Ned giving Harry an Account of his Courtship and Marriage State.
Ned.—Honest Harry, I am glad to see you. You're welcome to York. You're a great stranger. When came you to town?
Harry.—I came to your town last night, Ned, and am glad to see you. I inquired after you of my landlord, and he told me you was well, and had been married two or three years. I wish you much happiness; but how d'ye like matrimony?
Ned.—In good faith, Harry, scrubbing his shoulders, but so, so; however, I will not discourage you.
Harry.—But don't you remember, Ned, that you and I made an agreement that which of us two was married first, should tell one another of the way of courtship, and how he liked it and a married state.
Ned.—'Tis true we did so, Harry, but now I have not time to tell you, for it will take me more than two or three hours to give you a full account of both parts.
Harry.—What! are you in haste then, Ned? 'Tis a great while since I have seen you, and shan't we have one mug together?
Ned.—Faith, Harry, I'm loath to deny you; but if I go with you, I must send home to my wife, and let her know where I am.
Harry.—So you may Ned, and tell her you are with an old friend that would be glad to see her.
Ned.—Not a word of that, Harry, for if I go with you and stay any time, we shall have her company without sending for her.
Harry.—Say you so. Come then, let us go to Tom Swan's. Well, Ned, I am glad to see thee—ring the bell. Jenny, bring us a pint of your best ale. Come, Ned, sit down. And how long was it before you got your wife into the mind to marry; for if I speak to any of the female sex, they are so very coy, I can't tell what to make of them?
Ned.—That's very true. They are so, Harry, for when I spoke to my wife first, she was so very coy and huffish, and told me she did not know what I meant. She was not for marrying. She lived very well as she was, and if she should marry, she must then be confined to the humours of a husband.
Harry.—Well, but how then, Ned, tell me all.
Ned.—Faith I have not time now, Harry, for I must go home.
Harry.—Come, my service t'ye, Ned, I will have you be as good as your promise.
Ned.—Then if I must, I will stay a little longer and tell you. I told her I had as good a trade as any of my neighbours. Upon these words she was called away.
Harry.—How then, Ned?
Ned.—Faith I went home, but could not get her out of my mind. The next day I went again to see her, and took her by the hand, but she pulled it away with scorn, saying,"Pray don't banter me, for I know you men love to banter us silly women." Upon my faith, madam, said I, I am in good earnest, for a man of my trade must have both journeymen and prentices, therefore I cannot well be without a wife, and you are the only person I always thought would make me happy. Then I took her by the hand again, and with much ado got a kiss off her. "Pray be quiet," said she, "Goodness! what do you mean? you are so troublesome!" and looked very angry, and so left me.
Harry.—Very well, Ned, go on, this is vastly pleasant.
Ned.—That very kiss made me think of her, and love her more than ever I did, for after that kiss I was always wishing myself in her company, and was never at rest. The Sunday after, I saw her in the minster at prayers, and thought everything handsome and pretty about her—her face, her eyes, her mouth, her breast, her shape. I watched her coming out of the choir, and walked with her in the minster, and asked her if she would please to take a walk into the Groves, but she told me she was engaged. Believe me, Harry; I was so daft with that answer that my heart was fit to break with fear that she should love another better than myself. However, I went home with her. She told me she was engaged, and I need not trouble myself any further. Madam, said I, the first that ever I saw you, I was struck with the thought that you was the woman that was to make me a happy wife. "You men," said she, "say so to all women you meet with." "Truly, madam," said I, "what I say is really true, from the bottom of my heart, and I hope you will find it so." "You men always promise fair," said she, "before you are married, but when the job is over you seldom or never perform your promise." "Pray, try me, madam," said I, "for upon my word, you will find me always as good as I have said, by this kiss." "Fye," said she, "I swear I will never come into your company any more, if you will not let me stand quietly by you." Then I askedher again the favour to take a walk, for it was a fine evening, and would do her a great deal of good. She told me at last, she was to meet two or three of her acquaintances at seven o'clock in the Groves, just to take a turn or two and so come home again, so bid me good night.
Harry.—Well, Ned, I hope you went to the Groves to meet her, did you not?
Ned.—Yes, you may be assured I did, and within a quarter of an hour after I was there, my mistress came, but her friends were not with her, as good luck would have it.
Harry.—Were not you glad of that, Ned, though I dare swear, she knew of nobody to meet her at that time.
Ned.—Yes, faith, I was very glad of it; and when we had taken a turn or two, I asked her if she would go to the cheese-cake house, and with much ado I got her to consent to go.
Harry.—Well, Ned, what discourse had you there?
Ned.—Why, faith, we were very merry. I called for some cheese-cakes, and a bottle of cider, and at last began to ask her about marrying me. She told me she heard I had a good trade, and did mind it now very well, but how I would mind it, if she should consent to marry me, was her fear. I told her she need never fear that, for marrying of her would be the only means to make me mind my business, if possible, more than I have done. I do assure you, Harry, that the servants which we call chamber-maids, stand as much upon their honour, as some of them will call it, in courting, as their mistress, nay, and more.
Harry.—Why, Ned, I have observed that all along you have called her madam whenever you named her, but I hope it is not a custom here at York, to call your chamber-maids madam at every word.
Ned.—Yes, faith we do, and they themselves call one another so, for if there be five or six of them together at the parting with one another, you shall hear them take leaveof one another with, "Madam, good-night to you," says one; "Madam, your servant," says another; "Pray my service to you know who"——'Tis very true, Harry.
Harry.—How could you ever expect Ned, that such an one would make you a good wife that minded nothing but her pride.
Ned.—Well, Harry, but you are mistaken, for some of them do make very good wives and are very good housewives too.
Harry.—How long were you a-courting her, before she gave consent to marry you?
Ned.—Why, about a year or more, and all that while I very little did mind myself for minding of her, for I was fain to watch her as a cat watcheth a mouse, for fear of a rival. At last I told her I hoped now she would consent to marry me, if not, to tell me so, for it was a great loss to me to lose my time so day after day. Upon these words she told me she thought I was in earnest, but she did not much like the house I lived in. I told her it was a very pretty house, and I should be glad to see her in it. Upon this she smiled and gave me her consent.
Harry.—Was you asked in the church, Ned, or had you a license?
Ned.—I went on purpose to ask her that question, and she told me she was a gentlewoman born, and did not care to be asked in the church, for, she said, there was nobody asked in the church but cook-maids and kitchen-maids, so it cost me about twenty shillings for a license. Well, married we were, and very merry were we that day.
Harry.—But now, Ned, in the second place, come tell me how you and your wife agree together, for I think it is said your York wives will be masters of their husbands in less than a year's time if possible they can. Well then, Ned, I do suppose it is with you as with most of your neighbours, your wife is the master?
Ned.—Faith, Harry, not much matter (scratching his head), but I doubt she'll come and find us together, and then there will be——
Harry.—What then, Ned, let her come, I have a mug or two at her service and shall be glad to see her.
Ned.—So shall not I, Harry.
Harry.—Why, Ned, how can she be angry with you when she sees you with an old acquaintance you have not seen for two or three years?
Ned.—That's nothing.
Harry.—What, Ned, do not you agree then really, and has been married but three years. Suppose she should come, what would or could she say to you?
Ned.—Dear Harry, do not desire me to tell you, for if I would, and if you should happen to tell it again, and it should come to her ears that it was I told you, I might as well run my country as stay at home.
Harry.—Ned, my service to you, upon my honour, as the gentleman says, I will never say anything of it to anybody.
Ned.—Well then, Harry, if I be out at any time, as now with you, when I go home, as soon as I get within doors she'll begin with a pretty tone she has learned off her neighbours.
"Oh! brave sir! You are a fine husband, you mind your business and shop, as you promised me before we were married: do you not, you drunken dog? you rogue, you rascal, where have you been these six hours (though it were but three), sirrah, give me account where you have been."
Harry.—Well, Ned, do you give her an account where you were, or what answer do you make her?
Ned.—All that I say to her is, "Pray, my dear, be not in such a passion, for I was with an old friend that I have not seen two or three years." "A pox on your old friend," says she, "and you too must go and fill your belly with good meat and drink, and I and my poor children starve at home,with only a little bread and cheese. A curse on the first day I saw you."
Harry.—Why, Ned, I hope your circumstances are not so low in the world, but that you can afford your wife pretty well to keep house with.
Ned.—Why, Harry, there's hardly a day but we have a joint of meat, either boiled or roasted, and I am sure she never wants for good bread, cheese, eggs, and butter.
Harry.—Pray, Ned, what does she do towards maintaining your house, does she endeavour any ways to get a penny? What portion had you with her?
Ned.—Harry, never marry a chamber-maid, for they bring nothing with them but a few old clothes of their mistresses, and for house-keeping, few of them know anything of it; for they can hardly make a pudding or a pie, neither can they spin, nor knit, nor wash, except it be a few laces to make themselves fine withal.
Harry.—What would she be at?
Ned—Why always a-gossiping, there is such a company of them in our street that there's never a day but some or other of them meet together.
Harry.—Where do they meet?
Ned.—Where the best country ale is.
Harry.—What, do they make a sitting of it when they meet?
Ned.—A sitting of it; yes, yes, they will sit from three till ten at night, and drink like fishes, and talk against their husbands.
Harry.—What do you say when she comes home? Do you not ask her where she has been that she stayed so late?
Ned.—I dare not say one word to her, but am glad she will let me go to bed and sleep quietly.
Harry.—What becomes of your children those days; who looks after them all this while?
Ned.—Nobody but a silly maid she hired who can donothing; I am fain as well as I can, to boil them their milk for their suppers and help to get them to bed.
Harry.—Does not she ask when she comes home how her children do, and who gave them their suppers and got them to bed?
Ned.—Never, never, Harry, but perhaps the next morning will get them up herself, and put them on, poor things, the same linen they had on three days before.
Harry.—How do you allow your wife? do you allow her so much a week? how gets she the money to spare for gossiping?
Ned.—Why, she watches me; and if I sell anything in the shop, then she comes to me and tells me, such a child wants this, and such a one that, so I am fain to give her money for quietness' sake.
Harry.—Why, Ned, she makes a mere fool of you.
Ned.—'Tis not my case alone, Harry, for most of my neighbours have not much better wives, for the better sort they say, love carding and gossiping and cold tea.
Harry.—Well, Ned, I think you have almost satisfied me, and I promise you for your sake I will never marry any one of that sort called chamber-maids.
Ned.—If ever you marry, Harry, marry one that's bred up in business, I mean one that knows how to look after her house? and as you endeavour to get a penny in your way she will endeavour to get another in hers, such a one will make both you and herself happy.
Harry.—Pray then, Ned, what can your wife or any other man's wife say against her husband if he takes all the pains, as you say you do, to maintain her and her children handsomely?
Ned.—I know not but I hear this is their way. If any new married wife come among them; first she must pay for her admittance, then presently after, some of them will begin, "Neighbour, your good health;" another, "Neighbour I wishyou health and happiness;" another, "Pray neighbour, what kind of a humoured man is your husband?" another, "Is he kind to you?" another, "Does he allow you as he should do? If he does not, neighbour, let us know, and we will tell you how to manage him I warrant you."
Harry.—Well, Ned, I pity thee, with all my heart, and all them that have such wives; but now you must make the best of it, and live as quietly as you can.
Ned.—Harry, I must so. Well, come, let's know what's to pay. I have stayed too long, so I am sure of a lecture when I go home.
Harry.—Come, Ned, I treat you this time because I invited you, it may be you will find your wife in a better humour than you think of.
Ned.—I wish I may, Harry. I am sure of it that it shall make me stay at home and mind my business a great deal better than I have done of late.
Harry.—How many children have you, Ned?
Ned.—Two boys, and I believe another coming.
Harry.—Well, Ned, she cannot complain of the smallness of her family.
Ned.—Well, Harry, I must take my leave of you, and I thank you for me, and if you do not go out of town to-morrow, I hope I shall see you again; there is a great deal more in a married state than I have told you of, that is all charges to the husband, the sickening-day, the week-day, the christening-day, three-week-day, the churching-day; all these days they have their meetings and discourses, which would take half a day to tell them all; and if the husband be not there to wait upon them on those days, some of them will say, "Neighbour, where is your husband? he should be here to wait on us." "If my husband, should serve me so," says another, "when I lie in, odds had." A third will say, "Indeed, neighbour, you give your husband too much liberty, more than I would do." So, Harry, when I go home she falls a-telling me whatsuch a one and such a one, and all the company said of me, for my not being there to wait upon them.
Harry.—Well, Ned, thou has satisfied me very well, and for thy sake will never marry a chamber-maid. Come, ring the bell, we'll see what there's to pay, and should be glad of your company longer, if it stand to your conveniency.
Ned.—Harry, I thank you, but home I must go now.
Harry.—Jenny, what's to pay? "One shilling sir."—Ned, good-night to you, my service to your spouse; and if I stay to-morrow, I'll come and see you and her.
Ned.—Harry, good night to you, I thank you for me, and I shall be glad to see you to-morrow; but whether my wife will or no I cannot tell, for I doubt I will find her but so-and-so in her humour.
Harry.—Good-night to you, Ned, thank you for your good company; it has been very pleasant, and I hope you will find all things easy and quiet at home.
People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O'Rourke, but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Phooka's tower.
"I am often axed to tell it, sir," said he, "so that this is not the first time. The master's son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go, before Buonaparte or any such was heard of; and, sure enough, there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and poor. The ould gentlemen were the gentlemen after all, saving your honour's presence. They'd swear at a body a little, to be sure, and maybe give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end;—and they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes; and there was no grinding for rent, and few agents; and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not taste of his landlord's bounty often and often in the year;—but now it's another thing; no matter for that, sir, for I'd better be telling you my story.
"Well, we had everything of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young master, by the same token, danced with Peggy Barry from Bothereen—a lovely young couple they were, though they are both long enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost, for I can't remember ever at all, no ways, how I left the place; only I did leave it, that's certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself, I'd just step to Molly Cronohan's, the fairy woman, to speak a word about the bracket heifer that was bewitched; and so as I was crossing the stepping stones at the ford of Ballyashenogh, and was looking up at the stars, and blessing myself—for why? it was Lady-day—I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the water. 'Death alive!' thought I, 'I'll be drowned now!' However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island.
"I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as day, or your fair lady's eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning her), and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog. I could never find out how I got into it, and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and certain I was that it would be my barrin place. So I sat down upon a stone which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I began to scratch my head and sing the Ullagon, when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face. And what was it but an eagle—as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, 'Daniel O'Rourke,' says he, 'how do you do?' 'Very well, I thank you, sir,' says I; 'I hope you're well,' wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. 'What brings you here, Dan?' says he. 'Nothing at all, sir,' says I; 'only I wish I was safe home again.' 'Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?' says he. ''Tis, sir,' says I; so I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much, and fell into the water; how I swam to the island; and how I got into the bog and did not know my way out of it. 'Dan,' says he, after a minute's thought, 'though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day, yet, as you are a decent sober man, who tends mass well, and never flings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields—my life for yours,' says he; 'so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you'd fall off, and I'll fly you out of the bog.' 'I am afraid,' says I, 'your honour's making game of me; for who ever heard of riding a-horseback on an eagle before?' ''Pon the honour of agentleman,' says he, putting his right foot on his breast, 'I am quite in earnest; and so, now, either take my offer or starve in the bog; besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.'
"It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute going from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance. 'I thank your honour,' says I, 'for the load of your civility, and I'll take your kind offer.' I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up—up—up—God knows how far up he flew. 'Why, then,' said I to him, thinking he did not know the right road home, very civilly—because why? I was in his power entirely—'sir,' says I, 'please your honour's glory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you'd fly down a bit, you're now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your worship.'
"'Arrah, Dan,' said he, 'do you think me a fool? Look down in the next field, and don't you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked up off a could stone in a bog." 'Bother you,' said I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. 'Where in the world are you going, sir?' says I to him. 'Hold your tongue, Dan,' says he; 'mind your own business, and don't be interfering with the business of other people.' 'Faith, this is my business, I think,' says I. 'Be quiet, Dan,' says he; so I said no more.
"At last, where should we come to but to the moon itself. Now, you can't see it from this; but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of themoon, this way (drawing the figure on the ground with the end of his stick).
"'Dan,' said the eagle, 'I'm tired with this long fly; I had no notion 'twas so far.' 'And, my lord, sir,' said I, 'who in the world axed you to fly so far—was it I? Did not I beg, and pray, and beseech you to stop half an hour ago?' 'There's no use talking, Dan,' said he; 'I'm tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest myself.' 'Is it sit down on the moon?' said I. 'Is it upon that little round thing, then? Why, then, sure I'd fall off in a minute, and be kilt and split, and smashed all to bits; you are a vile deceiver, so you are.' 'Not at all, Dan,' said he; 'you can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that's sticking out of the side of the moon, and 'twill keep you up.' 'I won't, then,' said I. 'Maybe not,' said he, quite quiet. 'If you don't, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone of your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.' 'Why, then, I'm in a fine way,' said I to myself, 'ever to have come alone with the likes of you;' and so, giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he'd know what I said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook, and sat down upon the moon; and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that.
"When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, 'Good morning to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he; 'I think I've nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year ('twas true enough for him, but how he found it out is hard to say), and in return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.'
"'Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?' says I. 'You ugly unnatural baste, and is this the way you serve me at last? Bad luck to yourself, withyour hooked nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard.' 'Twas all to no manner of use; he spread out his great big wings, burst out a-laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after him to stop, but I might have called and bawled for ever without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this. Sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before. I suppose they never thought of greasing 'em; and out there walks, who do you think, but the man in the moon himself. I knew him by his busk.
"'Good morrow to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he. 'How do you do?' 'Very well, thank your honour,' said I. 'I hope your honour's well.' 'What brought you here, Dan?' said he. So I told him how I was a little overtaken in liquor at the master's, and how I was cast on a dissolute island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how, instead of that, he had fled me up to the moon.
"'Dan,' said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was done, 'you must not stay here.' 'Indeed, sir,' says I, ''tis much against my will I'm here at all; but how am I to go back?' 'That's your business,' said he, 'Dan; mine is to tell you that here you must not stay, so be off in less than no time.' 'I'm doing no harm,' says I, 'only holding on hard by the reaping-hook lest I fall off.' 'That's what you must not do, Dan,' says he. 'Pray, sir,' says I, 'may I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller lodgings? I'm sure 'tis not so often you're troubled with strangers coming to see you, for 'tis a long way.' 'I'm by myself, Dan,' says he; 'but you'd better let go the reaping-hook.' 'Faith, and with your leave,' says I, 'I'll not let go the grip; and the moreyou bids me, the more I won't let go, so I will.' 'You had better, Dan,' says he again. 'Why, then, my little fellow,' says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, 'there are two words to that bargain; and I'll not budge, but you may if you like.' 'We'll see how that is to be,' says he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it.
"Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again he comes with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and, without saying a word, he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was keeping me up, and whap! it came in two. 'Good morning to you, Dan,' says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand, 'I thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.' I had no time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and rolling at the rate of a fox-hunt. 'God help me,' says I, 'but this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night; I am now sold fairly.' The word was not out of my mouth when whiz! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese, all the way from my own bog of Ballyashenogh, else how should they know me? The ould gander, who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, 'Is that you, Dan?' 'The same,' said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of bedevilment, and, besides, I knew him of ould. 'Good morrow to you,' says he, 'Daniel O'Rourke. How are you in health this morning?' 'Very well, sir,' says I; 'I thank you kindly,' drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some. 'I hope your honour's the same.' 'I think 'tis falling you are, Daniel,' says he. 'You may say that, sir,' says I. 'And where are you going all the way so fast?' said the gander. So I told him how I hadtaken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. 'Dan,' said he, 'I'll save you; put your hand out and catch me by the leg, and I'll fly you home.' 'Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,' says I, though all the time I thought in myself that I don't much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops.
"We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking up out of the water. 'Ah! my lord,' said I to the goose—for I thought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way—'fly to land, if you please.' 'It is impossible, you see, Dan,' said he, 'for a while, because, you see, we are going to Arabia.' 'To Arabia!' said I; 'that's surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose, why, then, to be sure, I'm a man to be pitied among you.' 'Whist, whist, you fool,' said he; 'hold your tongue. I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a little more sand there.'
"Just as we were talking a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful before the wind. 'Ah! then, sir,' said I, 'will you drop me on the ship, if you please?' 'We are not fair over it,' said he. 'We are,' said I. 'We are not,' said he; 'if I dropped you now, you would go splash into the sea.' 'I would not,' says I; 'I know better than that, for it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.'
"'If you must, you must,' said he. 'There, take your own way;' and he opened his claw, and faith he was right,—sure enough, I came down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me,scratching himself after his night's rest, and looked me full in the face, and never the word did he say; but lifting up his tail, he splashed me all over again with the cold salt water, till there wasn't a dry stitch upon my whole carcase; and I heard somebody saying—'twas a voice I knew too—'Get up, you drunken brute, out of that,' and with that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing all over me; for, rest her soul! though she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own.
"'Get up,' said she again; 'and of all places in the parish, would no place sarve your turn to lie down upon but under the ould walls of Carrigaphooka? An uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.' And sure enough I had; for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the great ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I'd lie down in the same spot again, I know that."
And recommended to all ingenious young men and maids, teaching them, in a natural way, how to get good wives and husbands.
Approved by several that have made trial of them; it being the product of forty-nine years' study.
By our loving Friend Poor Tom, for the King, a lover of Mirth, but a hater of Treason.
Reading over many ancient Histories, it was my chance to meet with this story of an old woman who lived in the west, who took delight in studying her fortune. When she found herself full twenty years old, she thought her luck worse than some who were married at fifteen or sixteen, which much troubled her mind; but to prevent all doubts she resolved to try a story she had often heard her mother talk of, and, finding it true, she resolved to teach other maidens.
On a time, this old woman having newly buried her husband, was taking a walk in the fields, for the benefit of the air, sometimes thinking of the loss of her husbands, for she had had three, yet had a great desire for the fourth. So it happened, as she was walking alone, she espied a youngmaiden by the meadow-side. "Good morrow, maid," said the old woman, "how do you do? are not you well?" "Yes, mother, I am very well, but somewhat troubled in mind." "What is it troubles you so much? If I can, I will willingly relieve you, therefore be not ashamed to tell the truth. Is it anything of great concern?" "Indeed, mother, seeing you urge me so much, I will tell you the truth. We are three sisters, the youngest was married about a year ago, the middlemost last week, and I am the eldest, and no man heeds me." "Well, daughter, if this be all, I believe I can assist thee, for when I was young I was in the same condition, and with reading some histories, found out the art to know him that should be my husband, which, if you will keep my counsel, I am ready to teach thee." "I will, truly, and if you will do so much for me, I shall think myself much obliged to you; and, if my fortune proves right, I will make you amends."
"Why, then, I will tell you, in the first place, you must observe St. Agnes' day, which is the 21st of January, and on that day let no man speak to thee, and at night, when thou liest down lay thy right hand under thy head, and say these words, 'Now the God of hope let me dream of my love'; then go to sleep as soon as possible, and you shall be sure to dream of him who will be your husband, and see him stand before you, and may take notice of him and his complexion; and if he offer to salute thee honourably, do not deny him, but show him as much favour as thou canst; but if he offers to be uncivil, be sure to send him away. And now, daughter, the counsel I have given you, be sure to tell nobody. So, fare you well, till I see you again."
"I give you thanks for your advice; but one thing more I have to say, What is your name? and where do you live?" "I will tell you, daughter; my name is Mother Bunch, and I live at a place called Bonadventure, where, if you come, I will make you welcome."
Now Mother Bunch having departed from the maid, she met another pretty girl. "Good morrow, Mother Bunch." "Good morrow, pretty maid, whither are you going this morning? Methinks you are very fine to-day." "Fine! Mother Bunch, you do not think so." "Nay, I cannot discommend you; for such a brisk maid as you should go handsome, or you will never get a sweetheart, though you think the time long." "No, no, mother, I am too young." "How old are you?" "I am eighteen." "Eighteen! then I know thou thinkest thou hast stayed long enough, and wouldest as willingly have a husband as another." "Aye, Mother Bunch, but good husbands are hard to find, especially for me, who have no skill in choosing, or else it may be I would be glad of a good husband." "Be sure to take my advice: be wise in choosing, that is to say, take no one that has got a red head, for be sure he loveth a smock so well that he will scarce let his wife have a good one to her back; nor of yellow hair, as he is inclinable to be jealous; nor a black man, for he is dogged." "Aye, but mother, if I must not have yellow, black, nor red, what colour must I take?" "Why, daughter, I tell you, if he is jealous, you will be annoyed by his speeches, for how can a young woman forbear when she is always provoked? And be sure, if he is jealous of thee thou mayest well be so of him; for evil people and thieves think ill of each other. But hold a little, one thing more I have to say to you, and that is, to take notice of thy sweethearts when they come a-wooing to thee, I mean of their civil behaviour; for if they swear, vow, and make great protestations, then have a care of thyself, for many words breed dissimulation; therefore have a care of such: but if a man come to thee that is sober and civil behaved, there are hopes of his proving a good man." "Now, mother, I will take my leave of you, giving you many thanks for your good advice; and so, farewell, till I see you again, and I intend to take this counsel."
Another time Mother Bunch was in a little meadow, not far from her house, on the 30th of April, before sunrising. A handsome maid, seeing her alone, came to her, and said, "Mother Bunch, good morrow, how do you do? Pray, what makes you abroad so early in the morning? You seem to be in a deep study." "Daughter, you say very true; I am studying who shall be my next husband, and if thou wilt but please to stay a little while, thou shalt see a pretty art, which thou never saw before, to teach you how to know your sweetheart." "This is a pretty art indeed, and I should be glad to know it."
"Hark! hark! daughter, is not yonder the cuckoo singing?" "Yes, yes, and I have not heard her sing this year before now." "Then, daughter, sit down by me, but hold, Are you fasting?" "Yes." "But has no man kissed you?" "No." Then sit thee down by me. "I think the cuckoo is mad, what a life she leads; I think she is a witch; but no matter: put off thy right shoe and stocking, and let me look between thy great toe and the next: Now, daughter, see, this hair is a long one; look well at it, and tell me what colour it is." "I think it is really yellow." "The same colour will thy husband's hair be." "But, Mother Bunch, I do not matter the colour so much as the condition." "I will tell you his condition: he may prove surly enough, and perhaps make you do as you did not imagine: you must give him good words, and give him good for evil." "Mother Bunch, you make me smile, you talk so merrily." "Come, daughter, it is no great matter; merry talk does no harm, but drives the time away. But hark! daughter, I have had three husbands myself, and I think to have another; and do you think I am so mad to tell him all I do? Then, my daughter, I have another way to tell you who must be your husband; I have proved it true; and it is the best time of the year to try it, therefore, observe what I say: Take a St. Thomas' onion, pare it, and lay it on aclean handkerchief under your pillow; and as you lie down, say these words—
Good St. Thomas, do me right,And bring my love in dreams this night,That I may view him in the face.
Good St. Thomas, do me right,And bring my love in dreams this night,That I may view him in the face.
Then go to sleep as soon as you can, and in your first sleep you shall dream of him who is to be your husband. This I have tried, and it has proved true. Yet I have another pretty way for a maid to know her sweetheart, which is as follows: Take a summer apple of the best fruit, stick pins close into the apple, to the head, and as you stick them take notice which of them is the middlemost, and give it what name you fancy; put it into thy left hand glove, and lay it under thy pillow on Saturday night; after thou gettest into bed, then clap thy hands together, and say these words—
If thou be he that must have meTo be thy wedded bride,Make no delay, but come away,In dream to my bedside.
If thou be he that must have meTo be thy wedded bride,Make no delay, but come away,In dream to my bedside.
And in thy sleep thou shalt see him, and be not afraid, for it is a sign he will prove a good husband. And this is a good way for a young man to know his sweetheart, giving the middlemost pin the name he fancies best, putting the apple in his right hand glove, and laying it under his pillow when he is in bed, saying—
If thou be she that must have meIn wedlock for to join,Make no delay, but come awaySo I may dream of mine.
If thou be she that must have meIn wedlock for to join,Make no delay, but come awaySo I may dream of mine.
"And that night he may see her, and if she come it is a sign she will prove a good wife. And now, daughter, the time passes away, and I must be gone, and so bid you farewell." "Mother Bunch, I give you many thanks for your good counsel, and intend to take your advice."
Upon a time, Mother Bunch, being at a wedding, where young men and maids were met, who had a mind for some discourse with her, one young man said, "Mother Bunch, we know you are a woman that has a judgment in many things, I pray, tell my fortune." "I cannot tell fortunes," said she, "but thou blinkest too much with one eye to be true to one woman." "Aye, but, mother," says another, "what think you of me?" "Thou mayest come to marry a lady, if thou canst but lay a great wager with her, three to one; and if she wagers with thee, thou wilt be very likely to win, for thou hast mettle in thee; but have a care she win not the odds, if she does thou art clean gone. So farewell."
Now Mother Bunch took her leave; and going home, she met a maid going to a wedding. "How do you do, mother?" "Thank you, daughter, whither are you going?" "To the wedding, I believe; but hark you, mother, will you sit down a little, I have something to say to you." "What is it, daughter?" "When shall I be married?" "Would you fain be married?" "Yes, mother, if I could get a good husband." "Then, daughter, I will tell you the best I can, if you will take my advice. In the month of January are many dangerous days for thee to take notice of; these are the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth: there are a great many more; but if thou marriest on these days, thy husband will cuckold thee, or thou wilt make him one, or else you will soon be parted by one means or other; but for all there be so many bad days in this month I can tell you of one day which is lucky, and many young men and maids have a deal of heart's ease on that day, or the day after, as I shall let you understand; it is the 21st, called St. Agnes' day. This St. Agnes has a great favour for young men and maids, and will bring their sweethearts, if they follow my rules: Upon this day you must be sure to keep a fast, and neither eat nor drink all that day, nor at night; neitherlet man, woman, nor child kiss thee on that day; and thou must be sure, when thou goest to bed, to say—