HEADDRESS, OR RICE-SHELL-WORK.
HEADDRESS, OR RICE-SHELL-WORK.
HEADDRESS, OR RICE-SHELL-WORK.
The shells we use are called "rice-shells," from their resemblance to the grains of rice; they are brought from the West Indies, and sold by measure, or by the box, at most conchological repositories. Their Latin nameVoluta Nivea. Those who would study economy will often obtain them very cheaply from those miscellaneous dealers who purchase the foreign shells and curiosities brought from abroad by sailors. A pint of these shells will go a great way.
Before we can set to work, the shells must be cleaned and prepared. For this purpose, the first thing to be done is, with a strong yet fine-pointed pin, to free each shell from any grit or dirt which may have accumulated in the interior. Next, with a strong, sharp pair of scissors, a bit of about the size of a pin's point is to be clipped off from the extreme tip of each shell, so as to leave a tiny hole there, not larger than the eye of a middle-sized sewing-needle. This is a manipulation requiring care, as, if it is roughly done, too large an opening will be made, and the symmetry of the shell will be destroyed. Neither should the worker stoop over the shell while clipping it, for, if the bit of shell snipped off were to fly into the eyes, it would occasion much irritation and pain. Practice will soon enable any one to clip the shells rapidly and evenly.
In order to set about rice-shell-work tidily and systematically, it will be necessary to have a dozen little square card-board trays or boxes, about three or four inches square, and two inches deep. These can be easily made from white or colored card-board, and should be so contrived that they may fit into one another, and all be contained in one large tray or box of similar material, and covered over by one cover.
As the shells are cut, let them be sorted into three divisions, the small, the middle-sized, and the large shells. When all are clipped, put them into three separate basins; pour over them cold water enough to cover the shells, and to stand about an inch above them. Into this water put soda and mottled soap, in the proportion of half an ounce of each to a full pint of water; the soap should be shredded. Cover the basins, and set them on a hob, or in an oven, near a good fire; stir up the whole occasionally, and let it remain until the water is scalding hot, not longer. Then rub the shells gently with the hands, and pour off that water; and having rinsed the shells, add a fresh supply of water, and put in only soap this time. Let it again stand by the fire until hot, stirring it occasionally; then again rub the shells gently between the hands, pouroff the soapy water, and rinse them thoroughly with clear, cold water.
Now lay a soft, folded towel on the table; put about a tablespoonful at a time of shells on this towel, and turning another fold of it over, rub them gently, but sufficiently to free them from moisture. Have ready a silk handkerchief, and remove them to this, and polish them with it, and then transfer them to one of the boxes, and setting it on the hob, let it stand there until the shells feel warm, shaking it occasionally in order that all may be equally dried. They will now be ready for use, and ought to have a pearly, white, polished appearance.
Take notice that too much soap or soda, or too great a degree of heat in the water, or too long a soaking, will make them look yellow; while too much heat when drying will crack them or render them brittle, and too little will leave a moisture about them which will tarnish the other parts of the work.
The next important item to the shells is the silver wire. This is bought on reels, by the ounce, and can be obtained of any of the large gold and silver bullion fringe-makers and wire-drawers in this city. As "Evans's Derby Crochet Cotton" is doubtless well known to most of our readers, we will compare the different sized wires required to the different numbers of this cotton of similar size. The coarsest silver wire we ever need would be about the calibre of No. 10 "Derby Cotton;" the next about that of No. 16; and the finest about the size of No. 24 or 30. The two latter are those chiefly used for leaves, flowers, &c., the coarsest being generally only employed for the stem on to which the various component parts of a wreath or spray are to be grafted, or for baskets, or ornamental groups; our aim being lightness, not only of appearance but of weight, we use the thinnest wire we can consistently with firmness.
The largest shells are chiefly used for baskets; the middle-sized and small ones for flowers and leaves. Each kind is to be contained in its own box.
Into another of the boxes cut some two or three hundred lengths of the middle-sized wire, each piece measuring about two and a half inches.
Having now made all our preparations, we will set to work, and see how all the various separate portions of the headdress given at the commencement of this article are made, and how they are put together.
The following cut shows the manner in which every shell required for leaves or flowers must be prepared. We call it "wiring the shells." In order to effect it, the shell must be taken between the finger and thumb of the left hand, with its point towards the tip of the finger, and its opening turned upwards; then one of the two-and-a-half-inch lengths of wire, which we directed should be prepared, must be taken in the right hand, and one end of it passed in at the point, and out at the opening of the shell, and a third of it drawn through, and then turned over on itself; the folded wire being then held between the thumb and finger of the right hand, the shell must be turned round and round until the wires are sufficiently twisted together, to hold the shell firmly. In a very short time this manipulation will become so familiar that it will be performed with astonishing ease and dispatch.
Keep the wired shells sorted, laying the smaller ones in a box to themselves, and the middle-sized ones also in a box to themselves, and with the shells all towards one end; for, when we come to make up the flowers, &c., it is astonishing how much time will be saved by our being able at once to put our hands on the portion we need.
Having thus wired a hundred or two, or more of shells, according to the purpose we have in view, we next proceed to make them up.
A leaf, like the one represented, may be made of any number of shells, from five to fifteen, or even twenty-five. A very small shell should be chosen for the apex, and then the pairs graduated so as to increase in size towards the stem. They should all be picked out, and laid ready for use before we begin to form the leaf.
Take the small central, or top shell between the finger and thumb of the left hand, allow the shell itself and about an eighth of an inch of the twisted wire to project above the finger, and have the opening of the shell turned towards you. Take the first pair of shells and insert one on either side of the central one, leaving about the tenth of an inch of twisted wire betweenthe shells and their junction with the wire of the middle shell; then, with the finest wire, bind them all together by twisting the fine wire neatly round and round the stem, for the distance of nearly a quarter of an inch, when the second pair of shells are to be added, arranged, and bound on in like manner and for a similar distance; continue thus all the way down, leaving the wires between the shell and the stem a little longer at each pair, keeping all the openings one way, and taking care to bind the stem firmly and compactly, and especially to avoid leaving any projecting ends or points of wire, as these not only look untidy, but are excessively inconvenient if the work is intended for wear.
The flower bud is formed by taking one of the lengths of wire, threading a shell on it, and then a small Roman pearl bead, and then a second shell, and twisting the wire to keep them all firm. It will be perceived by the engraving that the bead comes between the two points of the shells, and that both openings lie the same way.
This is what we term a "single," or "simple flower." It is composed of five wired shells of equal size; the openings are all turned inwards, and the wires bound together immediately below the points of the shells firmly and compactly, all the way down to the very extremity.
This double flower is composed of seventeen shells—viz., twelve small ones, and five of a middle size. The five are arranged as in the single flower, and the twelve are made up into four leaflets of three each, put together in the way a leaf is commenced; these leaflets are bound on to the flower, being arranged evenly round it, and so as to leave about a quarter of an inch of its stem above their junction with it, and the same length of wire between the pair of shells in each leaflet and the stem. Bend them into their places when the flower is completed.
Another variety of flower is here given, composed of twelve small shells, so arranged as to leave half an inch of wire between the point of each shell and the place where we begin to bind it; all the openings face upwards. The shells are to be arranged like the spokes of a wheel.
Wheat-ears may be made of any number of shells, from eighteen to thirty, and of either small or middle-sized shells. One is taken as an apex, then a pair set one on either side of it, then one in the centre; then another pair, and so on, binding them on, almost close to the point of each shell, and putting in here and there three-quarter-inch lengths of the middle-sized wire, to resemble the beards.
This is a representation of an ornamental group; the shells chosen for it should be the large ones. Three lengths of wire (middle-sized), measuring about four or five inches, must be cut off. A shell is threaded on each wire, the wire folded double, a twist or two given to it just to maintain the shell in its place, and then the double wire wound round a good sized pin to give it that spiral form. The three, when done, are bound together at the bottom for about a quarter of an inch, and mounted on an inch or two of the coarsest wire.
In binding leaves, flowers, &c., the fine wire should not be cut off until the leaf, or whatever it may be, is complete, as it is desirable to avoid ends and roughnesses.
We could amplify these notices, but we consider that the engravings will be sufficient to show our readers the kind of groups that can be arranged, and suggest to inventive and tasteful minds a multitude of other combinations.
With regard to their adjustment into sprays, or wreath, we can say but little, because that is so much a matter of taste. A light and graceful appearance should be aimed at, and the work neither crowded too closely together, nor left too straggling. It will often be advisable to mount a flower on a couple of inches of the coarse wire, in order to lengthen the stem, and it may then be grouped with a bud, or with spiral shells; but no rules can be laid down in an optional matter like this. The foundation stem, or that from which all the sprays of the headdress given at the commencement of this article, hangs, should be of double coarse wire; and the stems of the sprays of single coarse wire. All are to be bound on with the finest wire, and as neatly and as lightly as is consistent with firmness.
Care must be taken not to tarnish the wire by too much handling, especially with warm hands, or by unnecessary exposure to the atmosphere. When not in use, the reels should always be kept enveloped in silver paper.
The leaves of various sizes, the flowers of different kinds, and the other portions, should be consigned each to the boxes appropriated for them, as fast as they are made, and not all heaped together in one inextricable mass.
In our next article we shall describe the "Composite Rice-Shell-Work," which will present to our lady pupils a variety of ornamental arrangement.
This pleasing art is well worthy the pains and patience of all
"Who in work bothcontentmentand happiness find."
BY MRS. MERRIFIELD.
REMARKS ON PARTICULAR COSTUMES.
We must now offer a few brief remarks upon certain costumes which appear to us most worthy of our attention and study, for their general elegance and adaptation to the figure. Of the modern Greek we have already spoken. The style of dress which has been immortalized by the pencil of Vandyck is considered among the most elegant that has ever prevailed in this country. It is not, however, faultless. The row of small curls round the face, how becoming soever to some persons, is somewhat formal, and although the general arrangement of the hair, which preserves the natural size and shape of the head, is more graceful than that of the time of Sir Joshua Reynolds, we think it would have been more pleasing had it left visible the line which divides the hair from the forehead. With regard to the dress itself: in the first place, the figures are spoiled by stays; secondly, the dress is cut too low in front; and thirdly, the large sleeves sometimes give too great width in front to the shoulders. These defects are, in some degree, counterbalanced by the graceful flow of the ample drapery, and of the large sleeves, which are frequently widest at their lower part, and by the gently undulating line which unites the waist of the dress with the skirt. The Vandyck dress, with its voluminous folds, is, however, more appropriate to the inhabitants of palaces than to the ordinary occupants of this working-day world. The drapery is too wide and flowing for convenience.
Lely's half-dressed figures may be passed over without comment; they are draped, not dressed. Kneller's are more instructive on the subject of costume. The dress of Queen Anne, in Kneller's portrait, is graceful and easy. The costume is a kind of transition between the Vandyck and Reynolds styles. The sleeves are smaller at the shoulder than in the former, and larger at the lower part than in the latter; in fact, they resemble those now worn by the modern Greeks. The dress is cut higher round the bust, and is longer in the waist than the Vandycks, while the undulating line uniting the body and skirt is still preserved. While such good examples were set by the painters—who were not, however, the inventors of the fashions they painted—it is astonishing that these graceful styles of dress should have been superseded in real life by the lofty headdresses and preposterous fashions which prevailed during the same period, and long afterwards, and which even the ironical and severe remarks of Addison in the "Spectator" were unable to banish from the circles of fashion.Speaking of the dresses of ladies during the reigns of James II. and William III., Mr. Planché, in his History of British Costume (p. 318), says: "The tower or commode was still worn, and the gowns and petticoats flounced and furbelowed, so that every part of the garment was in curl;" and a lady of fashion "looked like one of those animals," says the "Spectator," "which in the country we call a Friesland hen." But in 1711 we find Mr. Addison remarking: "The whole sex is now dwarfed and shrunk into a race of beauties that seems almost another species. I remember several ladies who were once nearly seven feet high, that at present want some inches of five. How they came to be thus curtailed, I cannot learn; whether the whole sex be at present under any penance which we know nothing of, or whether they have cast their headdresses in order to surprise us with something in that kind which shall be entirely new: though I find most are of opinion they are at present like trees lopped and pruned that will certainly sprout up and flourish with greater heads than before."
The costume of the time of Sir Joshua Reynolds, as treated by this great artist, though less splendid, appears to us, with the exception of the headdress, nearly as graceful, and far more convenient than the Vandyck dress. It is more modest, more easy, and better adapted to show the true form of the shoulders, while the union of the body of the dress with the skirt is effected in the same graceful manner as in the Vandyck portraits. The material of the drapery in the latter is generally silks and satins; of the former, it is frequently muslin, and stuff of a soft texture, which clings more closely to the form. That much of the elegance of both styles of dress is to be attributed to the skill and good taste of the painters, is evident from an examination of portraits by contemporary artists. Much also may be ascribed to the taste of the wearer. There are some people who, though habited in the best and richest clothes, never appear well-dressed; their garments, rumpled and untidy, look as if they had been pitched on them, like hay, with a fork; while others, whose dress consists of the most homely materials, appear well-dressed, from the neatness and taste with which their clothes are arranged.
Leaving now the caprices of fashion, we must notice a class of persons who, from a religious motive, have resisted for two hundred years the tyranny of fashion, and until recently have transmitted the same form of dress from mother to daughter for nearly the same period of years. The ladies of the Society of Friends, or as they are usually called "Quakers," are still distinguished by the simplicity and neatness of their dress—the quiet drabs and browns of which frequently contrast with the richness of the material—and by the absence of all ornament and frippery. Every part of their dress is useful and convenient; it has neither frills nor flounces, nor trimmings to carry the dirt and get shabby before the dress itself; nor wide sleeves to dip in the plates, and lap up the gravy and sauces, nor artificial flowers, nor bows of ribbons. The dress is long enough for decency, but not so long as to sweep the streets, as many dresses and shawls are daily seen to do. Some few years back, the Quaker ladies might have been reproached with adhering to the letter, while they rejected the spirit of their code of dress, by adhering too literally to the costume handed down to them. The crowns of their caps were formerly made very high, and for this reason it was necessary that the crowns of the bonnets should be high enough to admit the cap crown; hence the particularly ugly and remarkable form of this part of the dress. The crown of the cap has, however, recently been lowered, and the Quaker ladies, with much good sense, have not only modified the form of their bonnets, but also adopted the straw and drawn-silk bonnet in their most simple forms. In the style of their dress, also, they occasionally approach so near the fashions generally worn, that they are no longer distinguishable by the singularity of their dress, but by its simplicity and chasteness.
A hostess who wishes that her friends should enjoy their dinner, and that she also should enjoy it with them, must see that all is ready and at handbeforeher guests arrive. If her servants are well trained, and accustomed to do things regularly,whenthere isnocompany, there will be little difficulty when thereis; and if there is that pleasant understanding between the head and the hands of the household which should always exist, any casual mistake will easily be rectified; an accident itself will occasion more fun than fuss; and although no host and hostess should feel as unconcerned or indifferent at their own table as elsewhere, the duty of seeing that nobody wants anything will be manifestly a pleasant one, whilst the simple cordiality, which delights in good appetites and cheerful countenances, and the domestic order which is evidently, but unostentatiously, the presiding genius of the family, will go far to enhance the flavor of the simplest fare.
ALL ABOUT TIM DELANEY. HOW HE WINT COORTIN' WID HIS MASTHER, AND THE CONSEQUENCES.
BY SYLVANUS URBAN, THE YOUNGER.
"Wanst upon a time—an', sure, that's not so long ago, afther all—there wor a grate fri'ndship betune the familees of the Sullivans an' the O'Briens; but, by raison of their livin' a long ways apart, they niver sot eyes on ache other for many's the year, though they kep' up the ould good-will by writin' letthers back an' fore, wid the shuperscupshins of, 'Yer humble sarvint to command, Murtoch O'Brien ma bouchal,' or, 'May the heavins be yer bed, an' glory be wid ye, Dennis Sullivan a hagur!'
"Well, the years rowled by, an', in the mane time, the sunshine lived foriver in the house of Murtoch O'Brien, in the shape of a daughther that bate the wureld for beauty; while Dinnis Sullivan wor prouder of his son Maurice nor if he had found all the goold mines of Californy, wid all the jooels of the Aist Injees to the top of 'em. Oh, faix, but ye may be sartin that the ould min in their letthers gossipped about the childher, an' that Misther O'Brien, bein' discinded from the anshint kings of Munsther, belaved his daughther Norah the aquil of any princess in Eurip and Aishey, lettin' alone the Turkeys and the Roosthers—Rooshins, I mane—an' the Jarmans, an' the Frinch, an' all the other haythens.
"Well, by coorse, by an' by, young Masther Maurice an' the butyful Miss Norah wor conthracted thegither by the ould people; though, it's the thruth I'm sayin', nayther of the youngsthers wor beknowin' to it at all, until wan day, when Maurice wor near grown to be a man, his fadher up an' tould him what he had done. 'Well an' good!' sez Maurice, for he wor a mighty purty behaved young jintleman; an', wid that, he crasses over the salt say into forrin parts, where he larned to ate frogs in France, an' to sleep undher a feather bed in Jarmany, wid his exthremities stickin' out. By an' by, whin he had finished his eddicashin at the Jarman Univarsity, by dhrillin' a hole wid a small sword through the arum of wan Count Dondher an' Blixum, an' by bein' mortially wounded in his undher garmint hisself, Maurice thravels back to the ould counthry. Oh, but Dinnis Sullivan wor mighty plased to shake hands wid his darlin' boy agin! an' he grown so tall, an' sthrong, an' manly like.
"'Maurice, avourneen!' sez his fadher, tindherly, 'seein' 'tis of age ye are, an' may be I'll not be wid ye long, sure it 'u'd be plasin' me to see yeez marri'd at wanst to Norah O'Brien,' sez he.
"'But how will I tell whether I'll like her or no?' sez Maurice, dub'ously.
"'By raison that she's a hairess and a grate beauty,' sez the ould jintleman.
"'Thim's good things in their way,' sez Maurice; 'but may be I'll be ruinashin'd, afther all, wid the crooked timper.'
"'Make yerself parfaitly aisey on that score, Maurice ma bouchal,' sez his fadher. 'Honey isn't swater, nor butther safter.'
"'May be 'tis too saft she is,' sez Maurice.
"'Tare an' ounties!' sez the ould jintleman, in a grate passion. 'What 'u'd yees like to have, I'd be plased to know? Isn't Murtoch O'Brien my ould fri'nd, an' wan I niver had a quarrel wid in my life, batin' the bottle he throw'd at my head at ould Thrinity, an' the bullet I lodged in his side on the banks of the Liffey one morn? Sure, afther that affeckshinate raymonsthrance we wor betther fri'nds nor iver we wor before.'
"Well, by this an' by that, seein' the ould jintleman wor bint upon the match, Maurice consints to ride over an' coort the young lady, purvided he might take wid him his fostherer, wan Tim Delaney. Sure I know'd him well, for he wor own cousin to myself by the mudher's side, an' he it wor as tould me this sthory.
"'Take him by all manes,' sez the ould jintleman. 'I've not the laste objeckshin. 'Tis a dacent lad he is, an' a betther face or a n'ater figure, barrin' yer own, Maurice dear, there's not to be found in all the county. He desarves to be put forrid in the wureld. He's not althegither an' ignoraymus nayther,' sez he, 'for Fadher Doran thried to bate the humanities into him for the matther of two saisons; an', though he butthers his mattymatticks wid poetical conthribushins, an' peppers an' salts the larned langwidges wid aljebrayickal calkilations, there'sa dale of larnin' in that head of his, av he only understhood the manage of it.'
"So, wid that, Misther Maurice sed he wor contint, an', sendin' his thrunk on afore him by the faymale stage, he"——
"Stop! stop! Mulrooney! I was not aware of any distinction between one stage and another. Will you do me the favor to enlighten me?"
"Arrah now," said Peter, boldly, "don't I know the differ? Sure, if the coaches as carries the letthers is the male stages, it stands to raison thim as doesn't must be the faymales."
"Humph! Admirably defined! Well, go on."
"An' thin—an' thin—och, wirrasthrue! but I've lost the sthory complately an' enthirely, by makin' a dickshunary of myself."
"Let me jog your memory, then. Maurice sent his trunk on before"——
"That's it," said Peter, "by the faymale stage, an' set out on horseback wid hisself an' Tim, bright an' early the nixt morn, for Carrigathroid. Well, they hadn't gone more nor a few miles, afore little Micky Dunn, the stable boy, comes tearin' down the road to say that the masther had been takin' suddintly wid a fit of the gout, an' that Misther Maurice must go back an' attind the sale of Ned Ryan's place, as the ould jintleman wanted it to square off the corner of the upper farm.
"'Oh, musha, thin, but what'll I do?' sez Maurice. ''Tis unlucky to turn back; an', besides, my thrunk is gone on afore, wid all the b'utyful clothes in it I brought from France an' Jarmany.'
"'Faix, but that's bad!' sez Tim; 'an' I misthrustin' Andy Shehan, the dhriver. May be 'tis betther I'd thravel on afther him?'
"''Deed an' 'deed, I think so,' sez Maurice. 'An' take this kay along wid ye, Tim,' sez he, 'an' sarch if the things isn't spirited away, or smashed up enthirely. An', Tim,' sez he, 'there's a letther of interjuckshin in the thrunk which I want yees to deliver at wanst, for fear the ould squireen'll be onaisey, as he expected me the day. An', Tim,' sez he, lowerin' his voice, 'I'll be plased if ye'll take it to Carrigathroid yerself, an' see if Miss Norah is half so purty an' good as fadher sez she is.'
"'Why wouldn't she be,' sez Tim, 'if the masther sez so?'
"'Throth an' I dun 'no',' sez Maurice; 'but I'd like to larn that aforehand from yer own lips, Tim, avick.'
"'Faix, that's aisey enough, I does be thinkin',' sez Tim. 'You folly afther as quick as ye can, Misther Maurice; an', in the mane time,' sez he, 'I'll pay my respicts to the family.'
"So, wid that, they took lave of one another, an' Tim thravelled on to the town where the young masther's thrunk wor left, a bit mile or so from O'Brien's, of Carrigathroid.
"'Where's the thrunk as wor left here by Andy Shehan?' sez he to the woman of the stage-house.
"'Up stairs,' sez she, 'all safe an' sound.'
"'I'll see that,' sez he. An' up stairs he goes an' opens the thrunk, an' looks over the clo'es, an' the dimont pins, and the goold watch, an' the chains an' rings galore; an', sure enough, they wor all there nate an' nice, as Ally Bawn said when the six childher fell into the saft of the bog. Oh, murther, but now comes the sthrangest part of the sthory. When Tim seen the things forenent him, an' how b'utyful they wor, he begins to wondher how he'd look in thim; an' thin he looks at his own coorse clothes, all plasthered and besmudthered over wid the dirthy wather of the road.
"'How will I carry the masther's letther to the big house, an' I lookin' for all the wureld like a dirthy bogthrotter?' sez he. 'Sure I'd be shamefaced to show myself in dacent company. 'Tis a mighty fine thing to be a jintleman,' sez he, lookin' at the thrunk ag'in. 'Oh, but thim's the grand coats, an' pantalloons, an' goolden things,' sez he; 'sure, I thinks the likes of 'em wor niver seed afore. May be,' sez he, coagitatin' the matther—'may be Misther Maurice wouldn't be onaisey if I loaned thim of him for a bit while, ispishilly as it's his sarvice that I'll be on. Sure, 'tis no harum to thry if they fits me,' sez he. An', begorra, afore he know'd it, he wor dhressed in thim b'utyful garmints, an' lookin' grander nor iver he did in his mortial life. Prisently, he flings back the dure, an' discinds the stairs wid all the goold chains a danglin' about his neck, an' wid a fine goold watch fasthened by a raal dimont pin to the breast of his flowery silk weskit: 'For,' sez he, 'sure they wouldn't know I had sich purty things, if I didn't show thim.'
"'Oh, but it does my heart good to see sich a han'some jintleman!' sez the misthress of the house, makin' a low curchey. 'Didn't I know,' sez she, 'yer honnor wor the raal quality the minnit I seen the shine of yer face at the dure. Indade, an' faix, it's the thruth I'm sayin', plase goodness.'
"'Arrah, now, be done wid yer blarney,' sez Tim, flourishin' a white han'kercher as wor sthronger wid sint nor a flower-garden. 'Don'tconthaminate yer centhrifujals bu spakin' so odoriferously,' sez he; 'but tell me, like the dacent woman ye are, where'll I sarch for a barber?'
"'That's aisey,' sez she; 'for sure there's wan next dure to the corner.'
"So, wid that, out goes Tim, houldin' up his pantaloons wid both hands to keep thim clane, an' prisently he steps in at the barber's shop as bould as a lord.
"'Barber!' sez he.
"'Sir,' sez a little thin-shanked man.
"'Shave me,' sez Tim, settin' hisself down in the big chair, while the little man wor sthrappin' away at the razhier. 'Aisey, my good man,' sez Tim, 'an' cut the stubble clane.'
"'Oh, I'll do that same,' sez the barber. 'Be du husht, av ye plase.' An', afore Tim could say Larry Houlaghan, his beard wor off.
"'Barber,' sez Tim.
"'Sir,' sez the little man.
"'Frizzle my head,' sez Tim.
"An', widout any ghosther at all, the spry little man pokes a long iron thing into the fire.
"'Oh, murther!' sez Tim. 'What's that?'
"'Thim's the curlin'-tongs,' sez the barber.
"'Oh,' sez the cunnin' Tim, turnin' up his nose, 'thim's the ould time fashion. May be ye niver seen the frizzlin' insthrument they use in forrin parts?'
"'Sorra one have I seed, barrin' the masheen in my hand,' sez the barber.
"''Tworn't to be expected of yees, in this outlandish place,' sez Tim.
"'Hould still, if ye pl'ase,' sez the barber, takin' a grip of his hair.
"'Ouch!' sez Tim. 'L'ave me go, will yees? By japurs, but 'tis pullin' all my hair off ye are!'
"''Tisn't likely I'd do that, wid my exparience,' sez the little man. 'Sure, many's the quality I've dhressed the heads of in my day.' An', wid that, he saizes hould of another lock of hair, an' gives it a grip and a twist.
"'Tundher an' turf!' sez Tim, startin' up in a mighty big passion. 'Would ye burn my head aff afore my eyes? 'Tisn't a stuck pig I am that ye're singein' for bacon,' sez he.
"'Musha, thin, but that's thrue, anyhow,' sez the barber. An' on he wint, frizzlin' first one side and thin the other, till, by an' by, Tim's head wor all over corkskrews, like a haythen naygur's.
"'How will I look?' sez Tim, goin' to a glass. 'Augh! millia! murther! 'Tisn't my own face that I see yondher?'
"''Deed but it is,' sez the barber.
"'Oh, wirrasthrue!' sez Tim, wringin' his hands. 'What'll I do? 'Tis ruinashin'd I am, clane out an' inthirely! I'll be mistakin' myself for a sthranger!'
"'Yea, thin,' sez the little man, 'there's no denyin' but yees wondherfully improved in apparence.'
"'Botherashin!' sez Tim; 'but how will I raycognize myself, I'd like to know?'
"Sure, but he had the throubled look whin he mounted his horse; but, by the time he got to Carrigathroid, his spirits came back agin, an' he fasthens the baste to the swingin' bough of a three, an' steps up to the dure an' knocks as bould as Joolyus Saizer.
"'Hallo! House! Whoop!'
"'What's the matther, my good man?' sez a sarvant, answerin' the dure.
"'Matther?' sez Tim. 'Plinty's the matther. Here's a letther for Misther O'Brien, wid the respicts of the owner.'
"'Yer name, sir, if ye pl'ase,' sez the man.
"'Tell him Misther Sullivan sint it,' sez Tim.
"'Oh!' sez the man, makin' a low bow. 'Obleege me by walkin' in; ye're expicted.'
"An', wid that, he marches on afore, Tim followin' afther, an' flings open the dure of a grand room all blazin' wid light, an' sings out—
"'Misther Sullivan!'
"'Oh, murther!' sez Tim to hisself. ''Tis changed I am by that frizzlin' barbarian!'
"'Ah, my young fri'nd,' sez Misther O'Brien, takin' him by the hand, ''tis pl'ased I am to see ye the day! Let me presint ye to my daughther. Norah, mavourneen, this is Misther Maurice Sullivan.'
"'Och, the beauty of the wureld!' sez Tim, quite flusthrated. 'Call me Delaney, av ye pl'ase.'
"'Ah, I undherstand,' sez the ould squireen, wid a smile. 'The Delaneys is yer relashins.'
"Troth, an' indade they are,' sez Tim.
"'Thim's good blood, I does be thinkin',' sez the squireen.
"'Sorra betther to be found anywhere,' sez Tim.
"'I beg yer pardin, 'tis standin' ye are the while,' sez the ould jintleman. 'Will ye take a sate on the ottimin?'
"'Sure, 'tisn't the grand Turkey ye mane?' sez Tim, gettin' frikened.
"'Oh no,' sez the ould jintleman; ''tis the fine flahool stool standin' forenenst ye.'
"'Ayeh!' sez Tim. 'The ould name's the betther.'
"May be so,' sez the squireen, puttin' on his specktickles, an' starin' at Tim as if he wor awild baste. An' sorry I am to tell ye that purty Miss Norah likewise hadn't no betther manners, but set starin' too at the bouchal wid her great black eyes.
"'What's the matther?' sez Tim, as red as a b'iled lobsther. 'Isn't it all right?'
"'How will I know?' sez the squireen.
"'Och! och!' sez Tim, 'why did I make a "behay" of myself? Blessin's on yer darlin' face!' sez he, turnin' to Miss Norah; 'an' may goodness purtect ye! an' the daisies grow up under yer purty feet! an' may all the fairies in Ireland bring good luck to ye, an' a dale of it! But oh, be pl'ased to take pity on a poor boy as is quite dumbfounder'd at yer b'utyful countenance, and burnt into ashes by the blaze from yer eyes! An' now don't be afther colloguing wid the ould man that a way, an' I kep' in the dark, like Shaun Dooley, the blind fiddler.'
"'Indade, an' in throth, 'tis very mystharious,' sez Miss Norah, whisperin' to the fadher. ''Tisn't the first ha'porth of manners the crayther has. Sure I am I'll not like him, any way.'
"'L'ave him to me,' sez the ould man. 'May be he's betther nor he seems. Get ye gone, acushla, an' ordher Michael to bring up a pitcher of st'amin' hot potheen; that's the raal stuff to bring out a man's charackther. Misther Sullivan,' sez he, as the daughther disapp'ared—'Misther Sullivan'——
"'Delaney, av ye pl'ase,' sez Tim.
"'I beg yer pardin, Misther Delaney Sullivan. May I be so bould, an' m'anin' no offince, as to be axin' ye what makes ye carry all thim goold chains, an' the han'some goold watch, an' the dimont pin, in sich a sthrange way?'
"'Oh,' sez Tim, mightily relaved, an' pokin' the ould man for fun undher the fifth rib, ''tis there ye are! Sure, 'tis raisonable,' sez he, 'a young jintleman should folly the fashi'ns.'
"'Oh,' sez the squireen, 'an' thim's the fashi'ns, is they?'
"'What 'u'd they be good for, if they worn't?' sez Tim.
"'Faix, nothin' at all, I b'lieve,' sez the squireen. 'Whin did ye l'ave home, Misther Sullivan?' sez he.
"'Delaney, av ye pl'ase.'
"'Blur an' agars!' sez the ould man, 'don't I know that, Misther Delaney Sullivan?'
"'Well,' sez Tim to hisself, ''tis no matther. Any way, I'll be kilt an' transported, whin Masther Maurice comes. Sure, if he will parsist in callin' me Sullivan, 'tisn't good manners to conthradict him.'
"'An' how did ye l'ave the family?' sez the squireen.
"'Well an' hearty,' sez Tim; 'wid no sarious disordher, barrin' the loss of a suckin' pig wid the maisles.'
"'A suckin' pig in the family!' sez the ould man. 'A suckin' pig, did ye say? Sure, thim's not human.'
"'Och! what'll I be sayin' wid the grate blisther on my tongue? Sure, tworn't any pig at all, at all. 'Twas the babby wid the shmallpox.'
"'The shmallpox!' shrieks the squireen. 'Oh, be aff wid ye! Don't come a near me! I'm frikened to death a'ready!'
"'Millia murther!' sez Tim. 'I'll be beside myself prisintly. I don't mane the shmallpox, nor the childher. Where 'u'd they come from, I'd like to know? But the docther—no, I don't mane that—the masther—no, not the masther—the weeny. Arrah, botherashin to me, I'd be obleeged to ye if ye'd tell me what I mane; for, 'deed an' 'deed, the beauty of the young lady has put the comether on my sinses enthirely!'
"'Faix, I b'lieve so,' sez the squireen. 'But here comes the potheen,' sez he; 'an' 'tis the sovre'nst thing in the wureld for a crooked tongue.'
"'Mostha, but it's the raal stuff, too!' sez Tim, takin' a long pull at the noggin, an' smackin' his lips.
"'An' so ye left the ould folk quite well?' sez the squireen.
"'Brave an' hearty,' sez Tim. 'The ould man wor br'akin' stones to mend the pike wid, an' the ould mother wor knittin' new heels to an ould pair of Connemara stockin's.'
"'I'm t'undhersthruck!' sez Misther O'Brien. To think that the blood of the Sullivans should demane thimselves by br'akin' stones for a road an' patchin' stockin's!'
"'Thim's figgers of spache,' sez Tim. 'Sure, I mane shuperintindin' of thim.'
"'Throth, it's hard to tell what ye mane, Misther Delaney Sullivan,' sez the squireen. 'A young jintleman as is college-bred shouldn't condiscend to quare figgers the likes o' thim. An' now I'll be pl'ased to have a taste of yer larnin'.'
"'Sure, it 'u'd nayther be dacent, nor proper, nor expadient, in one of my birth an' breedin', to show off my parts upon a jintleman of your wondherful sagashity. The natheral modesty that is the predominatin' trait in my charackther won't let me. Thim as is my aquils has acknowledged my shupariority; an' the masther hisself couldn't folly me in the langwidges, an' the humanities, an' in single an' double fluckshins, tosay nothing of my extinsive ackwiremints in algebrayickal mattymattocks, an' the other parts of profane histhory of a similar cognashus charackther.'
"'Spake plainer,' sez the squireen, 'for ye does be puzzlin' me wid the hard words as seems to have no sinse in 'em.'
"'I'd be bothered to find it if they did,' sez Tim, slyly, to hisself. But he sez to the squireen, sez he, 'How will I diffinitively expurgate the profound m'anin' of the anshint frelosophers widout smudherin' ye wid the classicalities? Isn't it the big words as makes the l'arnin'? Axin' yer pardin, Misther O'Brien, but 'tis well beknownst to a jintleman of your exthraordinary mintal an' quizzical fackilties that the consthruction of the words consthitutes the differ of langwidges, of which pothooks an' hangers is the ilimints.'
"'Bedad, but there's some thruth in that,' sez the squireen, 'barrin' the manner of expressin' it.'
"'Arrah, thin,' sez Tim, 'I'm pl'ased to hear ye say so; an', if it's agreeable to yees, we'll dhrop the discourse for the prisint. To tell ye the blessed thruth, Misther O'Brien, 'tis dead bate wid the long thravel I am, an', wid your permission, I'll be bould to throuble yer sarvint to fling me a clane lock o' sthraw in one corner of yer honor's kitchen for the night.'
"Oh, but may be the ould squireen didn't stare at Tim wid all his eyes in raal arnest, thin—
"'Sthraw!' sez he. 'Do ye take this for a boccoch's shealin'? Well, I must say, Misther Delaney Sullivan,' sez he, 'that, for a jintleman's son, born an' brid, 'tis monsthrous quare ways ye have.' An', wid that, he rings for the futman, an' tells him to show Tim to bed. 'I'll be wantin', Misther Sullivan, to spake the sarious word wid ye the morrow morn,' sez the ould man, dhrawin' hisself up grand like; 'for, on my conscience, there's many things about ye as does be puzzlin' me exthramely.'
"''Tis no matther,' sez Tim to hisself, follyin' afther the sarvint. 'Sure, I'm in for it now, anyhow. Ayeh! is thim the stairs? Musha, thin, but 'tis wide enough they are for a drove of fat cattle. Hould on a bit, will ye, or I'll be fallin' over the ballisthers. I wonder where thim crass passiges lades too beyant? Sure, I'd give all I'll be like to have in the wureld to quit the place. Och, Tim Delaney, 'tis a bad ind ye're comin' to wid settin' yerself up for a jintleman; an', begorra, if the young masther murdhers ye enthirely, it sarves ye right, any way, an' that's no lie.'
"'Will ye be pl'ased to inter?' sez the sarvint, throwin' open the dure of a big room, where the windys wor all ornaminted wid b'utyful curt'ins, an' likewise the grate bed wid goold angels at the corners of the posts, lettin' alone the fringes an' the tassels, an' many other b'utyful things too tadious to mintion.
"'Och,' sez Tim, 'is that my bid? How will I git in widout tumblin' myself on the flure? Thim steps, did ye mane? Arrah, now, have done wid yer nonsince! Sure, I niver heard of goin' to bid wid a step-laddher afore.'
"'Thim's the fashi'n,' sez the futman.
"'To the divil wid the fashi'n!' sez Tim. 'What are ye laughin' at, ye ugly spalpeen? L'ave the light, an' go. Oh, murther!' sez Tim, whin he was all alone by hisself. 'If I wor out of this scrape, a thousand goold guineas wouldn't timpt me to do the likes agin.'
"An', wid that, he sarches the windys, manein' to make his escape, but they wor too high; an' thin he opens the dure saftly an' looks into the passiges, but they twisted all about, so he didn't dare to thry thim for fear they would be afther takin' him for a robber; so, wid many muttherin's an' moanin's, he lays hisself down on the bid wid all his clothes on, an', by an' by, falls into a throubled sleep.
"Well, all this time, ye may be sure young Masther Maurice wor not lettin' the grass grow undher his feet. So, whin he had bought the land, he takes a fresh baste an' hurries afther Tim. By hard ridin' he got to the town late that same night; an', whin he l'arned that Tim wor gone up to Carrigathroid all cock-a-hoop in his own fine clo'es an' jooels, he flies into a tearin' passion, and makes bould to ride over at wanst. As it happened, the squireen an' Miss Norah wor still up, for the raal genteels do kape mighty late hours; and so it worn't long afore he makes hisself beknownst to the ould jintleman an' his daughther, an' up an' tells 'em his sthory. Oh, but thin they all laughed more nor iver they did in their born days afore; more by token that the squireen wor glad to have a disilushin of the mysthery, an' Miss Norah bein' aiquilly pl'ased to find the thrue Masther Maurice wid the best quality manners, an', at the same time, so mortial han'some.
"'An' now,' sez Maurice, 'what'll I do wid that rogue of a Tim?'
"'L'ave him to me,' sez the squireen, wid a knowin' wink. 'Myself bein' a justus-o'-p'ace, a good frikenin' 'll be of sarvice to the saucy Omadhaun. But we'll say no more till the morn,' sez he; 'an', in the mane time, we'll thry an' find ye a supper an' a bed.'
"Well, to be sure, bright an' airly, while Tim wor tossin' an' tumblin' about in his fine flahool bid, an' dhramin' of witches, an' spooks, an' leprawhauns, an' even of the ould bouchal hisself, there's comes a t'undherin' whack at his dure; an', prisintly, in walks four sthrappin' fellows right to his bedside.
"'What's wantin'?' sez Tim, settin' boult up, wid his curly hair all untwistin' itself an' standin' on end like a porkepine's. 'Is it lookin' for me ye are?'
"'Troth, but ye're a quick hand at guessin',' sez the biggest man. 'Where's yer masther, ye thafe of the wureld? Tell me that.'
"'Oh, murther!' sez Tim. 'It's all out!'
"'Sure, he confisses it a'ready,' sez another. 'Bring him along, Tony.'
"'Confisses what?' sez Tim, wid his face as white as the bed-hangin's. 'Confisses what? Spake out, will ye?'
"'The murther!' sez Tony. 'Isn't thim his clo'es ye're wearin' now?'
"'Murther? Och! ochone! ochone!' sez Tim, wringin' his hands. 'That I iver lived to see this day! An' is the young masther dead? Why, thin, upon my oath an' my conscience, I niver had a hand in it! Sure, 'tis well the darlin' knowed I'd lay down my life for him. Oh, jintlemen, take pity on a poor innocent boy that's in the black throuble, an' all bekase he put on the young masther's things for a bit of spoort!'
"'An' a purty spoort ye'll find it,' sez the futman, for be sure he wor one of thim. 'But here comes Misther O'Brien.'
"'Stand aside, all of yees, an' let me look at the thraitor!' sez the squireen, burstin' into the room. 'Oh, 'tis there ye are, ye villin, wid yer mattymattox an' yer single an' double fluxshins. Saize him, men, wid a sthrong grip, an' bring him to the hall. 'Tis well myself's a magisther, an' can set upon the case at wanst.'
"'Oh, Misther O'Brien,' sez Tim, dhroppin' on his knees, ''tis innocent I am the day! I'll tell ye about it. You see, the young masther an' I'——
"'Isn't thim his clo'es?" sez the squireen.
"'Ayeh, but that's thrue. Let me tell ye, an' hear r'ason. The young masther an' I'——
"'Kape yer sthories to yerself,' sez the squireen, puttin' on a black frown. 'Why would I listen to yer diabolickle invintions whin thim things is witness agin ye? Hould him fast, boys, an' off wid him. May be I won't live to hang him, afther all.'
"'Help! help! murther!' sez Tim, sthrugglin' wid all the power that wor in him. 'I didn't do it! It's clane hands I have! I won't be murthered! L'ave me go, I say! What 'u'd ye hang a poor innocent for? Murther! murther!'
"All at wanst, as he wor skreekin' and kickin', who should walk in from behind the dure but Misther Maurice an' Miss Norah.
"'Whoop! whoroo!' sez Tim. 'There's the young masther now! Hands off wid ye! Don't ye see him wid Miss Norah?'
"'Hould on a minnit, men,' sez the squireen. 'May be 'tis a mistake, afther all. Is that young jintleman Misther Sullivan?'
"'Oh, to be sure it is,' sez Tim. 'Who else 'u'd it be, I'd like to know? Misther Maurice! Maurice, achorra, spake to thim, av ye pl'ase, an' tell thim it's yerself that I see.'
"'Why will I do that?' sez the young jintleman, laughin'. 'Sure, 'twould be wastin' my breath, an' they knowin' it a'ready.'
"'Oh, murther! see that now!' sez Tim. 'An' they a frikenin' me out of my siven sinses all the while. Ayeh! Maurice a vick, but I forgive ye the bad thrick yees played me the day.'
"'Musha, thin, an' thank ye for nothin',' sez Maurice; 'for I does be thinkin' that 'tis yerself, Tim, as is to blame, seein' the fine clo'es on yer back.'
"'Yea, thin,' sez the squireen, burstin' into a great laugh, ''twore hisself, sure enough, as played the bould thrick, an' bothered me all out wid his single an' his double fluxshins; but, bedad, if the thrick wor in his hands last night, sure he'll confiss I trumped it dacently this mornin'.'"