The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes. John Brougham
stick under his arm, and a wonderfully-furry white hat covering his moon-looking face, he fancied himself the very impersonation of moneyed importance.
"And maybe you'll tell me, ma'am," said he, as he pulled on a pair of big buckskin gloves, "what you want to be gallivantin' about the streets for at this transitory moment?"
"I choose it," replied the obedient wife. "It's for the benefit of my health, so howld your gab."
"Ah! what unnatural vulgarity."
"If you don't let me be, I'll talk about the shop in the street, loud, so that everybody can hear me."
"I wish to my gracious I had never left it," said he, with a sigh so heavy that it must have carried truth with it.
"Give me your arm, do, and make haste," cried Mrs. Pether, giving a precautionary shake to her numerous, but insufficient flounces. "I'm dyin' to dazzle ould Mrs. Magillicuddy with this bran new shawl."
"Yes," replied Pether, with a glance of resigned conviction, "that's what I thought the benefit to your health would amount to."
So the Squire and his lady—no, I mean Mrs. Peter Bulworthy and her husband—sallied forth, to astonish a few of their neighbors, and amuse a great many more; both Barney, the anomalous man-servant, and Mary, the "maid," pulling up their respective corners of the window-blind to see them, and watch the effect they produced.
"There they go," grunted Barney, with a contemptuous toss of his already scornfully-elevated nose, "the laughin'-stocks of the whole town; dressin' me up this way,"—and he gave his nether extremities a glance of derision—"like an overgrown parrot—me, that niver had anything on me back, but an ould canvas apron, an' a dirty face, now I can't stir out o' the house, that I'm not fairly ashamed o' meself; there isn't a gossoon in the barony that doesn't know me as well as av I was the town pump, an' I can't show meself in the place, that they don't hunt me about as av I was a wild nagur. Look at them stockin's, Mary, acush, there's flimsy, skimpin things, for a cowld Christian to wear on his gams; I'll be ketchin' me death wid them, I know I will. Mary, I'll be on me oath av I don't think them legs'll carry me off yit."
CHAPTER II.
A true home-angel, in this world of strife,
Is, man's best friend, a faithful, loving wife.
Now turn we, courteous reader, to the contemplation of a totally different scene.
Not far from the imposing, bright, red brick edifice of Squire Bulworthy—indeed, you can see it on the other side of the street, with its flaring green door and great brazen knocker, its crimson parlor curtains and every-color-in-the-world window-shades—stands the miserable looking tenement inhabited by our cobbling friend, Dan Duff. The walls are fashioned out of that natural, but by no means elegant, or expensive compound, known generally as "mud." The roof is thatched with straw, but so old and weather-worn that the rain soaks through it as though it were sponge; while the accidental vegetable productions which attach themselves to such decaying matter, vainly struggled to give it a semblance of life and verdure. A dilapidated half door, and a poor apology for a window, many of the small panes patched with articles of used up domestic material, were the only means of ingress, ventilation, and light. Notwithstanding the hopeless-looking poverty of the whole, there were one or two indications which, to an observing mind, would tend to lessen, in a remote degree, its general wretchedness. In the first place, a few small, cracked flower-pots decked the little window-sill, from whence crept upward "morning-glories," and bright "scarlet-runners," the delight of industrious poverty. Then there was that invariable sharer of the poor man's crust and companionship, a useless, and not by any means ornamental, cur, shrewd, snappish, and curiously faithful, in friendly contiguity to a well-conditioned cat. You may take your oath that there's harmony beneath the roof where a cat and dog are amicably domiciliated.
With the above exception, the cabin's sole occupant, at the present moment, is a woman; but such a woman—it's the cobbler's wife, before-mentioned; here, however, she is in her peculiar sphere. "Home is home, be it ever so homely," is a trite and true aphorism, and poor Peggy, it is evident, does her best to make this unpromising one as full of comfort as she can. Everything is scrupulously clean and in its place. The little wooden dresser is as white as soap and sand can make it. So is the floor, and so are the scanty household goods.
There is, though, a shade of discomfort on Peggy's pretty face just now, as she laboriously plies her knitting needles, and the small thundercloud breaks out into little flashes of impatience, as she soliloquizes:
"Did anybody ever see the likes of that Dan of mine? He couldn't take the "tops" over to ould Bulworthy himself—not he!—of course not—he wasn't well enough to go out then, but the minute my back was turned, away he cuts to the 'shebeen' house to get his 'mornin''—ugh! I do believe if he was before me now, I'd—but no—my poor Dan, it ain't much comfort he's got in the world; so I won't say a blessed word to worry him."
As if to recompense the considerate thought, Dan's jolly voice was heard, singing one of his consoling ditties.
"Here he comes, bless him," cried Peg, joyfully, "as lively as a lark."
There was wonderful commotion amongst the animals as Dan entered. "Pincher," the apocryphal, shook his apology for a tail as vigorously as that diminished appendage was capable of accomplishing; while "Pussy" urged her claims upon his attention by rubbing herself against his legs. Peg said nothing.
Now, Dan perfectly well knew his delinquency. Indeed, the song he had just executed, in a good, bold voice, had more of "brag" in it than real enthusiasm. He saw how the land lay instantly.
"Peg, alanna machree, here I am," said he. "Whisht! I know what you're goin' to say. Keep yer mouth shut, you hateful blaggard, or I'll stop it up wid kisses, as close as cobbler's wax. There, Peg," he continued, after having suited the action to the word, with a smack like a carter's whip, "I couldn't help it—I couldn't, upon my word. You were a long time away—and the breakfast was mighty small—and—and—a sort of oneasiness kem over me inside, I was lonesome, and thinkin' of things as wasn't wholesome, so I thought I'd just stick another chalk up at Phil Mooney's, so don't say another word."
"Not a word Dan," replied Peg. "Sure, don't I mind poor Mary Maguire's case, how she never let Mike rest when he had 'the drop' in him, until at long last he stayed out, for the fear of comin' home; the whisky is too strong for a woman to fight agin, Dan, so, if you like it better than me"——
That was a skillful side-blow, and it made its mark.
"Peg, you know better, you thief of the world, you do; you know, in your pure little heart, that's too good for me, or the likes of me; that the summer flowers doesn't love the sunshine of heaven better than I love you; oh! no, it isn't that, not that, Peg aroon."
"What is it, then?"
"Well, Peg," he continued, "its the thinks that comes over a poor fella when he hasn't a scurrig to bless himself wid; the thinks that lays a howld of him when there's nobody by but himself and the devil that sends them, thems the times that worries a poor man, Peg."
"Ah! Dan," replied the other, seriously, "but those times worry a wicked man worse."
"Well, may-be they do," said the cobbler, doggedly, "if a body knew the truth, but it's bad enough either way. Did the Squire pay for the 'tops?'"
"Not yet, Dan, he hadn't the change!"
"Hadn't he, really," replied the other, bitterly. "Poor fella, what a pity; there's a mighty great likeness betune us in that, anyway. The upstart pup, why the divil didn't he get change. There's the differ, Peg, darlin', betune the rale gintleman and the 'musharoon;' a gintleman as feels and knows he's one, and consequentially acts accordin', will always think of the great inconvanience the want of the little bit o' money is to the poor man, and not the small ditto