Carew's First Adventure in his New Profession.
Carew being again initiated among them, at the first general assembly of the gipsies, took the oaths of allegiance to their sovereign, by whom he was soon sent out on a cruise against their enemies. Carew now set his wits to work how to succeed: so equipping himself with an old pair of trousers, a piece of a jacket, just enough to cover his nakedness, stockings full of holes, and an old cap, he forgot both friends and family and became nothing more or less than an unfortunate shipwrecked seaman. In this, his first excursion, he gained much credit, artfully imitating passes and certificates that were necessary for him to travel unmolested. After a month's travel he happened to meet with his old school-fellow Coleman, who had once left the gipsies' society, but, for the same reason as himself, returned to them again. Great was their joy at meeting, and they agreed to travel some time together; so entering Exeter, they, in one day, raised a contribution of several pounds.
Having obtained all he could from this stratagem, he then became a plain, honest farmer, whose grounds had been overflowed, and cattle drowned; his dejected countenance andmournful tale, together with a wife and seven helpless infants being partakers of his misfortunes, gained him both pity and profit.
Having obtained a considerable booty by these two stratagems, he returned to his companions, where he was received with great applause; and, as a mark of their respect, seated him next the king. He soon became a great man in the profession and confined not himself from doing good to others, when it did not infringe upon the community of which he was a member.
His next stratagem was to become a madman; so stripping himself quite naked, he threw a blanket over him and then he was, "Poor mad Tom, whom the foul fiend had led through fire and through flame; through fire and whirlpool, over bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew; set ratsbane for his porridge, and made him proud at heart to ride on a bay trotting-horse over four-inch bridges; to curse his own shadow for a traitor; who eats the swimming-frog, the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt, and the water-newt; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, swallows the old rat and ditch dog; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool:
And mice and rats, and such like gear,Have been Tom's food for seven long year.
"O do de, do de, do de! bless thee! from whirlwind, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There I could have him now—and there!—and there!—and here again!—and there!—Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind—Tom's a cold!—who gives anything to poor Tom?"
In this character, with such like expressions, he entered the houses of both small and great, claiming kindred to them, and committing all kinds of frantic actions, such as beating himself, offering to eat coals of fire, running against the wall, and tearing to pieces whatever garments were given to himto cover his nakedness; by which means he raised considerable contributions.
He never was more happy than when he was engaged in some adventure; therefore he was always very diligent to inquire when any accident happened, especially fire, to which he would immediately repair, and, getting information of the causes, names, trades, and circumstances of the unhappy sufferers, he would assume one of them, and burning some part of his clothes, by way of demonstration, run to some place distant, pass for one of them, gain credit and get much profit. Under this character he had once the boldness to address a justice, who was the terror and professed enemy to all the gipsies, yet he so well managed the affair, that in a long examination he made him believe he was an honest miller, whose house, mill and substance had been consumed by fire, occasioned by the negligence of the apprentice; and accordingly, got a bountiful sum for his relief, the justice not in the least suspecting a defraud.
He had such wonderful facility in every character he assumed, that he even deceived those who thought themselves so well acquainted with him, that it was impossible for him to impose on them.
Coming one day to Squire Portman's house at Blandford, in the character of a rat-catcher, with a hair cap on his head, a buff girdle about his waste, a little box by his side, and a tame rat in his hand, he goes boldly up to the house, where he had been well known before, and meeting the squire, Parson Bryant, and one Mr. Pleydell, of Milbourn, and some other gentlemen, he asked them if they had any rats to kill. "Do you understand the business well?" says the squire. "Yes, an please your honour," replied Carew, "I have been a rat-catcher for many years, and I have been employed in his majesty's yards and ships." "Well," says the squire, "go in and get some vituals, and after dinner we will try your abilities." He was accordingly called into the parlour,where were a large company of gentlemen and ladies. "Well, honest rat-catcher," says the squire, "can you lay any scheme to kill the rats without hurting my dogs?" "Yes, yes," cries Carew, "I can lay it where even the rats cannot climb to reach it." "What countryman are you?" "A Devonshire man, an please your honour." "What is your name?" Here our hero began to perceive that he was discovered, by the smilings and whisperings of several gentlemen, and he very composedly answered, "My name is Bamfylde Moore Carew." This occasioned much mirth, and Mr. Pleydell expressed extraordinary pleasure. He had often wished to see him but never had. "Yes, you have," replied Carew, "and given me a suit of clothes. Do you not remember meeting a poor wretch one day at your stable door, with a stocking round his head, an old mantle over his shoulders, without shirt, stockings, or scarce any shoes, who told you he was a poor unfortunate man, cast away upon the coast, with sixteen more of the crew who were all drowned; you, believing the story, generously relieved me with a guinea and a good suit of clothes." "I well remember it," said Mr. Pleydell, "but, on this discovery, it is impossible to deceive me so again, come in whatever shape you will." The company blamed him for thus boasting, and secretly prevailed upon Carew to put his art in practice to convince him of the fallacy thereof: to which he agreed, and in a few days after appointing the company present to be at Mr. Pleydell's house, he put the following scheme into execution.
He shaved himself closely, and clothed himself in an old woman's apparel, with a high-crowned hat, and a large dowdy under his chin; then, taking three children from among his fraternity, he tied two on his back and one under his arm. Thus accoutred, he comes to Mr. Pleydell's door, and pinching one of the brats, set it a roaring; this gave the alarm to the dogs, who came out with open mouths, so thatthe whole company was soon alarmed. Out came the maid saying, "Carry away the children, good woman, they disturb the ladies." "God bless their ladyships," said Carew, "I am the poor unfortunate grandmother of these helpless infants, whose mother and all they had were burnt at the dreadful fire at Kirkton, and hope the good ladies, for Heaven's sake, will bestow something on the poor, famishing, starving infants." In goes the maid with this affecting story to the ladies, while Carew keeps pinching the children to make them cry, and the maid soon returned with half-a-crown and some good broth, which he thankfully received, and went into the court-yard to sit down and sup them, as perceiving the gentlemen were not at home. He had not long been there before they came, when one of them accosted him thus—"Where do you come from, old woman?" "From Kirkton, please your honours," said he, "where the poor unhappy mother of these helpless infants was burnt in the flames and all she had consumed." "There has been more money collected for Kirkton than ever Kirkton was worth," said the gentleman. However, they gave the supposed old grandmother a shilling, commiserating the hard case of her and her poor helpless infants, which he thankfully received, pretending to go away; but the gentlemen were hardly got into the house, before their ears were suddenly saluted with a "tantivy, tantivy," and a "halloo" to the dogs; on which they turned about, supposing it to be some other sportsmen; but seeing nobody, they imagined it to be Carew, in the disguise of the old Kirkton grandmother; so bidding the servants fetch him back, he was brought into the parlour among them all, and confessed himself to be the famous Mr. Bamfylde Moore Carew, to the astonishmet and mirth of them all; who well rewarded him for the diversion he had afforded them.
In like manner he raised a contribution twice in one day of Mr. Jones, near Bristol. In the morning, with a sootyface, leather apron, a dejected countenance, and a woollen cap, he was generously relieved as an unfortunate blacksmith, whose all had been consumed by fire. In the afternoon he exchanged his legs for crutches, and, with a dejected countenance, pale face, and every sign of pain, he became a disabled tinner, incapable of maintaining a wife and seven small children, by the damps and hardships he had suffered in the mines; and so well acted his part, that the tinner got as well relieved in the afternoon as the blacksmith in the morning.
These successful stratagems gained him high applause and honour in the community of gipsies. He soon became the favourite of their king, who was very old and decrepid, and had always some honourable mark of distinction assigned him at their assemblies.
Being one morning near the seat of his good friend, Sir William Courtney, he was resolved to pay him three visits that day. He therefore puts on a parcel of rags, and goes to him with a piteous, mean, dismal countenance, and deplorable tale, and got half-a-crown from him, telling him he had met with great misfortunes at sea. At noon he puts on a leather apron scorched with fire, and with a dejected countenance goes to him again, and was relieved as an unfortunate shoemaker, who had been burnt out of his house and all he had. In the afternoon he goes again in trimmed clothes, and desiring admittance to Sir William, with a modest grace and submissive eloquence, he repeats his misfortunes, as the supercargo of a vessel which had been cast away and his whole effects lost.
Sir William, seeing his genteel appearance and behaviour, treated him with respect and gave him a guinea at his departure. There were several gentlemen at dinner with Sir William at that time, none of whom had any knowledge of him except the Rev. Mr. Richards, who did not discover him till he was gone; upon which a servant was despatchedto desire him to come back, which he did; and when he entered the room they were very merry with him and requested him to give an account how he got his fine clothes, and of his stratagems, with the success of them. He asked Sir William if he had not given half-a-crown in the morning to a beggar, and about noon relieved a poor unfortunate shoemaker. "I did," said Sir William. "Behold him before you," said Carew, "in this fine embroidered coat, as a broken merchant." The company would not believe him; so to convince them, he re-assumed those characters again, to their no small mirth and satisfaction.
Carew made King of the Beggars.
On the death of the king of the gipsies, named Clause Patch, our hero was a candidate to succeed him, and exhibited to the electors a long list of bold and ingenious stratagems which he had executed, and made so graceful and majestic an appearance in his person, that he had a considerable majority of voices, though there were ten candidates for the same honour; on which he was declared duly elected and hailed by the whole assembly—King of the Gipsies. The public register of their acts being immediately committed to his care, and homage done him by all the assembly, the whole concluded by rejoicings.
Though Mr. Carew was now privileged, by the dignity of his office, from going on any cruise, and was provided with everything necessary by the joint contribution of the community, yet he did not give himself up to indolence. Our hero, though a king, was as active in his stratagems as ever, and ready to encounter any difficulty which seemed to promise success.
Mr. Carew being in the town of South Molton, in Devonshire, and having been ill-used by an officer there called the bellman, resolved on the following stratagem by way of revenge. It was at that time reported that a gentleman ofthe town, lately buried, walked nightly in the churchyard; and as the bellman was obliged by his nightly duty to go through it just at the very hour of one, Mr. Carew repaired thither a little before the time, and stripping in his shirt, lay down upon the gentleman's grave. Soon after, hearing the bellman approach, he raised himself up with a solemn slowness, which the bellman beholding, by the glimmerings of the moon through a dark cloud, was terribly frightened, so took to his heels and ran away. In his fright he looked behind him, and seeing the ghost following him, dropped his bell and ran the faster; which Carew seized on as a trophy, and forbore any further pursuit. The bellman did not stop till he reached home, where he obstinately affirmed he had seen the gentleman's ghost, who had taken away the bell, which greatly alarmed the whole town.
Coming to the seat of Squire Rhodes, in Devonshire, and knowing he had lately married a Dorsetshire lady, he thought proper to become a Dorsetshire man of Lyme, the place of the lady's nativity; and meeting the squire and his bride, he gave them to understand that he was lost in a vessel belonging to Lyme, Captain Courtney, commander. The squire and his lady gave him half-a-crown each, for country sake, and entertained him at their house.
Our hero, exercising his profession at Milbury, where the squire's father lived, and to whom the son was come on a visit, Mr. Carew made application to him, and knocking at the door, on its being opened, saw the young squire sitting alone, whom Mr. Rhodes interrupted by saying he "was twice in one day imposed on by that rogue Carew, of whose gang you may likely be: besides, I do not live here, but am a stranger." In the meantime comes the old squire, with a bottle of wine in his hand, giving Carew a wink to let him understand he knew him, and then very gravely inquired into the circumstances of his misfortunes, and also of the affairs and inhabitants of Dartmouth, from whence he pretendedto have sailed several times, of all which he gave a full and particular account, whereupon the old squire gave him half-a-crown, and the young one the same; on which Carew and the old man burst into laughter, and discovered the whole affair, at which Squire Rhodes was a little chagrined at being imposed on a third time; but, on recollecting the expertness of the performer, was well satisfied, and they spent the remainder of the day in mirth and jollity.
At Bristol he dressed himself like a poor mechanic, and then going out into the streets, acted the religious madman, talking in a raving manner about Messrs. Whitfield and Wesley, as though he was disordered in his mind by their preaching; calling in a furious manner, every step, upon the Virgin Mary, Pontius Pilate, and Mary Magdalene, and acting every part of a man religiously mad; sometimes walking with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and then on a sudden he would break out in some passionate expressions about religion. This behaviour greatly excited the curiosity and compassion of the people; some of them talked to him, but he answered everything they said in a wild and incoherent manner; and, as compassion is generally the forerunner of charity, he was relieved by most of them.
Next morning he appeared in a morning gown, still acting the madman, and addressed himself to all the posts of the street, as if they were saints, lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven, in a fervent but distracted manner, and making use of so many extravagant gestures, that he astonished the whole city. Going through Castle Street he met the Rev. Mr. Bone, whom he accosted with his arms thrown around him, and insisted, in a raving manner, he should tell him who was the father of the morning star; which frightened the parson so much, that he took to his heels and ran for it, Carew running after him, till the parson was obliged to take shelter in a house.
Having well recruited his pocket by this stratagem, heleft Bristol next day, and travelled towards Bath, acting the madman all the way till he came to Bath: as soon as he came there, he inquired for Dr. Coney's, and being directed to his house, found two brother mendicants at the door. After they had waited some time, the servant brought out each of them a halfpenny, for which his brother mendicants were very thankful. But Carew gave his halfpenny to one of them; then knocking at the door, and the maid coming out again, "Tell your master," says he, "I am not a halfpenny man, but that my name is Bamfylde Moore Carew, king of the mendicants;" which being told, the doctor came out with one of his daughters and gave him sixpence and a mug of drink, for which he returned them thanks.
Mr. Carew happening to be in the city of Wells on a Sunday, was told the bishop was to preach that morning, on which he slipped on a black waistcoat and morning gown, and ran out to meet the bishop as he was walking in procession, and addressed himself to him as a poor unhappy man, whose misfortunes had turned his brains; which the bishop hearing gave him half-a-crown.
It was in Newcastle-upon-Tyne that he became enamoured with the daughter of Mr. Glady, an eminent apothecary and surgeon there. This young lady had charms sufficient to captivate the heart of any man susceptible of love; and they made so deep an impression upon him, that they wholly effaced every object which before had created any desire in him, and never permitted any other to raise them afterwards; for, wonderful to tell, we have, after about thirty years' enjoyment, seen him lament her occasional absence, almost with tears, and talk of her with all the fondness of one who has been in love with her but three days. Our hero tried all love's persuasions with his fair one in an honourable way, and, as his person was very engaging and his appearance genteel, he did not find her greatly averse to his proposals. As he was aware that his being of the community of gipsiesmight prejudice her against him, without examination, he passed with her for the mate of a collier's vessel, in which he was supported by Captain Lawn, in whose vessel they set sail; and the very winds being willing to favour these happy lovers, they had an exceedingly quick passage to Dartmouth, where they landed. In a few days they set out for Bath, where they lawfully solemnized their nuptials with great gaiety and splendour; and nobody at that time could conjecture who they were, which was the cause of much speculation and false surmises.
Some time after this he took his passage at Folkstone, in Kent, for Boulogne, in France, where he arrived safe and proceeded to Paris and other noted cities of that kingdom. His habit was now tolerably good, his countenance grave, his behaviour sober and decent—pretending to be a Roman Catholic, who had left England, his native country, out of an ardent zeal for spending his days in the bosom of the Catholic church. This story readily gained belief: his zeal was universally applauded, and handsome contributions made for him. But, at the time he was so zealous a Roman Catholic, with a little change of habit, he used to address those English he heard of in any place, as a Protestant and shipwrecked seaman; and had the good fortune to meet with an English physician at Paris, to whom he told this deplorable tale, who not only relieved him very handsomely, but recommended him to that noble pattern of unexhausted benevolence, Mrs. Horner, who was then on her travels, from whom he received ten guineas, and from some other company with her five more.
It was about this time he became acquainted with the Hon. Sir William Weem, in the following manner:—Being at Watchett, in Somersetshire, near the seat of that gentleman, he resolved to pay him a visit. Putting on, therefore, a jacket and a pair of trousers, he made the best of his way to Sir William's seat, and luckily met Sir William,Lord Bolingbroke, and several other gentlemen and clergy, with some commanders of vessels, walking in the park. Carew approached Sir William with a great deal of seeming fearfulness and respect, and with much modesty acquainted him he was a Silverton man, that he was the son of one of his tenants named Moore—had been to Newfoundland, and in his passage homeward, the vessel was run down by a French ship in a fog, and only he and two more were saved; but being put on board an Irish vessel, were carried into Ireland, and from thence landed at Watchett. Sir William hearing this, asked him a great many questions concerning the inhabitants of Silverton, who were most of them his own tenants, and of the principal gentlemen in the neighbourhood; all whom Carew was well acquainted with and therefore gave satisfactory answers. Sir William at last asked him if he knew Bickley, and if he knew the parson thereof. Carew replied that he knew him very well, and so indeed he might as it was no other than his own father. Sir William then inquired what family he had, and whether he had not a son named Bamfylde, and what became of him. "Your honour," replied he, "means the beggar and dog-stealer—I don't know what has become of him, but it is a wonder if he is not hanged by this time." "No, I hope not," replied Sir William, "I should be glad, for his family's sake, to see him at my house." Having satisfactorily answered many other questions, Sir William generously relieved him with a guinea, and Lord Bolingbroke followed his example; the other gentlemen and clergy contributed according to their different ranks. Sir William then ordered him to go to his house and tell the butler to entertain him, which he accordingly did, and set himself down with great comfort.
Having heard that young Lord Clifford, his first cousin (who had just returned from his travels abroad), was at his seat at Callington, about four miles from Bridgewater, heresolved to pay him a visit. In his way thither resided parson Carson, who, being one whom nature had made up in a hurry without a heart, Mr. Carew had never been able to obtain anything off him, even under the most moving appearance of distress, but a small cup of drink. Stopping now in his way, he found the parson was gone to Lord Clifford's; but, being saluted at the door by a fine black spaniel, with almost as much crustiness as he would have been had his master been at home, he thought himself under no stronger obligation of observing the strict laws of honour, than the parson did of hospitality; and therefore soon charmed the crossness of the spaniel and made him follow him to Bridgewater.
Having secured the spaniel and passed the night merrily at Bridgewater, he set out the next morning for Lord Clifford's, and in his way called upon the parson again, who very crustily told him he had lost his dog, and supposed some of his gang had stolen him; to which Mr. Carew very calmly replied, "What was he to his dog, or what was his dog to him? if he would make him drink it was well, for he was very dry." At last, with the use of much rhetoric, he got a cup of small drink; then, taking leave of him, he went to the Red Lion, in the same parish, where he stayed some time. In the meantime, down ran the parson to my Lord Clifford's, to acquaint him that Mr. Carew was in the parish and to advise him to take care of his dogs; so that Mr. Carew, coming down immediately after, found a servant with one dog in his arms, and another with another, here one stood whistling and another calling, and both my lord and his brother were running about to seek after their favourites.
Mr. Carew asked my lord what was the meaning of this hurry, and if his dogs were cripples, because he saw several carried in the servants' arms, adding, he hoped his lordship did not imagine he was come to steal any of them. Uponwhich his lordship told him, that parson Carson had advised him to be careful, as he had lost his spaniel but the day before. "It may be so," replied he, "the parson knows but little of me, or the laws of our community, if he is ignorant that with us ingratitude is unknown, and the property of our friends always sacred." His lordship, hearing this, entertained him very handsomely, and both himself and his brother made him a present.
On his return home, he reflected how idly he had spent the prime of life; and recovering from a severe illness, he came to a resolution of resigning the Egyptian sceptre. The assembly, finding him determined, reluctantly acquiesced, and he departed amidst the applause and sighs of his subjects.
Our adventurer, finding the air of the town not rightly to agree with him, and the death of some of his relations rendering his circumstances quite easy, he retired to the western parts, to a neat purchase he had made, and there he ended his days, beloved and esteemed by all; leaving his daughter (his wife dying some time before him) a genteel fortune, who was married to a neighbouring young gentleman.
Being an Elegant Conference between English Tom and Irish Teague;
And his Supplication when a Mountain Sailor.
Tom.GOOD morrow, sir. This is a very cold day.
Teag.Arra, dear honey, yesternight was a very cold morning.
Tom.Well, brother traveller, of what nation art thou?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I came from my own kingdom.
Tom.Why, I know that; but where is thy kingdom?
Teag.Allelieu, dear honey, don't you know Cork in Ireland?
Tom.You fool, Cork is not a kingdom, but a city.
Teag.Then, dear shoy, I'm sure it is in a kingdom.
Tom.And what is the reason you have come and left your own dear country?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, by Shaint Patrick, they have got such comical laws in our country that they will put a man to death in perfect health; so, to be free and plain with you, neighbour, I was obliged to come away, for I did not choose to stay among such a people that can hang a poor man when they please, if he either steals, robs, or kills a man.
Tom.Ay, but I take you to be more of an honest man than to steal, rob, or kill a man.
Teag.Honest, I am perfectly honest. When I was but a child my mother would have trusted me with a house full of mill-stones.
Tom.What was the matter? Was you guilty of nothing?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, I did harm to nobody, but fancied an old gentleman's gun, and afterwards made it my own.
Tom.Very well, boy, and did you keep it so?
Teag.Keep it? I would have kept it with all my heart while I lived. Death itself could not have parted us; but the old rogue, the gentleman, being a justice of peace himself, had me tried for the rights of it, and how I came by it, and so took it again.
Tom.And how did you clear yourself without punishment?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I told him a parcel of lies, but they would not believe me, for I said that I got it from my father when it was a little pistol, and I had kept it till it had grown a gun, and was designed to use it well until it had grown a big cannon, and then sell it to the military. They all fell a-laughing at me as I had been a fool, and bade me go home to my mother and clean the potatoes.
Tom.How long is it since you left your own country?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, I do not mind whether it be a fortnight or four months; but I think myself it is a long time. They tell me my mother is dead since, but I won't believe it until I get a letter from her own hand, for she is a very good scholar, suppose she can neither write nor read.
Tom.Was you ever in England before?
Teag.Ay, that I was, and in Scotland too.
Tom.And were they kind to you when you were in Scotland?
Teag.They were that kind that they kicked me, and the reason was because I would not pay the whole of the liquor that was drunk in the company, though the landlord and his two sons got mouthful about of it all, and I told them it was a trick upon travellers first to drink his liquor, and then to kick him out of doors.
Tom.I really think they have used you badly, but could you not beat them.
Teag.That's what I did, beat them all to their own contentment; but there was one of them stronger than me who would have killed me if the other two had not pulled me away, and I had to run for it till his passion was over. Then they made us drink and gree again; we shook hands, and made a bargain never to harm other more; but this bargain did not last long, for, as I was kissing his mouth, by Shaint Patrick I bit his nose, which caused him to beat me very sore for my pains.
Tom.Well, Paddy, what calling was you when in Scotland?
Teag.Why, sir, I was no business at all, but what do you call the green tree that's like a whin bush, people makes a thing to sweep the house of it!
Tom.O, yes, Paddy, they call it the broom.
Teag.Ay, ay, you have it, I was a gentleman's broom, only waited on his horses, and washed the dishes for the cook; and when my master rode a-hunting I went behind with the dogs.
Tom.O, yes, Paddy, it was the groom you mean. But I fancy you was cook's mate or kitchen boy.
Teag.No, no, it was the broom that I was; and if I had stayed there till now I might have been advanced as high as my master, for the ladies loved me so well that they laughed at me.
Tom.They might admire you for a fool.
Teag.What, sir, do you imagine that I am not a fool?No, no; my master asked counsel of me in all his matters, and I always give him a reason for everything. I told him one morning that he went too soon to the hunting, that the hares were not got out of their beds, and neither the barking of horns nor the blowing of dogs could make them rise, it was such a cold morning that night; so they all ran away that we catched, when we did not see them. Then my master told my words to several gentlemen that were at dinner, and they admired me for want of judgment, for my head was all of a lump, adding they were going a-fishing along with my master and me in the afternoon; but I told them that it was a very unhappy thing for any man to go a-hunting in the morning and a-fishing in the afternoon. They would try it, but they had better stayed at home, for it came on a most terrible fine night of south-west rain, and even down wind; so the fishes got all below the water to keep themselves dry from the shower, and we catched them all, but got none.
Tom.How long did you serve that gentleman, Paddy?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, I was with him six weeks, and he beat me seven times.
Tom.For what did he beat you? Was it for your madness and foolish tricks?
Teag.Dear shoy, it was not, but for being too inquisitive, and going sharply about business. First, he sent me to the post office to inquire if there were any letters for him; so when I came there, said I, "Is there any letters here for my master to-day?" Then they asked who was my master. "Sir," said I, "it is very bad manners in you to ask any gentleman's name." At this they laughed, mocking me, and said they could give me none if I would not tell my master's name; so I returned to my master and told him the impudence of the fellow, who would give me no letters unless I would tell him your name, master. My master at this flew in a passion, and kicked me down stairs, saying, "Go, yourogue, and tell my name directly. How can the gentleman give letters when he knows not who is asking for them?" Then I returned and told my master's name; so they told me there was one for him. I looked at it, being very small, and, asking the price of it, they told me it was sixpence. "Sixpence," said I; "will you take sixpence for that small thing, and selling bigger ones for twopence. Faith, I am not such a big fool. You think to cheat me now. This is not a conscionable way of dealing. I'll acquaint my master with it first." So I came and told my master how they would have sixpence for his letter, and was selling bigger ones for twopence. He took up my head and broke his cane with it, calling me a thousand fools, saying the man was more just than to take anything but the right for it; but I was sure there was none of them right, buying and selling such dear pennyworths. So I came again for my dear sixpence letter; and, as the fellow was shuffling through a parcel of them, seeking for it again, to make the best of a dear market, I picked up two, and home I comes to my master, thinking he would be pleased with what I had done. "Now," said I, "master, I think I have put a trick upon them fellows for selling the letter to you." "What have you done." "I have only taken other two letters. Here's one for you, master, to help your dear penny-worth, and I'll send the other to my mother to see whether she be dead or alive, for she's always angry I don't write to her." I had not the word well spoken till he got up his stick and beat me heartily for it, and sent me back to the fellows again with the two. I had a very ill will to go, but nobody would buy them of me.
Tom.Well, Paddy, I think you was to blame, and your master, too, for he ought to have taught you how to go about these affairs, and not beat you so.
Teag.Arra, dear honey, I had too much wit of my own to be teached by him, or anybody else. He began to instruct me after that how I should serve the table, and such nasty things as those. One night I took ben a roasted fish in one hand and a piece of bread in the other. The old gentleman was so saucy he would not take it, and told me I should bring nothing to him without a trencher below it. The same night, as he was going to bed, he called for his slippers; so I clapt a trencher below the slippers, and ben I goes. No sooner did I enter the room than he threw the trencher at me, which broke both my head and the trencher at one blow. "Now," said I, "the evil one is in my master altogether, for what he commands at one time he countermands at another." Next day I went with him to the market to buy a sack of potatoes. I went to the potato-monger, and asked what he took for the full of a Scot's cog. He weighed them in. He asked no less than fourpence. "Fourpence!" said I; "if I were but in Dublin I could get the double of that for nothing, and in Cork and Linsale far cheaper. Them is but small things like pease," said I, "but the potatoes in my country is as big as your head—fine meat, all made up in blessed mouthfuls." The potato merchant called me a liar, and my master called me a fool; so the one fell a-kicking me and the other a-cuffing me. I was in such bad bread among them that I called myself both a liar and a fool to get off alive.
Tom.And how did you carry your potatoes home from the market?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I carried the horse and them both, besides a big loaf, and two bottles of wine; for I put the old horse on my back, and drove the potatoes before me; and when I tied the load to the loaf, I had nothing to do but to carry the bottle in my hand; but bad luck to the way as I came home, for a nail out of the heel of my foot sprung a leak in my brogue, which pricked the very bone, bruised the skin, and made my brogue itself to blood; and I having no hammer by me, but a hatchet I left at home, Ihad to beat down the nail with the bottom of the bottle; and by the book, dear shoy, it broke to pieces, and scattered the wine in my mouth.
Tom.And how did you recompense your master for the loss of the bottle of wine?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I had a mind to cheat him, and myself too, for I took the bottle to a blacksmith, and desired him to mend it, that I might go to the butcher and get it full of bloody water; but he told me he could not work in anything but steel and iron. "Arra," said I, "if I were in my own kingdom, I could get a blacksmith who would make a bottle out of a stone, and a stone out of nothing."
Tom.And how did you trick your master out of it?
Teag.Why, the old rogue began to chide me, asking me what way I broke it. Then I held up the other as high as my head, and let it fall to the ground on a stone, which broke it all to pieces likewise. "Now," said I, "master, that's the way," and he beat me very heartily until I had to shout out mercy and murder all at once.
Tom.Why did you not leave him when he used you so badly?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I could never think to leave him while I could eat; he gave me so many good victuals, and promised to prefer me to be his own bone-picker. But, by Shaint Patrick, I had to run away with my life or all was done, else I had lost my dear shoul and body too by him, and then come home much poorer than I went away. The great big bitch dog, which was my master's best beloved, put his head into a pitcher to lick out some milk, and when it was in he could not get it out; and I, to save the pitcher, got the hatchet and cut off the dog's head, and then I had to break the pitcher to get out the head. By this I lost both the dog and the pitcher. My master, hearing of this, swore he would cut the head off me, for the poor dog was made useless, and could not see to follow anybodyfor want of his eyes. And when I heard of this, I ran away with my own head, for, if I had wanted it, I had lost my eyes too, then I would not have seen the road to Port Patrick, through Glen-nap; but, by Shaint Patrick, I came home alive in spite of them.
Tom.O, rarely done, Paddy; you behaved like a man! But what is the reason that you Irish people swear always by Saint Patrick?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, he was the best shaint in the world, the father of all good people in the kingdom. He has a great kindness for an Irishman when he hears him calling on his name.
Tom.But, Paddy, is Saint Patrick yet alive?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, I don't know whether he be dead or alive, but it is a long time since they killed him. The people all turned heathens, but he would not change his profession, and was going to run the country with it, and for taking the gospel away to England, so the barbarous Tories of Dublin cutted off his head; and he swimmed over to England, and carried his head in his teeth.
Tom.How did you get safe out of Scotland?
Tom.By the law, dear honey. When I came to Port Patrick, and saw my own kingdom, I knew I was safe at home, but I was clean dead, and almost drowned before I could get riding over the water; for I, with nine passengers more, leapt into a little young boat, having but four men dwelling in a little house in the one end of it, which was all thacked with deals; and, after they had pulled up her tether-stick, and laid her long halter over her mane, they pulled up a long sheet, like three pair of blankets, to the rigging of the house, and the wind blew in that, which made her gallop up one hill and down another, till I thought she would have run to the world's end.
Tom.Well, Paddy, and where did you go when you came to Ireland again?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, and where did I go but to my own dear cousin, who was now become very rich by the death of the old buck, his father, who died but a few weeks before I went over, and the parish had to bury him out of pity; it did not cost him a farthing.
Tom.And what entertainment did you get there?
Teag.O, my dear shoy, I was kindly used as another gentleman, and would have stayed there long enough, but when a man is poor his friends think little of him. I told him I was going to see my brother Harry. "Harry!" said he, "Harry is dead." "Dead!" said I, "and who killed him?" "Why," said he, "Death." "Allelieu, dear honey, and where did he kill him?" said I. "In his bed," says he. "Arra, dear honey," said I, "if he had been upon Newry mountains, with his brogues on, and his broad sword by his side, all the deaths in Ireland had not have killed him. O that impudent fellow Death. If he had let him alone till he died for want of butter milk and potatoes, I am sure he had lived all the days of his life."
Tom.In all your travels when abroad, did you never see none of your countrymen to inform you of what happened at home concerning your relations?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I saw none but Tom Jack, one day in the street; but when I came to him, it was not him, but one just like him.
Tom.On what account did you go a-travelling?
Teag.Why, a recruiting sergeant listed me to be a captain, and after all advanced me no higher than a soldier itself, but only he called me his dear countryman recruit, for I did not know what the regiment was when I saw them. I thought they were all gentlemen's sons and collegioners, when I saw a box like a Bible upon their bellies, until I saw G for King George upon it, andR for God bless him. "Ho, ho," said I, "I shan't be long here."
Tom.O, then, Paddy, you deserted from them?
Teag.That's what I did, and ran to the mountains like a buck, and ever since when I see any soldiers I close my eyes, lest they should look and know me.
Tom.And what exploits did you when you was a soldier?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, I killed a man.
Tom.And how did you do that?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, when he dropt his sword I drew mine, and advanced boldly to him, and then cutted off his foot.
Tom.O, then, what a big fool was you, for you ought first to have cut off his head.
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, his head was cutted off before I engaged him, else I had not done it.
Tom.O, then, Paddy, you acted like a fool; but you are not such a big fool as many take you to be. You might pass for a philosopher.
Teag.A fulusipher. My father was a fulusipher; besides, he was a man under great authority by law, condemning the just and clearing the guilty. Do you know how they call the horse's mother?
Tom.Why, they call her a mare.
Teag.A mare, ay, very well minded. My father was a mare in Cork.
Tom.And what riches was left you by the death of your mother?
Teag.A bad luck to her own barren belly, for she lived in great plenty, and died in great poverty; devoured up all or she died, but two hens and a pockful of potatoes—a poor estate for an Irish gentleman, in faith.
Tom.And what did you make of the hens and potatoes? Did you sow them?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I sowed them in my belly, and sold the hens to a cadger.
Tom.What business did your mother follow after?
Teag.Greatly in the merchant way.
Tom.And what sort of goods did she deal in?
Teag.Dear honey, she went through the country and sold small fishes, onions, and apples; bought hens and eggs, and then hatched them herself. I remember of a long-necked cock she had, of an oversea brood, that stood on the midden and picked all the stars out of the north-west, so they were never so thick there since.
Tom.Now, Paddy, that's a bull surpasses all; but is there none of that cock's offspring alive now?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I don't think there are; but it is a pity but that they had, for they would fly with people above the sea, which would put the use of ships out of fashion, and nobody would be drowned at all.
Tom.Very well, Paddy, but in all your travels did you ever get a wife?
Teag.Ay, that's what I did, and a wicked wife, too; and, my dear shoy, I can't tell whether she is gone to Purgatory or the parish of Pig-trantrum, for she told me she should certainly die the first opportunity she could get, as this present evil world was not worth the waiting on, so she would go and see what good things is in the world to come; so when that old rover called the Fever came raging over the whole kingdom, she went away and died out of spite, leaving me nothing.
Tom.O, but, Paddy, you ought to have gone to a doctor, and got some pills and physic for her.
Teag.By Shaint Patrick, I had as good a pill of my own as any doctor in the kingdom could give her.
Tom.O, you fool, that is not what I mean. You ought to have brought the doctor to feel her pulse, and let blood off her if he thought it needful.
Teag.Yes, that's what I did, for I ran to the doctor whenever she died, and sought something for a dead or dyingwoman. The old foolish devil was at his dinner, and began to ask me some stupid questions, and then kicked me down stairs.
Tom.And in what good order did you bury your wife when she died?
Teag.O, my dear shoy, she was buried in all manner of pomp, pride, and splendour—a fine coffin, with cords in it; and within the coffin, along with herself, she got a pair of new brogues, a penny candle, a good, hard-headed old hammer, with an Irish sixpenny piece, to pay her passage at the gate, and what more could she look for?
Tom.I really think you gave her enough along with her, but you ought to have cried for her, if it was no more but to be in the fashion.
Teag.And why should I cry without sorrow, when we hired two criers to cry all the way before her to keep her in the fashion?
Tom.And what do they cry before a dead woman?
Teag.Why, they cry the common cry, or funeral lament, that is used in our Irish country.
Tom.And what manner of cry is that, Paddy?
Teag.Dear Tom, if you don't know I'll tell you. When any person dies there is a number of criers goes before, saying, "Luff, fuff, fou, allelieu, dear honey, what aileth thee to die! It was not for want of good butter milk and potatoes."
Tom.Well, Paddy, and what did you do when your wife died?
Teag.Dear honey, what would I do? Do you think I was such a big fool as to die too? I am sure if I had I would not have got fair play, when I am not so old yet as my father was when he died.
Tom.No, Paddy, it is not that I mean. Was you sorry, or did you weep for her?
Teag.Weep for her! By Shaint Patrick, I would not weep, nor yet be sorry, suppose my own mother and all the women in Ireland had died seven years before I was born.
Tom.What did you do with your children when she died?
Teag.Do you imagine I was such a big fool as bury my children alive along with a dead woman? Arra, dear honey, we always commonly give nothing along with a dead person but an old shirt, a winding sheet, a big hammer, with a long candle, and an Irish silver threepenny piece.
Tom.Dear Paddy, and what do they make of all these things?
Teag.Then, Tom, since you are so inquisitive, you must go ask the priest.
Tom.What did you make of your children, Paddy?
Teag.And what should I make of them? Do you imagine that I should give them into the hands of the butchers, as they had been a parcel of young hogs. By Shaint Patrick, I had more unnaturality in me than to put them in an hospital as others do.
Tom.No; I suppose you would leave them with your friends?
Teag.Ay, ay, a poor man's friends is sometimes worse than a professed enemy. The best friend I ever had in the world was my own pocket while my money lasted; but I left two babes between the priest's door and the parish church, because I thought it was a place of mercy, and then set out for England in quest of another fortune.
Tom.I fancy, Paddy, you came off with what they call a moonshine flitting.
Teag.You lie like a thief now, for I did not see sun, moon, nor stars, all the night then, for I set out for Cork at the dawn of night, and I had travelled twenty miles all but twelve before gloaming in the morning.
Tom.And where did you go to take shipping?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, I came to a country village called Dublin, as big a city as any market town in all England, where I got myself aboard of a little young boat with a parcel of fellows and a long leather bag. I supposed them to be tinklers, until I asked what they carried in that leather sack. They told me it was the English mail they were going over with. "Then," said I, "is the milns so scant in England that they must send over their corn to Ireland to grind it?" The comical, cunning fellows persuaded me it was so. Then I went down to a little house below the water, hard by the rigg-back of the boat, and laid me down on their leather sack, where I slept myself almost to death with hunger. And, dear Tom, to tell you plainly, when I waked I did not know where I was, but thought I was dead and buried, for I found nothing all round me but wooden walls and timber above.
Tom.And how did you come to yourself to know where you was at last?
Teag.By the law, dear shoy, I scratched my head in a hundred parts, and then set me down to think upon it; so I minded it was my wife that was dead, and not me, and that I was alive in the young boat with the fellows that carries over the English meal from the Irish milns.
Tom.Oh, then, Paddy, I am sure you was glad when you found yourself alive?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I was very sure I was alive, but I did not think to live long, so I thought it was better for me to steal and be hanged than to live all my days and die directly with hunger at last.
Tom.Had you no meat nor money along with you?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I gave all the money to the captain of the house, or gudeman of the ship, to take me into the sea or over to England; and when I was like to eat my old brogues for want of victuals, I drew my hanger and cut the lock of the leather sack to get a lick of their meal; but,allelieu, dear shoy, I found neither meal nor seeds, but a parcel of papers and letters—a poor morsel for a hungry man.
Tom.Oh, then, Paddy, you laid down your honesty for nothing.
Teag.Ay, ay, I was a great thief, but got nothing to steal.
Tom.And how did you get victuals at last?
Teag.Allelieu, dear honey, the thoughts of meat and drink, death and life, and everything else, was out of mind. I had not a thought but one.
Tom.And what was that, Paddy?
Teag.To go down among the fishes and become a whale; then I would have lived at ease all my days, having nothing to do but to drink salt water and eat caller oysters.
Tom.What was you like to be drowned again?
Teag.Ay, ay, drowned, as cleanly drowned as a fish, for the sea blew very loud, and the wind ran so high, that we were all cast safe on shore, and not one of us drowned at all.
Tom.Where did you go when you came on shore?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, I was not able to go anywhere. You might cast a knot on my belly, I was so hollow in the middle, so I went into a gentleman's house and told him the bad fortune I had of being drowned between Ireland and the foot of his garden, where we came all safe ashore. But all the comfort I got from him was a word of truth.
Tom.And what was that, Paddy?
Teag.Why, he told me if I had been a good boy at home I needed not to have gone so far to push my fortune with an empty pocket, to which I answered, "And what magnifies that so long as I am a good workman at no trade at all?"
Tom.I suppose, Paddy, the gentleman would make you dine with him?
Teag.I really thought I was when I saw them roastingand skinning so many black chickens, which was nothing but a few dead crows they were going to eat. "Ho ho," said I, "them is but dry meat at the best. Of all the fowls that flee commend me to the wing of an ox; but all that came to my share was a piece of boiled herring and a roasted potato. That was the first bit of bread I ever ate in England."
Tom.Well, Paddy, what business did you follow after in England when you was so poor?
Teag.What, sir, do you imagine I was poor when I came over on such an honourable occasion as to list, and bring myself to no preferment at all? As I was an able-bodied man in the face, I thought to be made a brigadeer, a grandedeer, or a fuzeleer, or even one of them blew-gowns that holds the fierry stick to the bung-hole of the big cannons when they let them off to fright away the French. I was as sure as no man alive ere I came from Cork, the least preferment I could get was to be riding master to a regiment of marines, or one of the black horse itself.
Tom.And where in England was it you listed?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I was going through a little country village. The streets were very sore by reason of the hardness of my feet and lameness of my brogues, so I went but very slowly across the streets. From port to port is a pretty long way; but I, being weary, thought nothing of it. Then the people came all crowding to me as I had been a world's wonder, or the wandering Jew, for the rain blew in my face and the wind wetted all my belly, which caused me to turn the back of my coat before and my buttons behind, which was a good safeguard to my body, and the starvation of my naked body, for I had not a good shirt.
Tom.I am sure, then, Paddy, they would take you for a fool?
Teag.No, no, sir; they admired me for my wisdom, for I always turned my buttons before when the wind blewbehind; but I wondered how the people knew my name and where I came from, for every one told another that was Paddy from Cork. I suppose they knew my face by seeing my name in the newspapers.
Tom.Well, Paddy, what business did you follow in the village?
Teag.To be sure I was not idle, working at nothing at all, till a decruiting sergeant came to town with two or three fellows along with him, one beating on a fiddle, and another playing on a drum, tossing their airs through the streets, as if they were going to be married. I saw them courting none but young men, so, to bring myself to no preferment at all, I listed for a soldier. I was too big for a grandedeer.
Tom.What listing money did you get, Paddy?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I got five thirteens and a pair of English brogues. The guinea, and the rest of the gold, was sent to London to the King, my master, to buy me new shirts, a cockade, and common treasing for my hat. They made me swear the malicious oath of devilry against the king, the colours, and my captain, telling me if ever I desert and not run away that I should be shot, and then whipt to death through the regiment.
Tom.No, Paddy; it is first whipt, and then shot, you mean.
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, it is all one thing at last; but it is best to be shot and then whipt—the cleverest way to die I'll warrant you.
Tom.How much pay did you get, Paddy?
Teag.Do you know the little tall fat sergeant that feed me to be a soldier?
Tom.And how should I know them I never saw, you fool?
Teag.Dear shoy, you may know him whether you see him or not. His face is all bored in holes with the smallpox,his nose is the colour of a lobster-toe, and his chin like a well washen potato. He's the biggest rogue in our kingdom. You'll know him when you meet him again. The rogue height me sixpence a day, kill or no kill; and when I laid Sunday and Saturday both together, and all the days in one day, I can't make a penny above fivepence of it.
Tom.You should have kept an account, and asked your arrears once a month.
Teag.That's what I did, but he reads a paternoster out of his prayer book, wherein all our names are written; so much for a stop-hold to my gun, to bucklers, to a pair of comical harn-hose, with leather buttons from top to toe; and, worst of all, he would have no less than a penny a week to a doctor. "Arra," said I, "I never had a sore finger, nor yet a sick toe, all the days of my life; then what have I to do with the doctor, or the doctor to do with me."
Tom.And did he make you pay all these things?
Teag.Ay, ay, pay and better pay: he took me before his captain, who made me pay all was in his book. "Arra, master captain," said I, "you are a comical sort of a fellow now; you might as well make me pay for my coffin before I be dead, as to pay for a doctor before I be sick;" to which he answered in a passion, "Sir," said he, "I have seen many a better man buried without a coffin;" "Sir," said I, "then I'll have a coffin, die when I will, if there be as much wood in all the world, or I shall not be buried at all." Then he called for the sergeant, saying, "You, sir, go and buy that man's coffin, and put it in the store till he die, and stop sixpence a week off his pay for it." "No, no, sir," said I, "I'll rather die without a coffin, and seek none when I'm dead, but if you are for clipping another sixpence off my pay, keep it all to yourself, and I'll swear all your oaths of agreement we had back again, and then seek soldiers where you will."
Tom.O then, Paddy, how did you end the matter?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, by the nights of Shaint Patrick and help of my brogues, I both ended it and mended it, for the next night before that, I gave them leg bail for my fidelity, and went about the country a fortune-teller, dumb and deaf as I was not.
Tom.How old was you, Paddy, when you was a soldier last?
Teag.Arra, dear honey, I was three dozen all but two, and it is only two years since, so I want only four years of three dozen yet, and when, I live six dozen more, I'll be older than I am, I warrant you.
Tom.O but, Paddy, by your account you are three dozen of years old already:
Teag.O what for a big fool are you now, Tom, when you count the years I lay sick; which time I count no time at all.
Tom.Of all the opinions professed in religion tell me now, Paddy, of what profession art thou?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, my religion was too weighty a matter to carry out of mine own country: I was afraid that you English Presbyterians should pluck it away from me.
Tom.What, Paddy, was your religion such a load that you could not carry it along with you?
Teag.Yes, that it was, but I carried it always about with me when at home, my sweet cross upon my dear breast, bound to my dear button hole.
Tom.And what manner of worship did you perform by that?
Teag.Why, I adored the cross, the pope, and the priest, cursed Oliver as black as crow, and swears myself a cut throat against all Protestants and church of Englandmen.
Tom.And what is the matter but you would be a church of Englandmen, or a Scotch Presbyterian yourself, Paddy?
Teag.Because it is unnatural for an Irishman: but had Shaint Patrick been a Presbyterian, I had been the same.
Tom.And for what reason would you be a Presbyterian then, Paddy?
Teag.Because they have liberty to eat flesh in lent, and everything that's fit for the belly.
Tom.What, Paddy, are you such a lover of flesh that you would change your profession for it?
Teag.O yes, that's what I would. I love flesh of all kinds, sheep's beef, swine's mutton, hare's flesh, and hen's venison; but our religion is one of the hungriest in all the world, ah! but it makes my teeth to weep, and my stomach to water, when I see the Scotch Presbyterians, and English churchmen, in time of lent, feeding upon bulls' and sheep's young children.
Tom.What reward will you get when you are dead, for punishing your stomach so while you are alive?
Teag.By Shaint Patrick I'll live like a king when I'm dead, for I will neither pay for meat nor drink.
Tom.What, Paddy, do you think that you are to come alive again when you are dead?
Teag.O yes, we that are true Roman Catholics will live a long time after we are dead; when we die in love with the priests, and the good people of our profession.
Tom.And what assurance can your priest give you of that?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, our priest is a great shaint, a good shoul, who can repeat a paternoster and Ave Maria, which will fright the very horned devil himself, and make him run for it, until he be like to fall and break his neck.
Tom.And what does he give you when you are dying? that makes you come alive again?
Teag.Why, he writes a letter upon our tongues, sealed with a wafer, gives us a sacrament in our mouth, with a pardon, and direction in our right hand, who to call for at the ports of Purgatory.
Tom.And what money design you to give the priest for your pardon?
Teag.Dear shoy, I wish I had first the money he would take for it, I would rather drink it myself, and then give him both my bill and my honest word, payable in the other world.
Tom.And how then are you to get a passage to the other world, or who is to carry you there?
Teag.O, my dear shoy, Tom, you know nothing of the matter: for when I die, they will bury my body, flesh, blood, dirt, and bones, only my skin will be blown up full of wind and spirit, my dear shoul I mean; and then I will be blown over to the other world on the wings of the wind; and after that I'll never be killed, hanged, nor drowned, nor yet die in my bed, for when any hits me a blow, my new body will play buff upon it like a bladder.
Tom.But what way will you go to the new world, or where is it?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, the priest knows where it is, but I do not, but the Pope of Rome keeps the outer-port, Shaint Patrick the inner-port, and gives us a direction of the way to Shaint Patrick's palace, which stands on the head of the Stalian loch, where I'll have no more to do but chap at the gate.
Tom.What is the need for chapping at the gate, is it not always open?
Teag.Dear shoy, you know little about it, for there is none can enter but red hot Irishmen, for when I call Allelieu, dear honey, Shaint Patrick countenance your own dear countryman if you will, then the gates will be opened directly for me, for he knows and loves an Irishman's voice, as he loves his own heart.
Tom.And what entertainment will you get when you are in?
Teag.O, my dear, we are all kept there until a generalreview, which is commonly once in the week; and then we are drawn up like as many young recruits, and all the blackguard scoundrels is picked out of the ranks, and one half of them is sent away to the Elysian fields, to curry the weeds from among the potatoes, the other half of them to the River sticks, to catch fishes for Shaint Patrick's table, and them that is owing the priests any money is put in the black hole, and then given to the hands of a great black bitch of a devil, which is keeped for a hangman, who whips them up and down the smoky dungeon every morning for six months.
Tom.Well, Paddy, are you to do as much justice to a Protestant as a Papist?
Teag.O, my dear shoy, the most justice we are commanded to do a Protestant, is to whip and torment them until they confess themselves in the Romish faith; and then cut their throats that they may die believers.
Tom.What business do you follow after at present?
Teag.Arra, dear shoy, I am a mountain sailor and my supplication is as follows—