly?" Mr. Sly turned up the whites of his eyes as his uncle asked
these questions, and sighed for the wickedness of the world. But for all
that he was delighted, especially at the anger which the widow
manifested when the Dolly Coddlins affair was hinted at. She was
furious, and vowed she would never see the wretch again. The lawyer and
his uncle were charmed. O short-sighted lawyer and parson, do you think
Mrs. Bluebeard would have been so angry if she had not been jealous?--do
you think she would have been jealous if she had not ... had not what?
She protested that she no more cared for the captain than she did for
one of her footmen; but the next time he called she would not condescend
to say a word to him.

"My dearest Miss Anne," said the captain, as he met her in Sir Roger de
Coverley (she herself was dancing with Ensign Trippet), "what is the
matter with your lovely sister?"

"Dolly Coddlins is the matter," said Miss Anne. "Mr. Sly has told all."
And she was down the middle in a twinkling.

The captain blushed so at this monstrous insinuation, that any one could
see how incorrect it was. He made innumerable blunders in the dance, and
was all the time casting such ferocious glances at Mr. Sly (who did not
dance, but sat by the widow and ate ices), that his partner thought he
was mad, and that Mr. Sly became very uneasy.

When the dance was over, he came to pay his respects to the widow, and,
in so doing, somehow trod so violently on Mr. Sly's foot, that that
gentleman screamed with pain, and presently went home. But though he was
gone, the widow was not a whit more gracious to Captain Blackbeard. She
requested Mr. Trippet to order her carriage that night, and went home
without uttering one single word to Captain Blackbeard.

The next morning, and with a face of preternatural longitude, the Rev.
Dr. Sly paid a visit to the widow. "The wickedness and bloodthirstiness
of the world," said he, "increase every day. O my dear madam, what
monsters do we meet in it,--what wretches, what assassins, are allowed
to go abroad! Would you believe it, that this morning, as my nephew was
taking his peaceful morning-meal, one of the ruffians from the barracks
presented himself with a challenge from Captain Blackbeard?"

"Is he hurt?" screamed the widow.

"No, my dear friend, my dear Frederick is not hurt. And O, what a joy it
will be to him to think you have that tender solicitude for his
welfare!"

"You know I have always had the highest respect for him," said the
widow; who, when she screamed, was in truth thinking of somebody else.
But the doctor did not choose to interpret her thoughts in that way, and
gave all the benefit of them to his nephew.

"That anxiety, dearest madam, which you express for him emboldens me,
encourages me, authorizes me, to press a point upon you which I am sure
must have entered your thoughts ere now. The dear youth in whom you have
shown such an interest lives but for you! Yes, fair lady, start not at
hearing that his sole affections are yours; and with what pride shall I
carry to him back the news that he is not indifferent to you!"

"Are they going to fight?" continued the lady, in a breathless state of
alarm. "For Heaven's sake, dearest doctor, prevent the horrid, horrid
meeting. Send for a magistrate's warrant; do anything; but do not suffer
those misguided young men to cut each other's throats!"

"Fairest lady, I fly!" said the doctor, and went back to lunch quite
delighted with the evident partiality Mrs. Bluebeard showed for his
nephew. And Mrs. Bluebeard, not content with exhorting him to prevent
the duel, rushed to Mr. Pound, the magistrate, informed him of the
facts, got out warrants against both Mr. Sly and the captain, and would
have put them into execution; but it was discovered that the former
gentleman had abruptly left town, so that the constable could not lay
hold of him.

It somehow, however, came to be generally known that the widow Bluebeard
had declared herself in favor of Mr. Sly, the lawyer; that she had
fainted when told her lover was about to fight a duel; finally, that she
had accepted him, and would marry him as soon as the quarrel between him
and the captain was settled. Dr. Sly, when applied to, hummed and ha'd,
and would give no direct answer; but he denied nothing, and looked so
knowing, that all the world was certain of the fact; and the county
paper next week stated:--

    "We understand that the lovely and wealthy Mrs. Bl--b--rd is
    about once more to enter the bands of wedlock with our
    distinguished townsman, Frederick S--y, Esq., of the Middle
    Temple, London. The learned gentleman left town in consequence
    of a dispute with a gallant son of Mars, which was likely to
    have led to warlike results, had not a magistrate's warrant
    intervened, when the captain was bound over to keep the peace."

In fact, as soon as the captain was so bound over, Mr. Sly came back,
stating that he had quitted the town not to avoid a duel,--far from it,
but to keep out of the way of the magistrates, and give the captain
every facility. _He_ had taken out no warrant; _he_ had been perfectly
ready to meet the captain; if others had been more prudent, it was not
his fault. So he held up his head, and cocked his hat with the most
determined air; and all the lawyers' clerks in the place were quite
proud of their hero.

As for Captain Blackbeard, his rage and indignation may be imagined; a
wife robbed from him, his honor put in question by an odious, lanky,
squinting lawyer! He fell ill of a fever incontinently; and the surgeon
was obliged to take a quantity of blood from him, ten times the amount
of which he swore he would have out of the veins of the atrocious Sly.

The announcement in "The Mercury," however, filled the widow with almost
equal indignation. "The widow of the gallant Bluebeard," she said,
"marry an odious wretch who lives in dingy chambers in the Middle
Temple! Send for Dr. Sly." The doctor came; she rated him soundly, asked
him how he dared set abroad such calumnies concerning her; ordered him
to send his nephew back to London at once; and as he valued her esteem,
as he valued the next presentation to a fat living which lay in her
gift, to contradict everywhere, and in the fullest terms, the wicked
report concerning her.

"My dearest madam," said the doctor, pulling his longest face, "you
shall be obeyed. The poor lad shall be acquainted with the fatal change
in your sentiments!"

"Change in my sentiments, Dr. Sly!"

"With the destruction of his hopes, rather let me say; and Heaven grant
that the dear boy have strength to bear up against the misfortune which
comes so suddenly upon him!"

The next day Sister Anne came with a face full of care to Mrs.
Bluebeard. "O, that unhappy lover of yours!" said she.

"Is the captain unwell?" exclaimed the widow.

"No, it is the other," answered Sister Anne. "Poor, poor Mr. Sly! He
made a will leaving you all, except five pounds a year to his laundress:
he made his will, locked his door, took heart-rending leave of his uncle
at night, and this morning was found hanging at his bedpost when Sambo,
the black servant, took him up his water to shave. 'Let me be buried,'
he said, 'with the pincushion she gave me and the locket containing her
hair.' _Did_ you give him a pincushion, sister? _did_ you give him a
locket with your hair?"

"It was only silver-gilt!" sobbed the widow; "and now, O Heavens! I have
killed him!" The heart-rending nature of her sobs may be imagined; but
they were abruptly interrupted by her sister.

"Killed him?--no such thing! Sambo cut him down when he was as black in
the face as the honest negro himself. He came down to breakfast, and I
leave you to fancy what a touching meeting took place between the nephew
and the uncle."

"So much love!" thought the widow. "What a pity he squints so! If he
would but get his eyes put straight, I might perhaps--" She did not
finish the sentence: ladies often leave this sort of sentence in a sweet
confusion.

But hearing some news regarding Captain Blackbeard, whose illness and
blood-letting were described to her most pathetically, as well as
accurately, by the Scotch surgeon of the regiment, her feelings of
compassion towards the lawyer cooled somewhat; and when Dr. Sly called
to know if she would condescend to meet the unhappy youth, she said in
rather a _distrait_ manner, that she wished him every happiness; that
she had the highest regard and respect for him; that she besought him
not to think any more of committing the dreadful crime which would have
made her unhappy forever; _but_ that she thought, for the sake of both
parties, they had better not meet until Mr. Sly's feelings had grown
somewhat more calm.

"Poor fellow! poor fellow!" said the doctor, "may he be enabled to bear
his frightful calamity! I have taken away his razors from him, and
Sambo, my man, never lets him out of his sight."

The next day, Mrs. Bluebeard thought of sending a friendly message to
Dr. Sly's, asking for news of the health of his nephew; but, as she was
giving her orders on that subject to John Thomas the footman, it
happened that the captain arrived, and so Thomas was sent down stairs
again. And the captain looked so delightfully interesting with his arm
in a sling, and his beautiful black whiskers curling round a face which
was paler than usual, that, at the end of two hours, the widow forgot
the message altogether, and, indeed, I believe, asked the captain
whether he would not stop and dine. Ensign Trippet came, too, and the
party was very pleasant; and the military gentlemen laughed hugely at
the idea of the lawyer having been cut off the bedpost by the black
servant, and were so witty on the subject, that the widow ended by half
believing that the bedpost and hanging scheme on the part of Mr. Sly was
only a feint,--a trick to win her heart. Though this, to be sure, was
not agreed to by the lady without a pang, for, _entre nous_, to hang
one's self for a lady is no small compliment to her attractions, and,
perhaps, Mrs. Bluebeard was rather disappointed at the notion that the
hanging was not a _bona fide_ strangulation.

However, presently her nerves were excited again; and she was consoled
or horrified, as the case may be (the reader must settle the point
according to his ideas and knowledge of womankind),--she was at any rate
dreadfully excited by the receipt of a billet in the well-known
clerk-like hand of Mr. Sly. It ran thus:--

    "I saw you through your dining-room windows. You were
    hob-nobbing with Captain Blackbeard. You looked rosy and well.
    You smiled. You drank off the champagne at a single draught.

    "I can bear it no more. Live on, smile on, and be happy. My
    ghost shall repine, perhaps, at your happiness with
    another,--but in life I should go mad were I to witness it.

    "It is best that I should be gone.

    "When you receive this, tell my uncle to drag the fish-pond at
    the end of Bachelor's Acre. His black servant Sambo accompanies
    me, it is true. But Sambo shall perish with me should his
    obstinacy venture to restrain me from my purpose. I know the
    poor fellow's honesty well, but I also know my own despair.

    "Sambo will leave a wife and seven children. Be kind to those
    orphan mulattoes for the sake of

        "FREDERICK."

The widow gave a dreadful shriek, and interrupted the two captains, who
were each just in the act of swallowing a bumper of claret.
"Fly--fly--save him," she screamed; "save him, monsters, ere it is too
late! Drowned!--Frederick!--Bachelor's Wa--" Syncope took place, and the
rest of the sentence was interrupted.

Deucedly disappointed at being obliged to give up their wine, the two
heroes seized their cocked hats, and went towards the spot which the
widow in her wild exclamations of despair had sufficiently designated.

Trippet was for running to the fish-pond at the rate of ten miles an
hour.

"Take it easy, my good fellow," said Captain Blackbeard; "running is
unwholesome after dinner. And, if that squinting scoundrel of a lawyer
_does_ drown himself, I sha'n't sleep any the worse." So the two
gentlemen walked very leisurely on towards the Bachelor's Walk; and,
indeed, seeing on their way thither Major Macabaw looking out of the
window at his quarters and smoking a cigar, they went up stairs to
consult the major, as also a bottle of Schiedam he had.

"They come not!" said the widow, when restored to herself. "O Heavens!
grant that Frederick is safe! Sister Anne, go up to the leads and look
if anybody is coming." And up, accordingly, to the garrets Sister Anne
mounted. "Do you see anybody coming, Sister Anne?"

"I see Dr. Drench's little boy," said Sister Anne; "he is leaving a pill
and draught at Miss Molly Grub's."

"Dearest Sister Anne, don't you see any one coming?" shouted the widow
once again.

"I see a flock of dust--no! a cloud of sheep. Pshaw! I see the London
coach coming in. There are three outsides, and the guard has flung a
parcel to Mrs. Jenkins's maid."

"Distraction! Look once more, Sister Anne."

"I see a crowd,--a shutter,--a shutter with a man on it,--a
beadle,--forty little boys,--Gracious goodness! what _can_ it be?" and
down stairs tumbled Sister Anne, and was looking out of the
parlor-window by her sister's side, when the crowd she had perceived
from the garret passed close by them.

At the head walked the beadle, slashing about at the little boys.

Two scores of these followed and surrounded

A SHUTTER carried by four men.

On the shutter lay _Frederick_! He was ghastly pale; his hair was
draggled over his face; his clothes stuck tight to him on account of the
wet; streams of water gurgled down the shutter-sides. But he was not
dead! He turned one eye round towards the window where Mrs. Bluebeard
sat, and gave her a look which she never could forget.

Sambo brought up the rear of the procession. He was quite wet through;
and, if anything would have put his hair out of curl, his ducking would
have done so. But, as he was not a gentleman, he was allowed to walk
home on foot, and, as he passed the widow's window, he gave her one
dreadful glance with his goggling black eyes, and moved on, pointing
with his hands to the shutter.

John Thomas the footman was instantly despatched to Dr. Sly's to have
news of the patient. There was no shilly-shallying now. He came back in
half an hour to say that Mr. Frederick flung himself into Bachelor's
Acre fish-pond with Sambo, had been dragged out with difficulty, had
been put to bed, and had a pint of white wine whey, and was pretty
comfortable. "Thank Heaven!" said the widow, and gave John Thomas a
seven-shilling piece, and sat down with a lightened heart to tea. "What
a heart!" said she to Sister Anne. "And O, what a pity it is that he
squints!"

Here the two captains arrived. They had not been to the Bachelor's Walk;
they had remained at Major Macabaw's consulting the Schiedam. They had
made up their minds what to say. "Hang the fellow! he will never have
the pluck to drown himself," said Captain Blackbeard. "Let us argue on
that, as we may safely."

"My sweet lady," said he, accordingly, "we have had the pond dragged. No
Mr. Sly. And the fisherman who keeps the punt assures us that he has not
been there all day."

"Audacious falsehood!" said the widow, her eyes flashing fire. "Go,
heartless man! who dares to trifle thus with the feelings of a
respectable and unprotected woman. Go, sir, you're only fit for the love
of a--Dolly--Coddlins!" She pronounced the _Coddlins_ with a withering
sarcasm that struck the captain aghast; and, sailing out of the room,
she left her tea untasted, and did not wish either of the military
gentlemen good night.

But, gentles, an' ye know the delicate fibre of woman's heart, ye will
not in very sooth believe that such events as those we have
described--such tempests of passion--fierce winds of woe--blinding
lightnings of tremendous joy and tremendous grief--could pass over one
frail flower and leave it all unscathed. No! Grief kills as joy doth.
Doth not the scorching sun nip the rose-bud as well as the bitter wind?
As Mrs. Sigourney sweetly sings:--

    "Ah! the heart is a soft and a delicate thing;
     Ah! the heart is a lute with a thrilling string;
     A spirit that floats on a gossamer's wing!"

Such was Fatima's heart. In a word, the preceding events had a powerful
effect upon her nervous system, and she was ordered much quiet and
sal-volatile by her skilful medical attendant, Dr. Glauber.

To be so ardently, passionately loved as she was, to know that Frederick
had twice plunged into death from attachment to her, was to awaken in
her bosom "a thrilling string," indeed! Could she witness such
attachment and not be touched by it? She _was_ touched by it,--she was
influenced by the virtues, by the passion, by the misfortunes, of
Frederick: but then he was so abominably ugly that she could not--she
could not consent to become his bride!

She told Dr. Sly so. "I respect and esteem your nephew," said she; "but
my resolve is made. I will continue faithful to that blessed saint whose
monument is ever before my eyes" (she pointed to the churchyard as she
spoke). "Leave this poor tortured heart in quiet. It has already
suffered more than most hearts could bear. I will repose under the
shadow of that tomb until I am called to rest within it,--to rest by the
side of my Bluebeard!"

The ranunculuses, rhododendra, and polyanthuses, which ornamented that
mausoleum, had somehow been suffered to run greatly to seed during the
last few months, and it was with no slight self-accusation that she
acknowledged this fact on visiting "the garden of the grave," as she
called it; and she scolded the beadle soundly for neglecting his duty
towards it. He promised obedience for the future, dug out all the weeds
that were creeping round the family vault, and (having charge of the
key) entered that awful place, and swept and dusted the melancholy
contents of the tomb.

Next morning, the widow came down to breakfast looking very pale. She
had passed a bad night; she had had awful dreams; she had heard a voice
call her thrice at midnight. "Pooh! my dear, it's only nervousness,"
said sceptical Sister Anne.

Here John Thomas, the footman, entered, and said the beadle was in the
hall, looking in a very strange way. He had been about the house since
daybreak, and insisted on seeing Mrs. Bluebeard. "Let him enter," said
that lady, prepared for some great mystery. The beadle came; he was pale
as death; his hair was dishevelled, and his cocked hat out of order.
"What have you to say?" said the lady, trembling.

Before beginning, he fell down on his knees.

"Yesterday," said he, "according to your ladyship's orders, I dug up the
flower-beds of the family vault, dusted the vault and the--the coffins
(added he, trembling) inside. Me and John Sexton did it together, and
polished up the plate quite beautiful."

"For Heaven's sake, don't allude to it," cried the widow, turning pale.

"Well, my lady, I locked the door, came away, and found in my hurry--for
I wanted to beat two little boys what was playing at marbles on Alderman
Paunch's monyment--I found, my lady, I'd forgot my cane.

"I couldn't get John Sexton to go back with me till this morning, and I
didn't like to go alone, and so we went this morning; and what do you
think I found? I found his honor's coffin turned round, and the cane
broke in two. Here's the cane!"

"Ah!" screamed the widow, "take it away,--take it away!"

"Well, what does this prove," said Sister Anne, "but that somebody moved
the coffin, and broke the cane?"

"Somebody! _who's somebody?_" said the beadle, staring round about him.
And all of a sudden he started back with a tremendous roar, that made
the ladies scream and all the glasses on the sideboard jingle, and
cried, "_That's the man!_"

He pointed to the portrait of Bluebeard, which stood over the jingling
glasses on the sideboard. "That's the man I saw last night walking round
the vault, as I'm a living sinner. I saw him a-walking round and round,
and, when I went up to speak to him, I'm blessed if he didn't go in at
the iron gate, which opened afore him like--like winking, and then in
at the vault door, which I'd double-locked, my lady, and bolted inside,
I'll take my oath on it!"

"Perhaps you had given him the key?" suggested Sister Anne.

"It's never been out of my pocket. Here it is," cried the beadle; "I'll
have no more to do with it." And he flung down the ponderous key, amidst
another scream from Widow Bluebeard.

"At what hour did you see him?" gasped she.

"At twelve o'clock, of course."

"It must have been at that very hour," said she, "I heard the voice."

"What voice?" said Anne.

"A voice that called, 'Fatima! Fatima! Fatima!' three times, as plain as
ever voice did."

"It didn't speak to me," said the beadle; "it only nodded its head, and
wagged its head and beard."

"W--w--was it a _bl--ue beard_?" said the widow.

"Powder-blue, ma'am, as I've a soul to save!"

Dr. Drench was of course instantly sent for. But what are the
medicaments of the apothecary in a case where the grave gives up its
dead? Dr. Sly arrived, and he offered ghostly--ah! too
ghostly--consolation. He said he believed in them. His own grandmother
had appeared to his grandfather several times before he married again.
He could not doubt that supernatural agencies were possible, even
frequent.

"Suppose he were to appear to me alone," ejaculated the widow, "I should
die of fright."

The doctor looked particularly arch. "The best way in these cases, my
dear madam," said he, "the best way for unprotected ladies is to get a
husband. I never heard of a first husband's ghost appearing to a woman
and her second husband in my life. In all history there is no account of
one."

"Ah! why should I be afraid of seeing my Bluebeard again?" said the
widow; and the doctor retired quite pleased, for the lady was evidently
thinking of a second husband.

"The captain would be a better protector for me certainly than Mr. Sly,"
thought the lady, with a sigh; "but Mr. Sly will certainly kill himself,
and will the captain be a match for two ghosts? Sly will kill himself;
but ah! the captain won't." And the widow thought with pangs of bitter
mortification of Dolly Coddlins. How--how should these distracting
circumstances be brought to an end?

She retired to rest that night not without a tremor,--to bed, but not to
sleep. At midnight a voice was heard in her room, crying, "Fatima!
Fatima! Fatima!" in awful accents. The doors banged to and fro, the
bells began to ring, the maids went up and down stairs skurrying and
screaming, and gave warning in a body. John Thomas, as pale as death,
declared that he found Bluebeard's yeomanry sword, that hung in the
hall, drawn, and on the ground; and the sticking-plaster miniature in
Mr. Bluebeard's bedroom was found turned topsy-turvy!

"It is some trick," said the obstinate and incredulous Sister Anne.
"To-night I will come and sleep with you, sister." And the night came,
and the two sisters retired together.

'Twas a wild night. The wind howling without went crashing through the
old trees of the old rookery round about the old church. The long
bedroom windows went thump thumping; the moon could be seen through them
lighting up the graves with their ghastly shadows; the yew-tree, cut
into the shape of a bird, looked particularly dreadful, and bent and
swayed as if it would peck something off that other yew-tree which was
of the shape of a dumb-waiter. The bells at midnight began to ring as
usual, the doors clapped, jingle--jingle down came a suit of armor in
the hall, and a voice came and cried, "Fatima! Fatima! Fatima! look,
look, look; the tomb, the tomb, the tomb!"

She looked. The vault door was open, and there in the moonlight stood
Bluebeard, exactly as he was represented in the picture, in his yeomanry
dress, his face frightfully pale, and his great blue beard curling over
his chest, as awful as Mr. Muntz's.

Sister Anne saw the vision as well as Fatima. We shall spare the account
of their terrors and screams. Strange to say, John Thomas, who slept in
the attic above his mistress's bedroom, declared he was on the watch all
night, and had seen nothing in the churchyard, and heard no sort of
voices in the house.

And now the question came, What could the ghost want by appearing? "Is
there anything," exclaimed the unhappy and perplexed Fatima, "that he
would have me do? It is well to say 'now, now, now,' and to show
himself; but what is it that makes my blessed husband so uneasy in his
grave?" And all parties consulted agreed that it was a very sensible
question.

John Thomas, the footman, whose excessive terror at the appearance of
the ghost had procured him his mistress's confidence, advised Mr. Screw,
the butler, who communicated with Mrs. Baggs, the housekeeper, who
condescended to impart her observations to Mrs. Bustle, the
lady's-maid,--John Thomas, I say, decidedly advised that my lady should
consult a cunning man. There was such a man in town; he had prophesied
who should marry his (John Thomas's) cousin; he had cured Farmer Horn's
cattle, which were evidently bewitched; he could raise ghosts, and make
them speak, and he therefore was the very person to be consulted in the
present juncture.

"What nonsense is this you have been talking to the maids, John Thomas,
about the conjurer who lives in--in--"

"In Hangman's Lane, ma'am, where the gibbet used to stand," replied
John, who was bringing in the muffins. "It's no nonsense, my lady. Every
word as that man says comes true, and he knows everything."

"I desire you will not frighten the girls in the servants' hall with any
of those silly stories," said the widow; and the meaning of this speech
may, of course, at once be guessed. It was that the widow meant to
consult the conjurer that very night. Sister Anne said that she would
never, under such circumstances, desert her dear Fatima. John Thomas was
summoned to attend the ladies with a dark lantern, and forth they set on
their perilous visit to the conjurer at his dreadful abode in Hangman's
Lane.

       *       *       *       *       *

What took place at that frightful interview has never been entirely
known. But there was no disturbance in the house on the night after. The
bells slept quite quietly, the doors did not bang in the least, twelve
o'clock struck, and no ghost appeared in the churchyard, and the whole
family had a quiet night. The widow attributed this to a sprig of
rosemary which the wizard gave her, and a horseshoe which she flung into
the garden round the family vault, and which would keep _any_ ghost
quiet.

It happened the next day, that, going to her milliner's, Sister Anne met
a gentleman who has been before mentioned in this story, Ensign Trippet
by name; and, indeed, if the truth must be known, it somehow happened
that she met the ensign somewhere every day of the week.

"What news of the ghost, my dearest Miss Shacabac?" said he (you may
guess on what terms the two young people were by the manner in which Mr.
Trippet addressed the lady); "has Bluebeard's ghost frightened your
sister into any more fits, or set the bells a-ringing?"

Sister Anne, with a very grave air, told him that he must not joke on so
awful a subject, that the ghost had been laid for a while, that a
cunning man had told her sister things so wonderful that _any_ man must
believe in them; that among other things, he had shown to Fatima her
future husband.

"Had," said the ensign, "he black whiskers and a red coat?"

"No," answered Anne, with a sigh, "he had red whiskers and a black
coat."

"It can't be that rascal Sly!" cried the ensign. But Anne only sighed
more deeply and would not answer yes or no. "You may tell the poor
captain," she said, "there is no hope for him, and all he has left is to
hang himself."

"He shall cut the throat of Sly first, though," replied Mr. Trippet,
fiercely. But Anne said things were not decided as yet. Fatima was
exceedingly restive, and unwilling to acquiesce in the idea of being
married to Mr. Sly; she had asked for further authority. The wizard said
he could bring her own husband from the grave to point out her second
bridegroom, who shall be, can be, must be, no other than Frederick Sly.

"It is a trick," said the ensign; but Anne was too much frightened by
the preceding evening's occurrences to say so. "To-night," she said,
"the grave will tell all." And she left Ensign Trippet in a very solemn
and affecting way.

       *       *       *       *       *

At midnight, three figures were seen to issue from Widow Bluebeard's
house, and pass through the churchyard turnstile, and so away among the
graves.

"To call up a ghost is bad enough," said the wizard; "to make him speak
is awful. I recommend you, ma'am, to beware, for such curiosity has been
fatal to many. There was one Arabian necromancer of my acquaintance who
tried to make a ghost speak, and was torn in pieces on the spot. There
was another person who _did_ hear a ghost speak certainly, but came away
from the interview deaf and dumb. There was another--"

"Never mind," says Mrs. Bluebeard, all her old curiosity aroused, "see
him and hear him I will. Haven't I seen him and heard him, too, already?
When he's audible _and_ visible, _then_'s the time."

"But when you heard him," said the necromancer, "he was invisible, and
when you saw him he was inaudible; so make up your mind what you will
ask him, for ghosts will stand no shilly-shallying. I knew a stuttering
man who was flung down by a ghost, and--"

"I _have_ made up my mind," said Fatima, interrupting him.

"To ask him what husband you shall take," whispered Anne.

Fatima only turned red, and Sister Anne squeezed her hand; they passed
into the graveyard in silence.

There was no moon; the night was pitch dark. They threaded their way
through the graves, stumbling over them here and there. An owl was
toowhooing from the church tower, a dog was howling somewhere, a cock
began to crow, as they will sometimes at twelve o'clock at night.

"Make haste," said the wizard. "Decide whether you will go on or not."

"Let us go back, sister," said Anne.

"I _will_ go on," said Fatima. "I should die if I gave it up, I feel I
should."

"Here's the gate; kneel down," said the wizard. The women knelt down.

"Will you see your first husband or your second husband?"

"I will see Bluebeard first," said the widow; "I shall know then
whether this be a mockery, or you have the power you pretend to."

At this the wizard uttered an incantation, so frightful, and of such
incomprehensible words, that it is impossible for any mortal man to
repeat them. And at the end of what seemed to be a versicle of his chant
he called Bluebeard. There was no noise but the moaning of the wind in
the trees, and the toowhooing of the owl in the tower.

At the end of the second verse he paused again, and called _Bluebeard_.
The cock began to crow, the dog began to howl, a watchman in the town
began to cry out the hour, and there came from the vault within a hollow
groan, and a dreadful voice said, "Who wants me?"

Kneeling in front of the tomb, the necromancer began the third verse. As
he spoke, the former phenomena were still to be remarked. As he
continued, a number of ghosts rose from their graves, and advanced round
the kneeling figures in a circle. As he concluded, with a loud bang the
door of the vault flew open, and there in blue light stood Bluebeard in
his blue uniform, waving his blue sword, and flashing his blue eyes
round about!

"Speak now, or you are lost," said the necromancer, to Fatima. But, for
the first time in her life, she had not a word to say. Sister Anne, too,
was dumb with terror. And, as the awful figure advanced towards them as
they were kneeling, the sister thought all was over with them, and
Fatima once more had occasion to repent her fatal curiosity.

The figure advanced, saying, in dreadful accents, "Fatima! Fatima!
Fatima! wherefore am I called from my grave?" when all of a sudden down
dropped his sword, down the ghost of Bluebeard went on his knees, and,
clasping his hands together, roared out, "Murder, mercy!" as loud as man
could roar.

_Six other ghosts_ stood round the kneeling group. "Why do you call me
from the tomb?" said the first; "Who dares disturb my grave?" said the
second; "Seize him and away with him!" cried the third. "Murder, mercy!"
still roared the ghost of Bluebeard, as the white-robed spirits advanced
and caught hold of him.

"It's only Tom Trippet," said a voice at Anne's ear.

"And your very humble servant," said a voice well known to Mrs.
Bluebeard; and they helped the ladies to rise, while the other ghosts
seized Bluebeard. The necromancer took to his heels and got off; he was
found to be no other than Mr. Claptrap, the manager of the theatre.

It was some time before the ghost of Bluebeard could recover from the
fainting-fit into which he had been plunged when seized by the
opposition ghosts in white; and while they were ducking him at the pump
his blue beard came off, and he was discovered to be--who do you think?
Why, Mr. Sly, to be sure; and it appears that John Thomas, the footman,
had lent him the uniform, and had clapped the doors, and rung the bells,
and spoken down the chimney; and it was Mr. Claptrap who gave Mr. Sly
the blue fire and the theatre gong; and he went to London next morning
by the coach; and, as it was discovered that the story concerning Miss
Coddlins was a shameful calumny, why, of course, the widow married
Captain Blackbeard. Dr. Sly married them, and has always declared that
he knew nothing of his nephew's doings, and wondered that he has not
tried to commit suicide since his last disappointment.

Mr. and Mrs. Trippet are likewise living happily together, and this, I
am given to understand, is the ultimate fate of a family in whom we were
all very much interested in early life.

You will say that the story is not probable. Pshaw! Isn't it written in
a book? and is it a whit less probable than the first part of the tale?




THE PICNIC PARTY.

BY HORACE SMITH.


To give a picnic party a fair chance of success, it must be almost
impromptu: projected at twelve o'clock at night at the earliest,
executed at twelve o'clock on the following day at the latest; and even
then the odds are fearfully against it. The climate of England is not
remarkable for knowing its own mind; nor is the weather "so fixed in its
resolve" but that a bright August moon, suspended in a clear sky, may be
lady-usher to a morn of fog, sleet, and drizzle. Then, again,--but this
being tender ground, we will only hint at the possibility of such a
change,--a lady of the intended party might quit the drawing-room at
night in the sweetest humor imaginable, and make her appearance at
breakfast in a less amiable mood, or, perhaps, "prefer taking breakfast
in her own room,"--from which notice husbands sometimes infer that such
a change has taken place.

Mr. Claudius Bagshaw, a retired silk mercer, in the vicinity of London,
determined, notwithstanding all these arguments, to have a picnic party
on the 24th of August, his wedding-day. On the 3d of July, Mr. Claudius
Bagshaw, after eating his breakfast and reading the Morning Post, looked
out of his parlor window to watch the horticultural pursuits of his
better part. Mr. Bagshaw had become a member of one of the
"march-of-intellect-societies," and was confident that the picnic would
turn out a very pleasant thing.

"How fortunate we shall be, dear," said Mr. Bagshaw, "how happy we shall
be, if the weather should be as fine on our wedding-day as it is now."

"True, love," replied Mrs. Bagshaw; "but this is only the 3d of July,
and, as the anniversary of our happy day is the 24th of August, the
weather _may_ change."

This proposition Mr. Bagshaw did not attempt to deny.

The Bagshaws were the happiest couple in the world. Being blessed with
the negative blessing of no offspring, the stream of their affections
was not diverted into little channels, but ebbed and flowed in one
uninterrupted tide reciprocally from bosom to bosom. They never
disputed, they never quarrelled. Yes, they did sometimes, but then it
was from a mutual over-anxiety to please. Each was afraid to pronounce a
choice, or a preference, lest it might be disagreeable to the other; and
hence there occasionally did arise little bickerings, and tiffings, and
miffings, which were quite as unpleasant in their effects, and sometimes
as difficult to settle, as quarrels originating in less amiable causes.

"But," said Mr. Bagshaw, referring to the barometer, "the instrument for
indicating the present state and probable changes of the weather still
maintains its elevation, and I tell you what, dear, if the weather
should be _preposterous_ on the 24th of August, suppose, instead of
going into the north, as we did last year, we migrate into Kent or
Surrey? Instead of dining at Hampstead, as we did last year, shall we go
to Greenwich, or to Putney, and eat little fishes?"

"Whichever you like, love," was the lady's answer to the so-intended
question.

"But I put it to your choice, dear."

"Either--or neither--please yourself, love, and you are sure you will
please me."

"Pshaw! but it is for the gratification of your--or, more properly
speaking, for your gratification. I submit to you an alternative for the
purpose of election; and you know, Jane, I repudiate indifference, even
as concerning or applying to trifles."

"You know, Claudius, we have but one wish, and that is to please each
other; so do you decide."

"But, Mrs. Bagshaw, I must promulgate a request that--having, as I have,
no desire but to please you--you will--"

"How, sir! would you force me to choose, when I am so obedient as to
choose that you should have the choice entirely your own way? This
treatment of me is monstrous!"

And here Mrs. Bagshaw did what is usual and proper for ladies to do on
such occasions,--she burst into tears.

"Why, then, madam, to use a strong expression, I must say that--"

But a loud rap at the street-door prevented the utterance of an
"expression," the force of which would doubtless have humbled Mrs.
Claudius Bagshaw down to the very dust.

"Claudius," said the lady, hastily drying her eyes, "that is Uncle
John's knock. We'll go to Gre--Put--Greenwich, love."

"That's well, dear; and be assured, love, that nothing is so adverse to
the constitution of what Locke emphatically calls the human mind,
philosophically considered, as to persevere in that state of indecision
which--that--whereof--but we will not go to either; Uncle John shall
select the locality."

Uncle John was a bachelor of fifty-five, possessing twelve thousand
pounds, a strong disinclination to part with any of them, a good heart,
and a bad temper.

"Good morning t' ye, good folks; as usual, I perceive, billing and
cooing."

The Bagshaws had by this time got together in a corner of the garden,
and were lovingly occupied in trimming the same pot of sweet peas.

"Quite the contrary, Uncle John," said Mrs. Bagshaw. "Claudius and I
have just had one of our most desperate quarrels."

And here the happy pair giggled, and exchanged looks which were meant to
imply that _their_ most desperate quarrels were mere kitten's play; and
that Uncle John did so interpret them, he made manifest by a knowing
shake of his forefinger.

"The fact is, sir, Jane and I talk of commemorating the annual
recurrence of the anniversary of our wedding-day, at some place a
_leetle_ farther in the country; but our minds are in a perfect vacuum
concerning the identity of the spot. Now, sir, will you reduce the place
to a mathematical certainty, and be one of the party?"

"Why--um--no; these things are expensive; we come home at night with a
guinea apiece less in our pockets, and I don't see the good of that."

"I have it!" cried Bagshaw; "we'll make it a picnic; that _won't_ be
expensive."

"Then I'm with you, Bagshaw, with all my heart,--and it shall be _al
fresco_."

"There or anywhere else you please, sir," gravely replied the learned
member of the universal-knowledge-warehouse.

"Uncle John means in the open air, Claudius; that _will_ be delightful."

"Charming!" rejoined Bagshaw.

It may be inquired why Uncle John, who objected to the disbursement of a
guinea for a day's pleasure, should so readily have yielded at the
suggestion of a picnic. Uncle John possessed a neat little morocco
pocket-case, containing a dozen silver spoons, and silver-handled knives
and forks, and although we are told that these implements are of later
invention than fingers, there is, nevertheless, a very general bias in
their favor, for the purpose to which they are applied. Now, Uncle John
being aware of the prevalence of their employment, it was for this
reason he never objected to make one of a picnic party; for, whilst
others contributed chickens, pigeon-pies, or wines,--it being the
principle of such parties that each member should furnish something to
the feast,--Uncle John invariably contributed the use of his knives,
forks, and spoons.

The whole morning was spent in debating on who should be invited to
partake of this "pleasantest thing that ever was," and examining into
their several pretensions, and their powers of contributing to the
amusements of the day; when, at length, the honor of nomination was
conferred upon the persons following, and for the reasons assigned:--

Sir Thomas and Lady Grouts--because of their title, which would give an
air to the thing--(Sir Thomas, formerly a corn-chandler, having been
knighted for carrying up an address in the late reign). Miss Euphemia
Grouts, daughter No. 1--who would bring her guitar. Miss Corinna Grouts,
ditto No. 2--because she would sing.

Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass--Mr. Snodgrass being vice-president of the grand
junction march-of-intellect society. Mr. Frederick Snodgrass, their son
(lately called to the chancery bar), who would bring his flute.

Messrs. Wrench and son (eminent dentists). The father to be invited
because he was charming company, and the son, a dead bore, because the
father would be offended if he were not. And, lastly,

Miss Snubbleston, a rich maiden lady of forty-four, for no other earthly
qualification whatever than her carriage, which (to use Bagshaw's words)
would carry herself and _us three_, and also transplant a large portion
of the provender to the place of rendezvous.

Bagshaw having made out a fair copy of this list, somewhat in the shape
of a bill of parcels, this, the first step towards the "pleasantest
thing that ever was," was taken with entire satisfaction.

"Why, Bagshaw," exclaimed Uncle John, who had cast up the numbers,
"including our three selves, we shall be thirteen!"

The member of the institution perceived the cause of his alarm! but
having been lectured out of _prejudices_ respecting matters of greater
moment than this, he prepared a look of ineffable contempt as his only
reply; however, happening to think of Uncle John's twelve thousand
pounds, he suppressed it, and just contented himself with,

"And what then, sir?"

"Why, _then_, sir, that is a risk I won't run; and unless we can manage
to--I have it! the very man. How came we to forget him?
_The--very--man!_ You know Jack Richards?"

The last four words were delivered in a tone implying the utter
impossibility of any human creature being unacquainted with Jack
Richards.

"Not in the least, sir. I never heard of him."

"What! never heard of Ja--The thing is impossible; everybody knows Jack
Richards. The very thing for us; such a wit! such a wag!--he is the life
and soul of everything. Should he be unengaged for the 24th of August.
But he is so caught up! I was invited to meet him at dinner last Sunday
at Jones's, but he didn't come. Such a disappointment to us! However, I
shall meet him on Thursday at the Tims's, if he should but keep his
promise, and then--"

"But, uncle," said Mrs. Bagshaw, "hadn't you better send him an
invitation at once?"

"I'll do better still, my dear; I'll call at his lodgings, and if I find
him hanging loose, I'll bring him to dine with you to-day." Then,
turning to Bagshaw, he added, "That a man like _you_ shouldn't know Jack
Richards, is surprising!"

As this was evidently pointed at Mr. Claudius Bagshaw in his capacity of
member of a learned body, Bagshaw pursed up his mouth into a
mock-modesty smile, and slightly bowed. Off went Uncle John in quest of
Jack Richards; and, that the pleasantest thing in the world might not
suffer by delay, off went Mr. Bagshaw to apprize the Snodgrasses, the
Groutses, and the rest of the nominees; and, more important still, off
went the lady to the poulterer's, to inquire whether he was likely to
have any nice pigeons for a pie, about the twenty-third of next month.
The dinner-hour arrived, and so did Uncle John, but with a face of
unspeakable woe.

"I feared how it would be."

"What! can't he be with us on the 24th?" inquired both the Bagshaws at
the same instant.

"He will if he can; but he won't promise. But to-day!--However, it
serves us right; we were unwise to indulge a hope of his coming at so
short a notice. He has almost engaged himself to you for Sunday
fortnight, though. What a creature it is!--he has given me such a pain
in my side!"

"Something he said that almost killed you with laughing? Repeat it,
uncle, repeat it."

"Why, no, he didn't say anything particular; but he has a knack of
poking one in the ribs, in his comical way, and sometimes he hurts
you."

We intended to describe Jack Richards at length; Uncle John's accidental
notice of this trait has, most probably, rendered that trouble
unnecessary. Indeed, we feel that we need scarcely add to it, that he
can sing a devilish good song (and everybody knows what is meant by
that), and imitated the inimitable Mathews's imitations of the actors,
not even excepting his imitation of Tate Wilkinson's imitation of
Garrick.

Except the uncertainty of Jack Richards, the result of the morning's
occupation was satisfactory. Bagshaw, still retaining his old
business-like habits of activity and industry, had contrived to wait on
every person named in the list, all of whom had promised their
attendance; and Mrs. Bagshaw had received from the poulterer a positive
assurance that he would raise heaven and earth to supply her with
pigeons on the 23d of the ensuing August!

Committees were forthwith summoned. First, a committee to consider of
the whereabout. At this, after an evening of polite squabbling, which
had nearly put an end to the project altogether, Twickenham meadows
received the honor of selection,--_nem. con._ as Bagshaw said. Next,
lest it should happen, as it did once happen, for want of such
preconcert, that a picnic party of ten found themselves at their place
of meeting with ten fillets of veal and ten hams, Mr. Bagshaw called a
committee of "provender." Here it was settled that the Snodgrasses
should contribute four chickens and a tongue; the Bagshaws, their
pigeon-pie; Wrench and son, a ham; Sir Thomas Grouts, a hamper of his
own _choice_ wine; Miss Snubbleston, a basket of fruit and pastry;
Uncle John, his silver spoons, knives, and forks; and Jack Richards--his
charming company. And lastly came the committee for general purposes! At
this important meeting, it was agreed that the party proceed to
Twickenham by water; that to save the trouble of loading and unloading,
Miss Snubbleston's carriage convey the hampers, etc., direct to the
place appointed,--the said carriage, moreover, serving to bring the
ladies to town, should the evening prove cold; that, for the
_water-music_, the following programme be adopted: 1. On reaching
Vauxhall Bridge, the concert to commence with Madame Pasta's grand scena
in "Medea," previous to the murder of the children, by Miss Corinna
Grouts. 2. Nicholson's grand flute concerto in five sharps, by Mr.
Frederick Snodgrass. 3. Grand aria, with variations, guitar, by Miss
Euphemia Grouts. 4. Sweet Bird; accompaniment, flute obligato, Miss C.
G. and Mr. F. S.--and 5. The Dettingen Te Deum (arranged for three
voices, by Mr. F. S.) by Miss Euphemia, Miss Corinna, and Mr. Frederick
Snodgrass. The "interstices," as Mr. Bagshaw called them, to be filled
up by the amusing talents of the elder Wrench and Uncle John's friend.
And, lastly, that the company do assemble at Mr. Bagshaw's on the
morning of the 24th of August, at ten o'clock _precisely_, in order to
have the advantage of the tide both ways.

Three days prior to the important 24th, Mr. Bagshaw went to engage the
boat, but, in a squabble with the boatman, Mr. B. got a black eye. This
was the first mishap.

Restless and impatient though you be, depend upon it, there is not a
day of the whole three hundred and sixty-five will put itself, in the
slightest degree, out of the way, or appear one second before its
appointed time, for your gratification. O that people would consider
this, and await events with patience! Certainly Mr. Bagshaw did not. The
night of the 23d to him appeared an age. His repeater was in his hand
every ten minutes. He thought the morning would never dawn,--but he was
mistaken; it did; and as fine a morning as if it had been made on
purpose to favor his excursion. By six o'clock he was dressed!--by eight
the contributions from all the members had arrived, and were ranged in
the passage. There was their own pigeon-pie, carefully packed in brown
paper and straw; Sir Thomas's hamper of his own choice wine; and the
rest. Everything promised fairly. The young ladies and Mr. Frederick had
had thirty rehearsals of their grand arias and concertos, and were
perfect to a demi-semiquaver; Jack Richards would _certainly_ come; and
the only drawback upon Mr. Bagshaw's personal enjoyment--but nothing in
this world is perfect--was the necessity he was under of wearing his
green shade, which would totally deprive him of the pleasure of
contemplating the beauties of the Thames scenery,--a thing he had set
his heart upon. Nine! ten!

"No one here yet! Jane, my love, we shall infallibly lose the tide." And
for the next quarter of an hour the place of the poor repeater was no
sinecure.

A knock! Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass and Mr. Frederick. Another! The whole
family of the Groutses. Next came Mr. Charles Wrench.

"Bless us! Mr. Charles," said Bagshaw, "where is your father?"

Now, Mr. Wrench, senior, was an agreeable old dentist, always gay,
generally humorous, sometimes witty; he could _sketch_ characters as
well as _draw_ teeth; and, on occasions of this kind, was invaluable.
The son was a mere donkey; a silly, simpering, well-dressed young
gentleman, the owner of no more than the eighth of an idea, and of a
very fine set of teeth, which he constantly exhibited like a sign or
advertisement of his shop. Appended to everything he uttered were a
preface and postscript, in the form of a sort of Billy-goat grin.

"He! he! he! he! Fayther regrets emezingly he caint come, being called
to attend the Duchess of Dilborough. He! he! he! he!"

As we have already said that it was in pure compliment to the father
that the son was invited, and not at all for the sake of his own
company, his presence was a grievous aggravation of the disappointment.

The next knock announced Miss Snubbleston. But where was her carriage?
Why, it had been newly varnished, and they might scratch her panels with
the hampers; and then she was afraid of her springs. So here was Miss
Snubbleston without her carriage, for the convenience of which alone she
had been invited, considered by the rest in exactly the same light as
young Mr. Wrench without old Mr. Wrench,--_id est_, a damper. A new
arrangement was the necessary consequence; and the baskets, under the
superintendence of a servant, were jolted down in a hackney-coach, to be
embarked at Westminster. But Miss Snubbleston brought with her a
substitute, which was by no means a compensation. Cupid, her wretched,
little, barking, yelping, Dutch pug, had eaten something that had
disagreed with him, and his fair mistress would not "for worlds" have
left him at home while he was so indisposed. Well, no one chose to be
the first to object to the intruder, so Cupid was received.

"But where can Uncle John and his friend be? We shall lose the tide,
that's certain," was scarcely uttered by Mr. Bagshaw, when in came our
uncle, together with the long-expected Jack Richards.

The usual introductions over, Mr. Richards saluted everybody with the
self-sufficient swagger of a vulgar lion.

"The day smiles auspicious, sir," said Bagshaw, who thought it requisite
he should throw off something fine to so celebrated a person.

"Smile?--a broad grin, I call it, sir." And here was a general laugh.

"O, excellent!"

"Capital!"

Uncle John, proud of his friend, whispered in Bagshaw's ear, "You see,
Jack's beginning." And now hats and gloves were in motion.

"You have got your flute, Frederick?"

"Yes, mother," was the reply.

"Lau, ma," cried Miss Corinna, "if I haven't come without 'Sweet Bird,'
and my scena from 'Medea,' I declare."

As these were indispensable to the amusements of the day, a servant was
despatched for them. He couldn't be gone longer than half an hour. Half
an hour! thought Bagshaw; 'tis eleven now; and the tide.--But the
servant was absent a few minutes beyond the half-hour, and poor Bagshaw
suffered severely from that gnawing impatience, amounting almost to
pain, which every mother's son of us has experienced upon occasions of
greater--or less importance than this. They were again at the very point
of starting, when a message was brought to Mrs. Snodgrass that little
Master Charles had cut his thumb dreadfully! What was to be done? Mrs.
Snodgrass vowed she shouldn't be easy in her mind the whole day unless
she knew the extent of the mischief; and as they _only_ lived in Euston
Square, and she could be there and back again in twenty minutes, she
would herself go see what really was the matter,--and away she went.
Twenty minutes! During all this time, Bagshaw--but who would attempt to
describe anguish indescribable? At length he was relieved by the return
of Mrs. Snodgrass; but, to the horror and consternation of himself and
of all present, she introduced the aforesaid Master Charles,--an ugly,
ill-tempered, blubbering little brat of seven years old, with a bloated
red face, scrubby white hair, and red eyes; and with the interesting
appendage of a thick slice of bread and butter in his hand.

"I'm sure you'll pardon this liberty," said the affectionate mamma; "but
poor Charley has cut himself very much, and he would not be pacified
till I consented to take him with us. He has promised to be very good.
There, don't cry any more, darling!" and, accordingly, the urchin roared
with tenfold vigor. There were no particular manifestations of joy at
this arrival; and it is just possible, although nothing was uttered to
that effect, that there did exist a general and cordial wish that young
Master Snodgrass were sprawling at the bottom of the deepest well in
England. Uncle John, indeed, did utter something about the pug and the
child--two such nuisances--people bringing their brats into grownup
company.

At length the procession set out: the Bagshaws, Uncle John, and Jack
Richards bringing up the rear in a hackney-coach. On reaching the corner
of the street, Mrs. Bagshaw called out to the driver to stop.

"What is the matter, dear?" said Bagshaw.

"Your eye-lotion, love."

"Well, never mind that, sweet."

"Claudius, I shall be miserable if you go without it. Dr. Nooth desired
you would use it every two hours. I must insist,--now, for my sake,
love,--such an eye as he has got, Mr. Richards!"

So away went Bagshaw to the Lake of Lausanne Lodge for the lotion,
which, as it always happens when folks are in a hurry, it took him a
quarter of an hour to find.

They were now fairly on the road.

"What a smell of garlic!" exclaimed Uncle John; "it is intolerable!"

"Dear me!" said Mr. Richards, "do you perceive it? 'Tis a fine Italian
sausage I bought at Morel's, as my contribution. We shall find it an
excellent relish in the country." And he exhibited his purchase,
enveloped in a brown paper.

"Pha! shocking!--'tis a perfect nuisance! Put it into your pocket again,
or throw it out at the window." But Mr. Richards preferred obeying the
first command.

Apropos of contributions--"Uncle, have you brought your spoons?"

"Here they are," replied Uncle, at the same time drawing from his pocket
a parcel in size and form very closely resembling Mr. Richards's
offensive contribution.

On arriving at Westminster Bridge, they found the rest of the party
already seated in the barge, and the first sound that saluted their ears
was an intimation that, owing to their being two hours behind time (it
was now past twelve), they should hardly save the tide.

"I knew it would be so," said Bagshaw, with more of discontent than he
had thought to experience, considering the pains he had taken that
everything should be well ordered.

As Uncle John was stepping into the boat, Richards, with great
dexterity, exchanged parcels with him, putting the Italian sausage into
Uncle John's pocket and the spoons into his own; enhancing the wit of
the manoeuvre by whispering to the Bagshaws, who, with infinite
delight, had observed it.

"Hang me," said Richards, "but he shall have enough of the garlic!"

The old gentleman was quite unconscious of the operation, as Richards
adroitly diverted his attention from it by giving him one of his
facetious pokes in the ribs, which nearly bent him double, and drew a
roar of laughter from every one else.

Just as they were pushing off, their attention was attracted by a loud
howling. It proceeded from a large Newfoundland dog which was standing
at the water's edge.

"Confound it!" cried Richards, "that's my Carlo! He has followed me,
unperceived, all the way from home--I would not lose him for fifty
pounds. I must take him back--pray put me ashore. This is very
provoking--though he is _a very quiet dog_!"

There was no mistaking this hint. Already were there two nuisances on
board,--Master Charles and the Dutch pug: but as they were to choose
between Jack Richards with his dog, or no Jack Richards (or in other
words, no life and soul of the party), it was presently decided that
Carlo should be invited to a seat on the hampers, which were stowed at
the head of the boat,--Uncle John having first extracted from Mr.
Richards an assurance that their new guest would lie there as still as a
mouse. This complaisance was amply rewarded by a speedy display of Mr.
Richards's powers of entertainment. As soon as they reached the middle
of the river Jack Richards suddenly jumped up, for the purpose of
frightening Miss Snubbleston; a jest at which everybody else would have
laughed, had not their own lives been endangered by it. Even his great
admirer suggested to him that once of that was enough. His next joke was
one of a more intellectual character. Though he had never till this day
seen Sir Thomas, he had accidentally heard something about his former
trade.

"What is the difference between Lord Eldon and Sir Thomas Grouts?"
Nobody could tell.

"One is an ex-chancellor,--the other is an ex-chandler." Everybody
laughed, except the Grouts family.

This was succeeded by another thrust in Uncle John's side; after which
came a pun, which we shall not record, as the effect of it was to force
the ladies to cough and look into the water, the gentlemen to look at
each other, and Mrs. Snodgrass to whisper to Mrs. Bagshaw,--

"Who _is_ this Mr. Richards?"

Indeed, there would have been no end to his pleasantries had they not
been interrupted by a request that Miss Corinna would open the concert,
as they were fast approaching Vauxhall Bridge. Mr. Bagshaw (looking at
the programme, which he had drawn out on paper ruled with red and blue
lines) objected to this, as it would disturb the previous arrangement,
according to which the concert was not to commence till they were
_through_ the bridge. This objection was overruled, and the fair Corinna
unrolled the music, for which the servant had been despatched with so
much haste. Miss Corinna screamed. What was the matter?

"They had not sent the grand scena from Medea, after all, but a wrong
piece!" And the pains she had taken to be perfect in it!

"Could not Miss Corinna sing it from memory?"

"Impossible!"

"How careless of you, Corinna! then sing what they have sent."

"Why, ma," said Corinna, with tears in her eyes, and holding up the
unfortunate sheets,--"why, bless me, ma, I can't sing the overture to
Der Freyschutz!"

The difficulty of such a performance being readily admitted, Mr.
Frederick Snodgrass declared himself but too happy to comply with the
calls for his concerto in five sharps, which stood next on the list; and
with the air of one well satisfied that an abundance of admiration and
applause would reward his efforts, he drew forth his flute, when, lo!
one of the joints was missing! This accident was nearly fatal to the
musical entertainments of the day; for not only was the concerto thereby
rendered impracticable, but "Sweet Bird" with the flute-accompaniment
obligato, was put _hors de combat_. Disappointment having, by this, been
carried to its uttermost bounds, the announcement that two strings of
the guitar had gone was received with an indifference almost stoical;
and every one was grateful to Miss Euphemia for so _willingly_
undertaking (the whispered menaces of Lady Grouts being heard by nobody
but the young lady herself) to do all that could be done under such
untoward circumstances. She would endeavor to accompany herself through
a little ballad; but she failed.

Mr. Claudius Bagshaw, with all his literature, science, and philosophy,
now, for the first time, wondered how anything could fail, so much
trouble having been taken to insure success. Drawing forth his repeater,
he ahem'd, and just muttered,--

"Unaccountable! Hem! upon my word! One o'clock, and no pleasure yet!"

"One o'clock!" echoed his spouse; "then 'tis time for your eye, dear!"
And Bagshaw was compelled not only to suffer his damaged optics to be
dabbled by his tormentingly affectionate wife, but to submit again to
be hoodwinked, in spite of his entreaties to the contrary, and his
pathetic assurances that he had not yet seen a bit of the prospect; a
thing he had set his heart upon.

Now occurred a dead silence of some minutes. A steamboat rushed by.
Bagshaw seized this opportunity to make a display of his scientific
acquirements; and this he did with the greater avidity, as he had long
wished to astonish Vice-President Snodgrass. Besides, in the event of
his offering to deliver a course of lectures at the institution, the
vice-president might bear evidence to his capabilities for the
purpose,--his acquaintance not only with the facts, but with the terms
of science. Whether those terms were always correctly applied, we
confess ourselves not sufficiently learned to pronounce.

"How wondrous is the science of mechanism! how variegated its progeny,
how simple, yet how compound! I am propelled to the consideration of
this subject by having optically perceived that ingenious nautical
instrument, which has just now flown along like a mammoth, that monster
of the deep! You ask me how are steamboats propagated? in other words,
how is such an infinite and immovable body inveigled along its course? I
will explain it to you. It is by the power of friction: that is to say,
the two wheels, or paddles, turning diametrically, or at the same
moment, on the axioms, and repressing by the rotundity of their motion
the action of the menstruum in which the machine floats,--water being,
in a philosophical sense, a powerful non-conductor,--it is clear, that
in proportion as is the revulsion so is the progression; and as is the
centrifugal force, so is the--"

"Pooh!" cried Uncle John, impatiently; "let us have some music."

"I have an apprehension, Bagshaw," said the vice-president,--"that I
should not presume to dispute with you,--that you are wrong in your
theory of the centrifugal force of the axioms. However, we will discuss
that point at the grand-junction. But come, Frederick, the 'Dettingen Te
Deum.'"

Frederick and the young ladies having, by many rehearsals, perfected
themselves in the performance of this piece, instantly complied.
Scarcely had they reached the fourth bar, when Jack Richards, who had
not for a long time perpetrated a joke, produced a harsh, brassy-toned,
German eolina, and "blew a blast so loud and shrill," that the Dutch pug
began to bark, Carlo to howl, and the other nuisance, Master Charles, to
cry. The German eolina was of itself bad enough, but these congregated
noises were intolerable. Uncle John aimed a desperate blow with a large
apple, which he was just about to bite, at the head of Carlo, who, in
order to give his lungs fair play, was standing on all fours on the
hampers. The apple missed the dog, and went some distance beyond him
into the water. Mr. Carlo, attributing to Uncle John a kinder feeling
than that which actually prompted the proceeding, looked upon it as a
good-natured expedient to afford him an opportunity of adding his mite
to the amusements of the day, by displaying a specimen of his training.
Without waiting for a second hit, he plunged into the river, seized the
apple, and, paddling up the side of the boat with the prize
triumphantly exhibited in his jaws, to the consternation of the whole
party, he scrambled in between Uncle John and his master, dropped the
apple upon the floor, distributed a copious supply of Thames water
amongst the affrighted beholders, squeezed his way through them as best
he could, and, with an air of infinite self-satisfaction, resumed his
place on the hampers.

Had Mr. Jack Richards, the owner of the dog, been at the bottom of the
Thames a week before this delightful 24th, not one of the party, Mr.
Richards himself excepted, would have felt in the slightest degree
concerned; but since, with a common regard to politeness, they could not
explicitly tell him so, they contented themselves with bestowing upon
Mr. Carlo every term of opprobrium, every form of execration, which good
manners will allow,--leaving it to the sagacity of "the life and soul of
the company" to apply them to himself, if so it might be agreeable to
him. Poor fellow! he felt the awkwardness of his situation, and
figuratively, as well as literally speaking, this exploit of his dog
threw a _damp_ upon him, as it had done upon every one else.

For some time the picnickers pursued their way in solemn silence. At
length Bagshaw, perceiving that there would be very little pleasure if
matters were allowed to go on in this way, exclaimed,--

"An intelligent observer, not imbued with the knowledge of our
intentions, would indicate us to be a combination of perturbed spirits,
rowed by Charon across the river Tiber."

In cases of this kind, the essential is to break the ice. Conversation
was now resumed.

"Ah! ha!" said the vice-president, "Sion-house."

"The residuum of the Northumberlands," said Claudius, "one of the most
genealogical and antique families in England."

And here, having put forth so much classical and historical lore, almost
in a breath, he marked his own satisfaction by a short, single cough.
The vice-president _said_ nothing, but he thought to himself, "There is
much more in this Bagshaw than I suspected."

Jack Richards was up again.

"Come, what's done can't be helped; but, upon my soul! I am sorry at
being the innocent cause of throwing cold water on the party."

"Cold water, indeed! look at me, sir," said Miss Snubbleston, with tears
in her eyes, and exhibiting her _ci-devant_ shoulder-of-mutton sleeves,
which, but half an hour before as stiff and stately as starch could make
them, were now hanging loose and flabby about her skinny arms.

"Too bad, Jack," said Uncle John, "to bring that cursed Carlo of yours!"

Carlo, perceiving that he was the subject of conversation, was instantly
on his legs, his eye steadily fixed upon Uncle John, evidently expecting
a signal for a second plunge. The alarm was general, and every tongue
joined in the scream of "Lie down, sir! lie down!"

Uncle John, who had been more than once offended by the odor from his
friend's garlic sausage, and who had on each and every such occasion
vented an exclamation of disgust, to the great amusement of Mr. Richards
(who chuckled with delight to think of the exchange he had secretly
effected) here, in the very middle of the stream, resolved to rid
himself of the annoyance. Unperceived by any one, he gently drew the
parcel from Richards's coat-pocket, and let it drop into the water! Like
King Richard's pierced coffin, once in, it soon found the way to the
bottom. Uncle John could scarcely restrain his inclination to laugh
aloud; however, he contrived to assume an air of indifference, and
whistled part of a tune.

Arrived at Twickenham, the boatmen were ordered to pull up to a
beautiful meadow, sloping down to the water's edge. There was no time to
lose,--they had had no pleasure yet,--so Bagshaw entreated that every
one "would put his shoulder to the wheel, and be on the _qui rala_." In
an instant a large heavy hamper was landed, but as, in compliance with
Bagshaw's request, every one did something to _help_, a scene of
confusion was the consequence, and numerous pieces of crockery were
invalided ere the cloth was properly spread, and the dishes, plates, and
glasses distributed. But for the feast. Mr. Snodgrass's basket was
opened, and out of it were taken four remarkably fine chickens, and a
tongue--uncooked! There was but one mode of accounting for this trifling
omission. Mr. Snodgrass's Betty was a downright matter-of-fact person,
who obeyed orders to the very letter. Having been told, the evening
before, to get four fine chickens for roasting, together with a tongue,
and to pack them, next morning, in a basket, she did so literally and
strictly; but, as she had received no distinct orders to dress them, to
have done so she would have deemed an impertinent departure from her
instructions. Well; since people in a high state of civilization, like
Mr. Claudius Bagshaw and his friends, cannot eat raw chickens, they did
the only thing they could under the circumstances,--they grumbled
exceedingly, and put them back again into the basket. This was a serious
deduction in the important point of quantity, and Uncle John felt a
slight touch of remorse at having thrown, as he thought, his friend's
Italian sausage into the Thames. However, there was still provision in
the garrison. But the run of luck in events, as at a game of whist, may
be against you; and when it is so, be assured that human prudence and
foresight--remarkable as even Mrs. Bagshaw's, who bespoke her pigeons
seven weeks before she wanted them--avail but little. When the packages
were first stowed in the boat, the pigeon-pie was inadvertently placed
at the bottom, and everything else, finishing with the large heavy
hamper of crockery, with Carlo on that, upon it; so that when it was
taken up it appeared a chaotic mass of pie-crust, broken china, pigeons,
brown paper, beefsteak, eggs, and straw!

"Now this is enough to provoke a saint!" said Bagshaw; and no one
attempting to deny the position, with this salvo for his own character
of philosophic patience, he indulged himself in the full expression of
his vexation and sorrow. After a minute examination, he declared the pie
to be "a complete squash," and that nobody could venture to eat it but
at the imminent risk of being choked. As he was about to throw it over
the hedge, Miss Snubbleston, seized with an unusual fit of generosity,
called out to him,--

"What _are_ you doing? Though it isn't fit for us to eat, it will be
quite a treat to the poor watermen. I dare say, poor souls, they don't
often get pigeon-pie."

But the good genius of Mr. Carlo prevailed; and the truth of the adage,
"'tis an ill wind that blows nobody good," was confirmed in his mind as
he found himself busily employed in the ingenious operation of
separating pigeon from porcelain. It was, doubtless, extremely ill-bred
in one dog not to invite another, and Cupid expressed his sense of the
slight by a long-continued yell, which drew down upon him, from the
equally disappointed bipeds of the company, sundry wishes, the positive
accomplishment of which would not have tended much to his personal
happiness. The next basket was opened. Things were not altogether in a
desperate state. Mr. Wrench's ham was in perfect order, and that, with
Miss Snubbleston's salad, and some bread, and--could it be possible!
After so much preparation, and Mr. Bagshaw's committee of "provender" to
boot, that no one should have thought of so obvious a requisite as
bread! There would not be time to send Mr. Bagshaw to Twickenham town to
procure some, for it was getting late, and if they lost the tide, they
should be on the water till midnight, and they did not like the
appearance of the sky, which was by no means so blue as it had hitherto
been. However, the want of bread did not _much_ signify; they could make
a shift with Miss Snubbleston's biscuits and poundcakes. But Uncle John
did not come out on an excursion of pleasure to make shift; no more did
Bagshaw; no more did any of the others. There was nothing else to be
done; so where is Miss Snubbleston's basket? And where is Master
Charles? gracious! Don't be alarmed, the precious rarity is in no
danger. He was soon discovered behind a tree, whither he had dragged the
fruit and cakes, and was engaged with all his might and main, in an
endeavor, with a piece of stick, to force out an apple. In this attempt,
as it was presently seen, the interesting child had cracked a bottle,
the contents of which--merely a preparation of oil, vinegar, and mustard
for the salad--were quietly dribbling through the poundcakes, biscuits,
and fruit. Similar aspirations to those which had lately been so
cordially expressed for the Dutch pug were now most devoutly formed in
behalf of Master Charles.

"This comes of bringing their plaguy brats with them," said Uncle and
Bagshaw.

Whilst this scene was going on, Jack Richards, perceiving that the
service of the table was incomplete, bethought him of Uncle John's
silver-handled knives and forks and spoons; he felt first in one pocket,
and then in the other, then he ran down to search the boat, then he
rummaged the baskets.

"Jack, my boy," hallooed Uncle John, "don't trouble yourself, you'll
never see _that_ again."

"What, sir?"

"I could not bear the smell of it any longer, so I slyly drew it out of
your pocket, and dexterously let it fall into the deepest part of the
Thames."

And here Uncle John chuckled, and looked about him for applause.

"Bless me, sir! Don't say so--why--bless my heart--you don't
know--before we got into the boat, I put the sausage into your pocket,
and your case of cutlery into my own!"

There was a general burst of laughter against Uncle John. He turned as
pale as--nay, paler than anything that has ever yet been dragged into
the comparison; for an instant he stood stock-still, then thrust his
hand into his pocket, drew forth the unfortunate substitute, and at the
same time exclaiming D----tion! dashed it violently to the ground. He
next buttoned his coat from the bottom to the top, pulled down his
cuffs, whispered to his no longer admired Jack Richards, "You shall hear
from me, Mr.----," and saying aloud to Bagshaw, "This comes of your
confounded party of pleasure, sir," away he went, and returned to town
outside a Twickenham coach; resolving by the way to call out _that_ Mr.
Richards, and to eject the Bagshaws from the snug corner they held in
his last will and testament.

This explosion seemed to have banished pleasure for that day. They were
all, more or less, out of humor; and instead of making the best of
things, as they had hitherto done, they now made the worst of them. Sir
Thomas's hamper of _his choice wine_ (which, by the by, he purchased at
a cheap shop for the occasion) was opened; and slices of ham were cut
with the only knife and fork. Jack Richards tried to be facetious, but
it would not do. He gave Bagshaw a poke in the ribs, which was received
with a very formal, "Sir, I must beg--" To Mr. Wrench, junior, he
said,--

"You have not spoken much to-day--but you have made amends for your
silence--d' ye take?--Your _ham_ is good, though your _tongue_ is not
worth much!"

Instead of laughing, Mr. Wrench simpered something about impertinent
liberties and satisfaction. On being invited by Sir Thomas to a second
glass of his old East India, he said that one was a dose--had rather not
double the _Cape_; and at the first glass of champagne, he inquired
whether there had been a plentiful supply of gooseberries that year. In
short, whether it were that the company knew not how to appreciate his
style of wit and pleasantry, or that he was in reality a very
disagreeable person, the fact is that--but hold! let us say nothing ill
of him; he died last week, at Folkestone, of a surfeit of goose, in the
forty-ninth year of his age. For the consolation of such as were amused
by him, and regret his loss, be it remembered that there are still to be
found many Jack Richards in this world.

As we have said, they now resolved to make the worst of everything; the
grass was damp, the gnats were troublesome, Carlo's nose was in
everybody's face, Cupid's teeth at everybody's calves, and Master
Charles was ill of the many sour apples; it was growing late, and no
good could come of sitting longer in the open air. They re-embarked. By
the time they reached Putney it was pitch dark, and the tide was setting
against them. They moved on in mute impatience, for there was a slight
sprinkling of rain. It now fell in torrents. Master Charles grew
frightened and screamed. Cupid yelped, and Carlo howled. Accompanied the
rest of the way by these pleasing sounds, at one in the morning (two
hours and a half later than they intended) they arrived at Westminster
stairs, dull, dreary, drowsy, discontented, and drenched.




FATHER TOM AND THE POPE,

    As related by Mr. Michael Heffernan, Master of the National
    School at Tallymactaggart, in the County Leitrim, to a friend,
    during his official visit to Dublin for the purpose of studying
    political economy, in the spring of 1838.

BY SAMUEL FERGUSON.


I.

HOW FATHER TOM WENT TO TAKE POT-LUCK AT THE VATICAN.

When his Riv'rence was in Room, ov coorse the Pope axed him to take
pot-look wid him. More be token, it was on a Friday; but, for all that,
there was plenty of mate; for the Pope gev himself an absolution from
the fast on account of the great company that was in it,--at laste so
I'm tould. Howandiver, there's no fast on the dhrink, anyhow,--glory be
to God!--and so, as they wor sitting, afther dinner, taking their sup
together, says the Pope, says he, "Thomaus," for the Pope, you know,
spakes that away, and all as one as ov uz,--"Thomaus _a lanna_," says
he, "I'm tould you welt them English heretics out ov the face."

"You may say that," says his Riv'rence to him again. "Be my soul," says
he, "if I put your Holiness undher the table, you won't be the first
Pope I floored."

Well, his Holiness laughed like to split; for you know, Pope was the
great Prodesan that Father Tom put down upon Purgathory; and ov coorse
they knew all the ins and outs of the conthravarsy at Room. "Faix,
Thomaus," says he, smiling across the table at him mighty
agreeable,--"it's no lie what they tell me, that yourself is the
pleasant man over the dhrop ov good liquor."

"Would you like to thry?" says his Riv'rence.

"Sure, and amn't I thrying all I can?" says the Pope. "Sorra betther
bottle ov wine's betuxt this and Salamanca, nor there's fornenst you on
the table; it's raal Lachrymachrystal, every spudh ov it."

"It's mortial could," says Father Tom.

"Well, man alive," says the Pope, "sure, and here's the best ov good
claret in the cut decanther."

"Not maining to make little ov the claret, your Holiness," says his
Riv'rence, "I would prefir some hot wather and sugar, wid a glass ov
spirits through it, if convanient."

"Hand me over the bottle of brandy," says the Pope to his head butler,
"and fetch up the materi'ls," says he.

"Ah, then, your Holiness," says his Riv'rence, mighty eager, "maybe
you'd have a dhrop ov the native in your cellar? Sure, it's all one
throuble," says he, "and, troth, I dunna how it is, but brandy always
plays the puck wid my inthrails."

"'Pon my conscience, then," says the Pope, "it's very sorry I am,
Misther Maguire," says he, "that it isn't in my power to plase you; for
I'm sure and certaint that there's not as much whiskey in Room this
blessed minit as 'ud blind the eye ov a midge."

"Well, in troth, your Holiness," says Father Tom, "I knewn there was no
use in axing; only," says he, "I didn't know how else to exqueeze the
liberty I tuck," says he, "of bringing a small taste," says he, "of the
real stuff," says he, hauling out an imperi'l quart bottle out ov his
coat-pocket; "that never seen the face ov a guager," says he, setting it
down on the table fornenst the Pope; "and if you'll jist thry the full
ov a thimble ov it, and it doesn't rise the cockles ov your Holiness's
heart, why then, my name," says he, "isn't Tom Maguire!" and with that
he out's wid the cork.

Well, the Pope at first was going to get vexed at Father Tom for
fetching dhrink thataway in his pocket, as if there wasn't lashins in
the house: so says he, "Misther Maguire," says he, "I'd have you to
comprehind the differ betuxt an inwitation to dinner from the succissor
of Saint Pether, and from a common nagur of a Prodesan squirean that
maybe hasn't liquor enough in his cupboard to wet more nor his own
heretical whistle. That may be the way wid them that you wisit in
Leithrim," says he, "and in Roscommon; and I'd let you know the differ
in the prisint case," says he, "only that you're a champion ov the
Church and entitled to laniency. So," says he, "as the liquor's come,
let it stay. And, in troth, I'm curi's myself," says he, getting mighty
soft when he found the delightful smell ov the _putteen_, "in
inwistigating the composition ov distilled liquors; it's a branch ov
natural philosophy," says he, taking up the bottle and putting it to his
blessed nose.

Ah! my dear, the very first snuff he got ov it, he cried out, the dear
man, "Blessed Vargin, but it has the divine smell!" and crossed himself
and the bottle half a dozen times running.

"Well, sure enough, it's the blessed liquor now," says his Riv'rence,
"and so there can be no harm any way in mixing a dandy of punch; and,"
says he, stirring up the materi'ls wid his goolden meeddlar,--for
everything at the Pope's table, to the very shcrew for drawing the
corks, was ov vergin goold,--"if I might make boold," says he, "to spake
on so deep a subjic afore your Holiness, I think it 'ud considherably
whacilitate the inwestigation ov its chemisthry and phwarmaceutics, if
you'd jist thry the laste sup in life ov it inwardly."

"Well, then, suppose I do make the same expiriment," says the Pope, in a
much more condescinding way nor you'd have expected,--and wid that he
mixes himself a real stiff facer.

"Now, your Holiness," says Father Tom, "this bein' the first time you
ever dispinsed them chymicals," says he, "I'll jist make bould to lay
doun one rule ov orthography," says he, "for conwhounding them,
_secundum mortem_."

"What's that?" says the Pope.

"Put in the sperits first," says his Riv'rence; "and then put in the
sugar; and remember, every dhrop ov wather you put in after that, spoils
the punch."

"Glory be to God!" says the Pope, not minding a word Father Tom was
saying. "Glory be to God!" says he, smacking his lips. "I never knewn
what dhrink was afore," says he. "It bates the Lachymalchrystal out ov
the face!" says he,--"it's Necthar itself, it is, so it is!" says he,
wiping his epistolical mouth wid the cuff ov his coat.

"'Pon my secret honor," says his Riv'rence, "I'm raally glad to see your
Holiness set so much to your satiswhaction; especially," says he, "as,
for fear ov accidents, I tuck the liberty of fetching the fellow ov that
small vesshel," says he, "in my other coat-pocket. So devil a fear of
our running dhry till the but-end of the evening, anyhow," says he.

"Dhraw your stool into the fire, Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "for
faix," says he, "I'm bent on anilizing the metaphwysics ov this
phinomenon. Come, man alive, clear off," says he, "you're not dhrinking
at all."

"Is it dhrink?" says his Riv'rence; "by Gorra, your Holiness," says he,
"I'd dhrink wid you till the cows 'ud be coming home in the morning."

So wid that they tackled to, to the second fugil apiece, and fell into a
larned discourse.

But it's time for me now to be off to the lecthir at the Boord. O, my
sorra light upon you, Docther Whately, wid your plitical econimy and
your hydherastatics! What the _divul_ use has a poor hedge-masther like
me wid sich deep larning as is only fit for the likes ov them two I left
over their second tumbler? Howandiver, wishing I was like them, in
regard ov the sup ov dhrink, anyhow, I must brake off my norration for
the prisint; but when I see you again, I'll tell you how Father Tom made
a hare ov the Pope that evening, both in theology and the cube root.


II.

HOW FATHER TOM SACKED HIS HOLINESS IN THEOLOGY AND LOGIC.

Well, the lecther's over, and I'm kilt out and out. My bitther curse be
upon the man that invinted the same Boord! I thought onc't I'd fadomed
the say ov throuble; and that was when I got through fractions at ould
Mat Kavanagh's school, in Firdramore,--God be good to poor Mat's sowl,
though he did deny the cause the day he suffered! but its fluxions
itself we're set to bottom now, sink or shwim! May I never die if my
head isn't as throughother, as anything wid their ordinals and
cardinals,--and, begad, it's all nothing to the econimy lecthir that I
have to go to at two o'clock. Howandiver, I mustn't forget that we left
his Riv'rence and his Holiness sitting fornenst one another in the
parlor ov the Vatican, jist afther mixing their second tumbler.

When they had got well down into the same, they fell, as I was telling
you, into learned discourse. For you see, the Pope was curious to find
out whether Father Tom was the great theologinall that people said; and
says he "Mister Maguire," says he, "What answer do you make to the
heretics when they quote them passidges agin thransubstantiation out ov
the Fathers?" says he.

"Why," says his Riv'rence, "as there is no sich passidges I make myself
mighty asy about them; but if you want to know how I dispose ov them,"
says he, "just repate one ov them, and I'll show you how to
catapomphericate it in two shakes."

"Why then," says the Pope, "myself disremimbers the particlar passidges
they allidge out ov them ould felleys," says he, "though sure enough
they're more numerous nor edifying,--so we'll jist suppose that a
heretic was to find sich a saying as this in Austin, 'Every sensible man
knows that thransubstantiation is a lie,'--or this out of Tertullian or
Plutarch, 'the bishop ov Rome is a common imposther,'--now tell me,
could you answer him?"

"As easy as kiss," says his Riv'rence. "In the first, we're to
understand that the exprission, 'Every sinsible man,' signifies simply,
'every man that judges by his nath'ral sinses'; and we all know that
nobody follying them seven deludhers could ever find out the mysthery
that's in it, if somebody didn't come in to his assistance wid an eighth
sinse, which is the only sinse to be depended on, being the sinse ov the
Church. So that, regarding the first quotation which your Holiness has
supposed, it makes clane for us, and tee-totally agin the heretics."

"That's the explanation sure enough," says his Holiness; "and now what
div you say to my being a common imposther?"

"Faix, I think," says his Riv'rence, "wid all submission to the better
judgment ov the learned father that your Holiness has quoted, he'd have
been a thrifle nearer the thruth, if he had said that the bishop ov
Rome is the grand imposther and top-sawyer in that line over us all."

"What do you mane?" says the Pope, getting quite red in the face.

"What would I mane," says his Riv'rence, as composed as a docther ov
physic, "but that your Holiness is at the head ov all them,--troth I had
a'most forgot I wasn't a bishop myself," says he, the deludher was going
to say, as the head of all _uz_, "that has the gift ov laving on hands.
For sure," says he, "imposther and _imposithir_ is all one, so you're
only to undherstand _manuum_, and the job is done. Auvuich!" says he,
"if any heretic 'ud go for to cast up sich a passidge as that agin me,
I'd soon give him a p'lite art ov cutting a stick to welt his own back
wid."

"'Pon my apostolical word," says the Pope, "you've cleared up them two
pints in a most satiswhactery manner."

"You see," says his Riv'rence,--by this time they wor mixing their third
tumbler,--"the writings of them Fathers is to be thrated wid great
veneration; and it 'ud be the height ov presumption in any one to sit
down to interpret them widout providing himself wid a genteel assortment
ov the best figures of rhetoric, sich as mettonymy, hyperbol,
cattychraysis, prolipsis, mettylipsis, superbaton, pollysyndreton,
hustheronprotheron, prosodypeia and the like, in ordher that he may
never be at a loss for shuitable sintiments when he comes to their
high-flown passidges. For unless we thrate them Fathers liberally to a
handsome allowance ov thropes and figures they'd set up heresy at onc't,
so they would."

"It's thru for you," says the Pope; "the figures ov spache is the
pillars ov the Church."

"Bedad," says his Riv'rence, "I dunna what we'd do widout them at all."

"Which one do you prefir?" says the Pope; "that is," says he, "which
figure of spache do you find most usefullest when you're hard set?"

"Metaphour's very good," says his Riv'rence, "and so's mettonymy,--and
I've known prosodypeia stand to me at a pinch mighty well,--but for a
constancy, superbaton's the figure for my money. Devil be in me," says
he, "but I'd prove black white as fast as a horse 'ud throt wid only a
good stick ov superbaton."

"Faix," says the Pope, wid a sly look, "you'd need to have it backed, I
judge, wid a small piece of assurance."

"Well now, jist for that word," says his Riv'rence, "I'll prove it
widout aither one or other. Black," says he, "is one thing and white is
another thing. You don't conthravene that? But everything is aither one
thing or another thing; I defy the Apostle Paul to get over that
dilemma. Well! If anything be one thing, well and good; but if it be
another thing, then it's plain it isn't both things, and so can't be two
things,--nobody can deny that. But what can't be two things must be one
thing,--_Ergo_, whether it's one thing or another thing it's all one.
But black is one thing and white is another thing,--_Ergo_, black and
white is all one. _Quod erat demonsthrandum._"

"Stop a bit," says the Pope, "I can't althegither give in to your second
miner--no--your second major," says he, and he stopped. "Faix, then,"
says he, getting confused, "I don't rightly remimber where it was
exactly that I thought I seen the flaw in your premises. Howsomdiver,"
says he, "I don't deny that it's a good conclusion, and one that 'ud be
ov materil service to the Church if it was dhrawn wid a little more
distinctiveness."

"I'll make it as plain as the nose on your Holiness's face, by
superbaton," says his Riv'rence. "My adversary says, black is not
another color, that is white? Now that's jist a parallel passidge wid
the one out ov Tartulion that me and Hayes smashed the heretics on in
Clarendon Sthreet. 'This is my body, that is, the figure ov my body.'
That's a superbaton, and we showed that it oughtn't to be read that way
at all but this way, 'This figure of my body _is_ my body.' Jist so wid
my adversary's proposition, it mustn't be undherstood the way it reads,
by no manner of manes; but it's to be taken this way,--'Black, that is,
white, is not another color,'--green, if you like, or orange, by dad,
for anything I care, for my case is proved. 'Black,' that is, 'white,'
lave out the 'that,' by sinnalayphy, and you have the orthodox
conclusion, 'Black is white,' or by convarsion, 'White is black.'"

"It's as clear as mud," says the Pope.

"Bedad," says his Riv'rence, "I'm in great humor for disputin' to-night.
I wisht your Holiness was a heretic jist for two minutes," says he,
"till you'd see the flaking I'd give you!"

"Well, then, for the fun o' the thing suppose me my namesake, if you
like," says the Pope, laughing, "though, by Jayminy," says he, "he's
not one that I take much pride out ov."

"Very good,--devil a bitther joke ever I had," says his Riv'rence.
"Come, then, Misther Pope," says he, "hould up that purty face ov yours,
and answer me this question. Which 'ud be the biggest lie, if I said I
seen a turkey-cock lying on the broad ov his back, and picking the stars
out ov the sky, or if I was to say that I seen a gandher in the same
intherrestin' posture, raycreating himself wid similar asthronomical
experiments? Answer me that, you ould swaddler?" says he.

"How durst you call me a swaddler, sir?" says the Pope, forgetting, the
dear man, the part that he

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