Book: Handy Andy, Vol. 2

S >> Samuel Lover >> Handy Andy, Vol. 2




In the meantime, Scatterbrain opened an oyster, which Furlong, in his
embarrassment and annoyance, did not perceive.

"Cut off the beard," said O'Grady, "I don't like it."

This nearly made Furlong speak, but, considering O'Grady's temper and
ill-health, he hesitated, till he saw Augusta rubbing her eye, in
consequence of a small splinter of the oyster-shell having struck it from
Scatterbrain's mismanagement of his knife; but Furlong thought she was
crying, and then he could be silent no longer; he went over to where she
sat, and with a very affectionate demonstration in his action, said,
"Never mind them, dear Gussy--never mind--don't cwy--I love her dear
little moustachios, I do." He gave a gentle pat on the back of the neck as
he spoke, and it was returned by an uncommonly smart box on the ear from
the young lady, and the whole party looked thunderstruck. "Dear Gussy"
cried for spite, and stamped her way out of the room, followed by Furlong.

"Let them go," said O'Grady; "they'll make it up outside."

"These oysters are all bad," said Scatterbrain.

O'Grady began to swear at his disappointment--he had set his heart on
oysters. Mrs. O'Grady rang the bell--Andy appeared.

"How dare you bring up such oysters as these?" roared O'Grady.

"The misthris ordhered them, sir."

"I told you never to bring up bad oysters," said she.

"Them's not bad, ma'am," said Andy,

"Have you a nose?" says O'Grady.

"Yes, sir."

"And can't you smell them, then?"

"Faix, I smelt them for the last three days, sir."

"And how could you say they were good, then?" asked his mistress.

"Sure you tould me, ma'am, that if they didn't open their mouths they were
good, and I'll be on my book oath them oysters never opened their mouths
since I had them, for I laid them on a coolflag in the kitchen and put the
jack-weight over them."

Notwithstanding O'Grady's rage, Scatterbrain could not help roaring with
laughter at Andy's novel contrivance for keeping oysters fresh. Andy was
desired to take the "ancient and fish-like smell" out of the room, amidst
jeers and abuse; and, as he fumbled his way to the kitchen in the dark,
lamenting the hard fate of servants, who can never give satisfaction,
though they do everything they are bid, he went head over heels
down-stairs, which event was reported to the whole house as soon as it
happened, by the enormous clatter of the broken dish, the oysters, and
Andy, as they all rolled one over the other to the bottom.

O'Grady, having missed the cool supper he intended, and had longed for,
was put into a rage by the disappointment; and as hunger with O'Grady was
only to be appeased by broiled bones, accordingly, against all the
endeavours of everybody, the bells rang violently through the house, and
the ogre-like cry of "broiled bones!" resounded high and low.

The reader is sufficiently well acquainted with O'Grady by this time to
know, that of course, when once he had determined to have his broiled
bone, nothing on the face of the earth could prevent it but the want of
anything to broil, or the immediate want of his teeth; and as his
masticators were in order, and something in the house which could carry
mustard and pepper, the invalid primed and loaded himself with as much
combustible matter as exploded in a fever the next day.

The supper-party, however, in the hope of getting him to bed, separated
soon; and as Scatterbrain and Furlong were to start early in the morning
for Dublin, the necessity of their retiring to rest was pleaded. The
honourable member had not been long in his room when he heard a tap at his
door, and his order to "come in" was followed by the appearance of Handy
Andy.

"I found somethin' on the road nigh the town to-day, sir, and I thought it
might be yours, maybe," said Andy, producing a small pocket-book.

The honourable member disavowed the ownership.

"Well, there's something else I want to speak to your honour about."

"What is it, Handy?"

"I want your honour to see the account of the money your honour gave me
that I spint at the _shebeen_ [Footnote: Low publick house.] upon the
'lecthors that couldn't be accommodated at Mrs. Fay's."

"Oh! never mind it, Andy; if there's anything over, keep it yourself."

"Thank your honour, but I must make the account all the same, if you
plaze, for I'm going to Father Blake, to my duty, [Footnote: Confession.]
soon, and I must have my conscience as clear as I can, and I wouldn't like
to be keeping money back."

"But if I give you the money, what matter?"

"I'd rather you'd just look over this little bit of a count, if you
plaze," said Andy, producing a dirty piece of paper, with some nearly
inscrutable hieroglyphics upon it. Scatterbrain commenced an examination
of this literary phenomenon from sheer curiosity, asking Andy at the same
time if _he_ wrote it.

"Yis, sir," said Andy; "but you see the man couldn't keep the count of the
piper's dhrink at all, it was so confusin', and so I was obliged to pay
him for that every time the piper dhrunk, and keep it separate, and the
'lecthors that got their dinner afther the bill was made out I put down
myself too, and that's it you see, sir, both ating and dhrinkin'."

To Dhrinkin A blind piper everry day
wan and in Pens six dais 0 16 6
To atein four Tin Illikthurs And Thare 1 8 8
horses on Chewsdai 0 14 0
---------
Toe til 2 19 4
Lan lord Bil For All Be four 7 17 8-1/2
---------
10 18 12-1/2

"Then I owe you money, instead of your having a balance in hand, Andy,"
said the member.

"Oh, no matter, your honour; it's not for that I showed you the account."

"It's very like it, though," said Scatterbrain, laughing; "here, Andy,
here are a couple of pounds for you, take them, Andy--take it and be off;
your bill is worth the money," and Scatterbrain closed the door on the
great accountant.

Andy next went to Furlong's room, to know if the pocket-book belonged to
him; it did not, but Furlong, though he disclaimed the ownership, had that
small curiosity which prompts little minds to pry into what does not
belong to them, and taking the pocket-book into his hands, he opened it,
and fumbled over its leaves; in the doing of which a small piece of folded
paper fell from one of the pockets unnoticed by the impertinent inquisitor
or Andy, to whom he returned the book when he had gratified his senseless
curiosity. Andy withdrew, Furlong retired to rest; and as it was in the
grey of an autumnal morning he dressed himself, the paper still remained
unobserved: so that the housemaid, on setting the room to rights, found
it, and fancying Miss Augusta was the proper person to confide Mr.
Furlong's stray papers to, she handed that young lady the manuscript which
bore the following copy of verses:--

I CAN NE'ER FORGET THEE

I

It is the chime, the hour draws near
When you and I must sever;
Alas, it must be many a year,
And it _may_ be for ever!
How long till we shall meet again!
How short since first I met thee!
How brief the bliss--how long the pain--
For I can ne'er forget thee.

II

You said my heart was cold and stern;
You doubted love when strongest:
In future days you'll live to learn
Proud hearts can love the longest.
Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear,
When flippant tongues beset thee,
That _all_ must love thee, when thou'rt near,
But _one_ will ne'er forget thee!

III

The changeful sand doth only know
The shallow tide and latest;
The rocks have mark'd its highest flow,
The deepest and the greatest;
And deeper still the flood-marks grow:--
So, since the hour I met thee,
The more the tide of time doth flow,
The less can I forget thee!

When Augusta saw the lines, she was charmed. She discovered her Furlong to
be a poet! That the lines were his there was no doubt--they were _found
in his room,_ and of course they _must_ be his, just as partial
critics say certain Irish airs must be English, because they are to be
found in Queen Elizabeth's music-book.

Augusta was so charmed with the lines that she amused herself for a long
time in hiding them under the sofa-cushion and making her pet dog find and
fetch them. Her pleasure, however, was interrupted by her sister Charlotte
remarking, when the lines were shown to her in triumph, that the writing
was not Furlong's, but in a lady's hand.

Even as beer is suddenly soured by thunder, so the electric influence of
Charlotte's words converted all Augusta had been brewing to acidity;
jealousy stung her like a wasp, and she boxed her dog's ears as he was
barking for another run with the verses.

"A _lady's_ hand?" said Augusta, snatching the paper from her sister;
"I declare if it ain't! the wretch--so he receives lines from ladies."

"I think I know the hand, too," said Charlotte.

"You do?" exclaimed Augusta, with flashing eyes.

"Yes, I'm certain it is Fanny Dawson's writing."

"So it is," said Augusta, looking at the paper as if her eyes could have
burnt it; "to be sure--he was there before he came here."

"Only for two days," said Charlotte, trying to slake the flame she had
raised.

"But I've heard that girl always makes conquests at first sight," returned
Augusta, half crying; "and what do I see here? some words in pencil."

The words were so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, but Augusta
deciphered them; they were written on the margin, beside a circumflex
which embraced the last four lines of the second verse, so that it stood
thus:--

[Sidenote: Dearest, I will.]

Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear,
When flippant tongues beset thee,
That _all_ must love thee when thou'rt near,
But _one_ will ne'er forget thee!

"Will you, indeed?" said Augusta, crushing the paper in her hand, and
biting it; "but I must not destroy it--I must keep it to prove his
treachery to his face." She threw herself on the sofa as she spoke, and
gave vent to an outpour of spiteful tears.




CHAPTER XXVII


How many chapters have been written about love verses--and how many more
might be written!--might, would, could, should, or ought to be written!--
I will venture to say, _will_ be written! I have a mind to fulfil my
own prophecy and write one myself; but no--my story must go on. However, I
_will_ say, that it is quite curious in how many ways the same little
bit of paper may influence different people: the poem whose literary merit
may be small becomes precious when some valued hand has transcribed the
lines; and the verses whose measure and meaning viewed in type might win
favour and yield pleasure, shoot poison from their very sweetness, when
read in some particular hand and under particular circumstances. It was so
with the copy of verses Augusta had just read--they were Fanny Dawson's
manuscript--that was certain--and found in the room of Augusta's lover;
therefore Augusta was wretched. But these same lines had given exquisite
pleasure to another person, who was now nearly as miserable as Augusta in
having lost them. It is possible the reader guesses that person to be
Edward O'Connor, for it was he who had lost the pocket-book in which those
(to him) precious lines were contained; and if the little case had held
all the bank-notes he ever owned in his life, their loss would have been
regarded less than that bit of manuscript, which had often yielded
_him_ the most exquisite pleasure, and was now inflicting on Augusta
the bitterest anguish. To make this intelligible to the reader, it is
necessary to explain under what circumstances the lines were written. At
one time, Edward, doubting the likelihood of making his way at home, was
about to go to India and push his fortunes there; and at that period,
those lines, breathing of farewell--implying the dread of rivals during
absence--and imploring remembrance of his eternal love, were written and
given to Fanny; and she, with that delicacy of contrivance so peculiarly a
woman's, hit upon the expedient of copying his own verses and sending them
to him in her writing, as an indication that the spirit of the lines was
her own.

But Edward saw that his father, who was advanced in years, looked upon a
separation from his son as an eternal one, and the thought gave so much
pain, that Edward gave up the idea of expatriation. Shortly after,
however, the misunderstanding with Major Dawson took place, and Fanny and
Edward were as much severed as if dwelling in different zones. Under such
circumstances, those lines were peculiarly precious, and many a kiss had
Edward impressed upon them, though Augusta thought them fitter for the
exercise of her teeth than her lips. In fact, Edward did little else than
think of Fanny; and it is possible his passion might have degenerated into
mere love-sickness, and enfeebled him, had not his desire of proving
himself worthy of his mistress spurred him to exertion, in the hope of
future distinction. But still the tone of tender lament pervaded all his
poems, and the same pocket-book whence the verses which caused so much
commotion fell contained the following also, showing how entirely Fanny
possessed his heart and occupied his thoughts:--

WHEN THE SUN SINKS TO REST

I

When the sun sinks to rest,
And the star of the west
Sheds its soft silver light o'er the sea;
What sweet thoughts arise,
As the dim twilight dies--
For then I am thinking of thee!
Oh! then crowding fast
Come the joys of the past,
Through the dimness of days long gone by,
Like the stars peeping out,
Through the darkness about,
From the soft silent depth of the sky.

II

And thus, as the night
Grows more lovely and bright
With the clust'ring of planet and star,
So this darkness of mine
Wins a radiance divine
From the light that still lingers afar.
Then welcome the night,
With its soft holy light!
In its silence my heart is more free
The rude world to forget,
Where no pleasure I've met
Since the hour that I parted from thee.

But we must leave love verses, and ask pardon for the few remarks which
the subject tempted, and pursue our story.

The first prompting of Augusta's anger, when she had recovered her burst
of passion, was to write "_such a letter_" to Furlong--and she spent
half a day at the work; but she could not please herself--she tore twenty
at least, and determined, at last, not to write at all, but just wait till
he returned and overwhelm him with reproaches. But, though she could not
compose a letter, she composed herself by the endeavour, which acted as a
sort of safety-valve to let off the superabundant steam; and it is
wonderful how general is this result of sitting down to write angry
letters: people vent themselves of their spleen on the uncomplaining
paper, which silently receives words a listener would not. With a pen for
our second, desperate satisfaction is obtained with only an effusion of
ink, and when once the pent-up bitterness has oozed out in all the
blackness of that fluid--most appropriately made of the best galls--the
time so spent, and the "letting of words," if I may use the phrase, has
cooled our judgment and our passions together; and the first letter is
torn: 't is _too_ severe; we write a second; we blot and interline
till it is nearly illegible; we begin a third; till at last we are tired
out with our own angry feelings, and throw our scribbling by with a
"Pshaw! what's the use of it?" or, "It's not worth my notice;" or, still
better, arrive at the conclusion, that we preserve our own dignity best by
writing without temper, though we may be called upon to be severe.

Furlong at this time was on his road to Dublin in happy unconsciousness of
Augusta's rage against him, and planning what pretty little present he
should send her specially, for his head was naturally running on such
matters, as he had quantities of commissions to execute in the millinery
line for Mrs. O'Grady, who thought it high time to be getting up Augusta's
wedding-dresses, and Andy was to be despatched the following day to Dublin
to take charge of a cargo of bandboxes back from that city to Neck-or-
Nothing Hall. Furlong had received a thousand charges from the ladies, "to
be sure to lose no time" in doing his devoir in their behalf, and he
obeyed so strictly, and was so active in laying milliners and mercers
under contributions, that Andy was enabled to start the day after his
arrival, sorely against Andy's will, for he would gladly have remained
amidst the beauty and grandeur and wonders of Dublin, which struck him
dumb for the day he was amongst them, but gave him food for conversation
for many a day after. Furlong, after racking his invention about the
souvenir to his "dear Gussy," at length fixed on a fan, as the most
suitable gift; for Gussy had been quizzed at home about "blushing," and
all that sort of thing, and the puerile perceptions of the _attache_
saw something very smart in sending her wherewith "to hide her blushes."
Then the fan was the very pink of fans; it had quivers and arrows upon it,
and bunches of hearts looped up in azure festoons, and doves perched upon
them; though Augusta's little sister, who was too young to know what
hearts and doves were, when she saw them for the first time, said they
were pretty little birds picking at apples. The fan was packed up in a
nice case, and then on scented note paper did the dear dandy indite a bit
of namby-pamby badinage to his fair one, which he thought excessively
clever:--

"DEAR DUCKY DARLING,--You know how naughty they are in quizzing you about
a little something, _I won't say what,_ you will guess, I dare say--
but I send you a little toy, _I won't say what,_ on which Cupid might
write this label after the doctor's fashion, 'To be used occasionally,
when the patient is much troubled with the symptoms.'

"Ever, ever, ever yours,

"P.S. Take care how you open it."

"J.F."

Such was the note that Handy Andy was given, with particular injunctions
to deliver it the first thing on his arrival at the Hall to Miss Augusta,
and to be sure to take most particular care of the little case; all which
Andy faithfully promised to do. But Andy's usual destiny prevailed, and an
unfortunate exchange of parcels quite upset all Furlong's sweet little
plan of his pretty present and his ingenious note: for as Andy was just
taking his departure, Furlong said he might as well leave something for
him at Reade's, the cutler, as he passed through College Green, and he
handed him a case of razors which wanted setting, which Andy popped into
his pocket, and as the fan case and that of the razors were much of a
size, and both folded up, Andy left the fan at the cutler's and took the
case of razors by way of present to Augusta. Fancy the rage of a young
lady with a very fine pair of _moustachios_ getting such a souvenir
from her lover, with a note, too, every word of which applied to a beard
and a razor, as patly as to a blush and a fan--and this, too, when her
jealousy was aroused and his fidelity more than doubtful in her
estimation.

Great was the row in Neck-or-Nothing Hall; and when, after three days,
Furlong came down, the nature of his reception may be better imagined than
described. It was a difficult matter, through the storm which raged around
him, to explain all the circumstances satisfactorily, but, by dint of hard
work, the verses were at length disclaimed, the razors disavowed, and Andy
at last sent for to "clear matters up."

Andy was a hopeful subject for such a purpose, and by his blundering
answers nearly set them all by the ears again; the upshot of the affair
was, that Andy, used as he was to good scoldings, never had such a torrent
of abuse poured on him in his life, and the affair ended in Andy being
dismissed from Neck-or-Nothing Hall on the instant; so he relinquished his
greasy livery for his own rags again, and trudged homewards to his
mother's cabin.

"She'll be as mad as a hatter with me," said Andy; "bad luck to them for
razhirs, they cut me out o' my place: but I often heard cowld steel is
unlucky, and sure I know it now. Oh! but I'm always unfort'nate in having
cruked messages. Well, it can't be helped; and one good thing at all
events is, I'll have time enough now to go and spake to Father Blake;" and
with this sorry piece of satisfaction poor Andy contented himself.




CHAPTER XXVIII


The Father Blake, of whom Andy spoke, was more familiarly known by the
name of Father Phil, by which title Andy himself would have named him, had
he been telling how Father Phil cleared a fair, or equally "leathered"
both the belligerent parties in a faction-fight, or turned out the
contents (or malcontents) of a public-house at an improper hour; but when
he spoke of his Reverence respecting ghostly matters, the importance of
the subject begot higher consideration for the man, and the familiar
"Father Phil" was dropped for the more respectful title of Father Blake.
By either title, or in whatever capacity, the worthy Father had great
influence over his parish, and there was a free-and-easy way with him,
even in doing the most solemn duties, which agreed wonderfully with the
devil-may-care spirit of Paddy. Stiff and starched formality in any way is
repugnant to the very nature of Irishmen; and I believe one of the surest
ways of converting all Ireland from the Romish faith would be found, if we
could only manage to have her mass celebrated with the dry coldness of the
Reformation. This may seem ridiculous at first sight, and I grant it is a
grotesque way of viewing the subject, but yet there may be truth in it;
and to consider it for a moment seriously, look at the fact, that the
north of Ireland is the stronghold of Protestantism, and that the north is
the _least_ Irish portion of the island. There is a strong admixture
of Scotch there, and all who know the country will admit that there is
nearly as much difference between men from the north and south of Ireland
as from different countries. The Northerns retain much of the cold
formality and unbending hardness of the stranger-settlers from whom they
are descended, while the Southerns exhibit that warm-hearted, lively, and
poetical temperament for which the country is celebrated. The prevailing
national characteristics of Ireland are not to be found in the north,
where Protestantism flourishes; they are to be found in the south and
west, where it has never taken root. And though it has never seemed to
strike theologians, that in their very natures some people are more
adapted to receive one faith than another, yet I believe it to be true,
and perhaps not quite unworthy of consideration. There are forms, it is
true, and many in the Romish church, but they are not _cold_ forms,
but _attractive_ rather, to a sensitive people; besides, I believe
those very forms, when observed the least formally, are the most
influential on the Irish; and perhaps the splendours of a High Mass in the
gorgeous temple of the Holy City would appeal less to the affections of an
Irish peasant than the service he witnesses in some half-thatched ruin by
a lone hillside, familiarly hurried through by a priest who has sharpened
his appetite by a mountain ride of some fifteen miles, and is saying mass
(for the third time most likely) before breakfast, which consummation of
his morning's exercise he is anxious to arrive at.

It was just in such a chapel, and under such circumstances, that Father
Blake was celebrating the mass at which Andy was present, and after which
he hoped to obtain a word of advice from the worthy Father, who was much
more sought after on such occasions than his more sedate superior who
presided over the spiritual welfare of the parish--and whose solemn
celebration of the mass was by no means so agreeable as the lighter
service of Father Phil. The Rev. Dominick Dowling was austere and long-
winded; _his_ mass had an oppressive effect on his congregation, and
from the kneeling multitude might be seen eyes fearfully looking up from
under bent brows, and low breathings and subdued groans often rose above
the silence of his congregation, who felt like sinners, and whose
imaginations were filled with the thoughts of Heaven's anger; while the
good-humoured face of the light-hearted Father Phil produced a
corresponding brightness on the looks of his hearers, who turned up their
whole faces in trustfulness to the mercy of that Heaven whose propitiatory
offering their pastor was making for them in cheerful tones, which
associated well with thoughts of pardon and salvation.

Father Dominick poured forth his spiritual influence like a strong dark
stream that swept down the hearer--hopelessly struggling to keep his head
above the torrent, and dreading to be overwhelmed at the next word. Father
Phil's religion bubbled out like a mountain rill--bright, musical, and
refreshing. Father Dominick's people had decidedly need of cork jackets;
Father Phil's might drink and be refreshed.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.